Page 15 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“It is the most divine pleasure to exact the revenge of the brutalized child that resides within.” —?Margaret Cho

H e comes in like it’s a fucking date.

Burger bag in one hand. Oversized root beer in the other. All proud of himself, humming some godawful tune under his breath, like he hasn’t got the faintest clue that tonight’s not going to end with his lips on my cock, but with his blood in my teeth.

“Didn’t forget the extra pickles this time,” Gold chirps, waving the bag like a prize. “And I even brought?—”

I punch him square in the gut.

Hard.

The bag crumples. The drink explodes. Gold lets out a wheeze, doubles over and that’s all I need.

I slam him face-first into the rusted frame of the gurney waiting behind him, then shove him down onto it.

The thing’s older than sin. Straps still attached.

Stains that look like they’ve screamed through a thousand lifetimes.

Smells like piss and bleach and something far, fucking worse.

Perfect.

He thrashes, trying to get air, trying to understand, but I’m already lashing the leather tight around his wrists and ankles. Buckles bite. He kicks once. Then I tighten the foot restraint until his leg pops and he stops.

“Johnny—what the fuck are you—what is this?”

“This?” I purr, tilting my head as I lean down beside his ear. “This is dessert.”

I find a shiv tucked in my waistband—sharpened toothbrush, just like the classics. And with one smooth, slow slice, I cut the buttons off his shirt. One by one. His tie’s already soaked in root beer. His slacks come next—fabric peeling, belt sliding free like a whisper before I slice that too.

Cold air hits his skin. And there it is.

His pathetic little dick.

Standing at full salute.

“Oh, would you look at that?” I mock, placing a hand over my heart. “He’s excited.”

Gold is sweating now. Shaking.

“You really thought,” I growl, dragging the tip of the shiv over his trembling chest, “that just because you swallow my cock now and then, bring me food from the outside, that you’d get a pass? You touch what’s mine , and this is what you get.”

I shove the burger bag into his mouth and slap duct tape over it for good measure.

“Don’t want to hear your squeals yet. I’m savoring this.”

He screams anyway when I spin toward the janitor’s toolbox. Metal screeches. Hinges squeal. And then I’ve got it—an old cordless screw gun. Heavy. Used. Dusty. Full battery.

Click.

Whirrrrrrr .

That sound alone gets me hard.

“Let’s give you what you wanted, Doc. You wanted to feel me, right? Wanted to take things deeper?” My grin cracks wide. “Well… let’s screw , then.”

The first screw goes into his thigh.

He jerks violently, eyes rolling back as blood spurts in a thick arc.

The next one? His shoulder. Close to the socket.

Then his side. His stomach. His palm.

A dozen more.

I drill him like I’m building furniture from the inside out.

Each screw sinks in with a whine and a squelch, each twist of the wrist making him buck and sob and thrash against the restraints.

I move the bit in circular motions, shredding his flesh making the holes bigger and bloodier before moving onto the next.

Blood leaks like oil. Paints the gurney red.

Pools under his back and trickles down his ribs.

And me?

I talk.

“Lucky for you, I’m in a giving mood tonight, Doc. Giving you exactly what you earned. Want you wanted. A full-body reminder. A thousand little kisses from me to you. Feel that? That’s what it feels like to be my possession.”

I hover over him. Watching his eyes roll, and flutter. Tears streaking sideways across his face.

“You’re not dying yet,” I whisper, licking the blood from my thumb. “You don’t get that mercy.”

I pull up a stool. Sit beside the carnage. Light a cigarette from the stash I stole last week. Exhale into the ruin of his body.

“This isn’t about you anymore, Goldie. This is about him. My little puppet. My masterpiece.”

I flick ash into the puddle of blood.

“You touched what’s mine.”

The cigarette burns low between my fingers. Ash flakes onto the floor like dead skin, dusting the crusted tiles around the gurney. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl around his face. He’s quiet now. Not dead. Not yet. Just quiet.

Finally.

I drag the smoke down deep and let it out through my nose like a beast testing the air for prey. Then I strip. Not slow. Not sensual. This isn’t a performance, it’s a declaration.

Because if he thought what I did with him before was intimacy, he doesn’t know the first thing about me.

I peel off my shirt, feeling sweat chill against my spine. My pants hit the floor next. Slippers stay on. I want to feel grounded for this.

His eyes are wide. Bloodshot. Pupils quivering.

Good.

I climb up onto the stained gurney, the metal creaking beneath my weight as I straddle him. The leather restraints dig into his wrists, smeared with spit and sweat and blood. One of the screw holes I drilled into his shoulder has stopped bleeding—it’s just weeping now. Like him.

I lean down until my mouth is by his ear.

“You wanted to feel me?” I whisper, my breath hot and rancid with nicotine. “Well, congrats, Doc. You’re gonna fucking feel me everywhere.”

He whimpers, barely a sound. I smear a hand through the blood on his chest, drag it down, and wrap it around myself. My grip tightens. The slick heat of it makes my teeth grind with anticipation.

“You thought swallowing my cock made you special, huh?” I sneer, stroking slow. “Thought it bought you immunity? Nah. You were just another hole. Another mouth. Another fool.”

He tries to look away. I grab his face.

“No,” I snarl. “You watch. You see what you fucking earned.”

I line myself up with the wound on his side—the one that split just beneath the ribs. It’s gaping now, raw and red and trembling.

“You’re gonna feel every inch of my fucking wrath.”

Then I press forward.

Not gentle. Not slow. Just enough spit and blood smeared down my cock to make it slide right into the torn-up edges of what used to be a man and is now nothing but a canvas. A meat sculpture made to take me.

"He didn’t even want to tell me," I hiss, laughing low, cracked, like something snapping from the inside. "He knew—fuck, even he knew what I’d do when I found out. But he told me anyway. Because he always does. Because he’s mine. And you?"

I bare my teeth, leaning close.

"You touched what’s mine. You tried to take what belongs to me, for yourself. So now? Now you’ll suffer everything my little mutt was trying to save you from, and I’ll enjoy every fucking second of it."

I shove deeper, grinding my cock into the torn flesh of one of the screw holes I made.

It’s not about pleasure. Not mine. Not his.

No, this shit is about punishment. About desecration.

The flesh gives, wet and twitching around me like it’s still trying to live.

Like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s dying.

"You said you wanted to feel me," I hiss, thrusting harder. “Well, Goldie— how’s this for a fucking feeling, huh? ”

He twitches. Maybe a gasp. Maybe just a spasm. Doesn’t fucking matter. I fuck through it.

Another hole. Another thrust.

I carve my way through him, dripping sweat and madness, panting like an animal while I rut against every brutal wound I opened.

Each one stretches, splits, and leaks around me.

My cock slides through blood and ruin, coated in heat and hate.

I slam my fist against the side rail for rhythm, laughing like I’ve lost something I never had.

“Look at you now,” I snarl. “So much fucking feeling you don’t know what to do with youself do you, Doc?”

His head lolls. His mouth parts.

But I don’t stop.

The next hole is higher. On his side lined up perfectly so that my cock will slide right through his ribs. I slam in, hips snapping like a hinge ready to break, and in the corner of my eye I swear I see his eyes roll back with pleasure. Sick fuck.

“You feel that?” I sneer. “That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Me. Inside you. This ain’t no fantasy, Goldie. Not your wet little therapist dreams. This is the real me.”

By the time I reach the last one, near his hip, I’m shaking. Not from effort, but from rage. From the high of it all. From the way the world’s finally fucking tilting in my favor again, and all it took was a little blood, power and a fuck load of vengeance.

I don’t move right away.

Just breathe. In. Out. In again—air thick with blood, sweat and meat. I sit there, straddling him like a throne, every inch of me soaked in what used to be a man. My cock's still stiff, aching, smeared in his blood. My fingers twitch, twitch, twitch against the ridges of torn flesh.

Underneath me, he groans, barely. A wet, choking sound around the crumpled burger bag stuffed in his mouth. His chest jerks once. Then again. A twitch, like maybe he’s trying to moan. Or maybe trying to die.

Too late for one. Too soon for the other.

I line my tip up with the last virgin hole in his flesh, holding the base of my cock while I slowly push myself in, watching, and waiting for the way his body reacts. His eyes roll back, his back arches and that pathetic little swollen cock of his throbs.

“Damn, Goldie. Knew you were twisted, but this?” I sneer, driving into him with a snarl. “You’re about to lose it while bleeding out, huh? My cock’s tearing you apart from the inside, and that pathetic little excuse for a dick is leaking like it’s your final breath.”

Then it happens. His body tenses. His eyes go wide.

And fuck me, he actually fucking cums. Just like that.

One last pathetic spasm of pleasure, the kind only freaks like him would find in this kind of pain.

I watch it happen. His face red, veins bulging, his tiny cock twitching and leaking one final fucking time as jets of cum coat his stomach.

"Goddamn," I murmur, grinning. "Even dying, you're a sick little pig."

His eyes roll back. Chest rising once as his head lolls to the side, then still.

Still.

No more breath. No more sound.

Just the burger bag clutched between his teeth and his blood cooling around my thighs.

I stay where I am. Let it sink in.

I did that.

I ended him.

I lean forward, drag my hand across his chest, smearing the blood like war paint down my own.

Then I free his arms and legs from the straps and flip him over, hard, letting his dead weight slap against the metal bedframe.

Limbs dangle useless, his empty eyes fixated on the dirty concrete wall by the door.

His skin is torn, marred, riddled with evidence of every screw I sank into him.

"You wanted to feel me," I whisper, voice low and ragged. "Said you wanted more. Said you wanted to be close to me. Well, congrats, Goldie. You got everythin’, hope it was worth the price."

I grip his hips, blood slick and limp beneath my fingers.

"This is mine now."

And I fuck him. Raw and ruthlessly.

A message carved in blood and flesh: you don’t touch what’s mine.

I ruin what’s left of him.

Thrust after brutal thrust, I grind into him with pure fucking rage, teeth bared, body slick with sweat and blood. No rhythm, no fucking mercy, just the sick slap of flesh meeting flesh and the sound of the gurney groaning under the weight of my madness.

He wanted to feel me?

He’s gonna feel me in every inch of his rotting fucking carcass.

I’m snarling, foaming, rutting into him like a beast, like a fucking monster birthed from everything broken in this place.

My nails dig into his hips, tearing skin.

Blood pools, mixing with the sweat dripping from my forehead.

The heat, the stink, the chaos, it fucking fuels me.

I’m nothing but violence, filth and vengeance.

I don’t warn. I take.

“Thats it, Gold. Take my fucking load to hell with you,” I growl as I thrust into him hard, one last time, my cock twitching in the deepest fucking parts of his corpse as I cum. “Ahh fuck. Yeah, that’s it,” I murmur when my nuts are empty, and I’m panting like a rabid dog.

He’s still fucking dead. Good.

I light a stolen cigarette with hands that won’t stop shaking. My laugh is hoarse—raw and bubbling like it scraped up from hell. Smoke slithers through the room, over his ruined body, over my soaked skin.

Then I reach over, grab the burger bag still stuffed in his slack mouth, and yank it free with a wet squelch. “Better not let these go to waste,” I mutter, ripping it open. The grease stains my fingers as I take a bite, still straddling the mess I made.

The stink?

Perfect.

Rust. Blood. Victory.

My puppet is safe. He belongs to me.

And anyone who fucking forgets that?

Ends up exactly like this.

Split open. Fucked hollow. And sent to hell dripping with my name, and cum.