Page 15 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)
His body shoots up. “Pass it to me with your tongue,” he snarls, smashing his lips onto mine.
His mouth opens and I push the food from me to him.
His hand wraps around the back of my neck, holding me hostage.
He’s trying to turn this into much more than a food exchange.
Violently moving his mouth against mine, I can feel the particles of food grinding between our skin.
It’s fucking disgusting. When he’s finally satisfied, he pulls away, returning to my lap.
Sadistic sandwich show and tell comes to an end as we finish eating.
Eyes glazing over, I think I’ve entered a new realm of numbness.
The things I witnessed in those pictures are so much worse than whatever the police could imagine.
The bodies staged at the sawmill don’t compare in brutality to what he does alone in his cabin.
The Henderson Mill isn’t as important to him as everyone believes.
If I had to guess, the hanging fixation has something to do with his mother.
I have no idea if he faked her suicide at the mill, but reliving the first kill is thrilling to any serial killer.
He may not even take me there, which makes my initial plan useless.
He would enjoy it just as much if he took my life here and got to play with my corpse, just like all the others before me.
The longer I mull it over, the more I think he will still take me to the Henderson Mill.
He will garrotte me, then hang me from the rafters as a final ‘fuck you’ to Lennox.
I know he gets off on being at his own crime scene, but witnessing someone he loathes so vehemently shatter before his very eyes is something he wouldn’t be able to pass up.
He puts the lid back on the box of nightmares and gazes up at me.
His movements pulling me from the whirlpool of thoughts I was drowning in.
“Still want that shower, sugar tits?” he says, licking his lips and staring at said tits.
“Yes. Do you have something clean for me to wear?” No point in cleaning myself to only get covered in rotten guts and splooge again.
“I’d much prefer you to be naked afterwards.” Not happening, perv.
“Then I’ll pass, I’d rather not freeze to death when I get thrown back down here,” I retort.
“I’ll find something for you to wear. Come on.” Rising to stand in front of me, he pulls the key from his pocket, leaning over me and unlocking the chain from the anchor point on the wall. He’s about to walk me like a fucking dog, and it’s so wholly degrading.
“Why do you want me to shower so bad,” I ask, staying planted to my spot on the mattress.
“Because I’m goin’ to watch.”
Ew. Ew. Ew.
He tugs on the tether and I have no choice but to obey. I don’t think I could stand another beating in retaliation for resisting. I’m covered in bruises, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he cracked one of my ribs from the rage that exploded out of him yesterday. It could’ve been much worse though .
While Dennis’s beatings were more severe, they weren’t daily, so I had time to recover between them.
There’s no way he could send me to work looking like a punching bag and not have someone in town alert the police.
The one time I ended up with a broken wrist was enough to set Rita on edge.
She watched me like a hawk whenever Dennis was near.
Every interaction he or my mother had with me on hotel property, she tried to witness.
The shitty thing about abusers is that they know how to hide who they truly are from the world.
I follow the deranged cop up the cellar stairs, and out into the fresh afternoon air.
I don’t get a single moment to bask in the sun before he’s pulling me along behind him.
We round the side of the cabin to the front door.
It’s significantly smaller than I expected for how much I hear him walking around above me while I’m forgotten below the surface.
He leads me through the front door, passing a small kitchen and living area, down towards a dark hallway.
Stopping at the first door on the right, he swings it open.
The dank, musty smell of moisture-ridden wood hits my nose, and I’m almost sure there’s mold growing in every corner of this bathroom.
The toilet is straight repulsive and I have to actively try to avoid looking at it.
The porcelain surface of the sink, shower, tub, and toilet are discoloured.
Yellowed from hard water deposit ,and rust stains from the metal fixtures.
This is a cleaner’s worst nightmare come to life.
“Strip them nasty things off and climb on in,” he says, closing the door behind us and locking the knob.
He bends to turn the water on as I comply, pulling the crusty garments from my body.
He steps aside, allowing me the space I need to climb into the tub in this already suffocatingly cramped bathroom.
The frigid water cascades over me, causing goosebumps to erupt all over my skin, and my nipples stiffen from the cold.
Suppressing a shiver, he groans his appreciation at my body’s reaction to the chill.
“Takes a while for the water to warm up, but when it does, it doesn’t last long, so I’d get a move on if I were you.” I listen, not wanting to spend another millisecond naked and waiting around for hot water that will never come.
There’s no shower curtain so I have a clear view of his eyes roving over every exposed inch of my body. They linger on my most intimate parts, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more vulnerable and terrified. Even being naked with Ghost was never this kind of scary.
I’m trying to ignore him as I scrub the build up of filth from my skin with the lukewarm water.
The body wash smells like roses, it’s pungent and much too strong for my liking.
There’s no shampoo or conditioner, and only a sponge that’s meant for washing dishes for me to scrub myself clean with.
It’s abrasive but works great at removing the grime from my body.
I welcome the rough texture that scratches across my skin, removing the cells of mine that he’s touched.
My hair is a knotted mess as I try to work the soap through it.
Watching disheartened as chunks of my hair swirl down the drain.
It’s lost its soft and silky texture after being grabbed, ripped, dragged through the dirt, and caked in decomposing bodily fluids.
It’s ragged and dry, the strands feeling like straw as I try to rinse the terrible smelling cleanser from my hair.
Closing my eyes, I try to pretend I’m somewhere else.
Anywhere that isn’t here, being leered at by a fucking murderer.
His hand cups my breast, and I’m pulled back into this hell. He hasn’t cum yet, and I’m fearful the shower is a precursor to him trying to stick his shrimp dick in me, but I know I’m going to have to do something to earn whatever is in those two big shopping bags.
In his other hand he holds my leash, the chain swinging from side to side outside the grimy, discoloured shower.
The heavy weight of it causes the collar around my neck to rub in the most uncomfortable way, irritating the welts and sores that have formed from my time wearing it.
“Don’t forget to wash your cunt,” he grumbles.
I want to ‘forget’ so I can use it as a deterrent, but I don’t want some weird flesh eating disease from everything I’ve been exposed to.
Squaring my resolve, I abandon the sponge and soap up my palms, slowly turning my body away from him.
I hope he won’t notice so I can wash with some semblance of privacy but he makes a grumbling sound of disapproval then says, “Nuh-uh, turn back around, and spread ‘em.”