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Chapter Eight

Ren

O nce I close the underground door to the bunker, I take a moment to compose myself. My breath is shallow, uneven, and fighting against the tightness in my chest. My hands run down my face as I take in air, but it’s not enough, it never fucking is. My heart beats loudly in my ear, a steady pounding that drowns out my thoughts, and fuels the fire burning in my gut. My stomach flutters, bile threatening to come out.

Fucking Thorn in my ass.

I give him choices. I try to be generous, to give him the illusion of control. I want him willing, I fucking need him willing. But I guess I will have to force it. Make him see. Make him understand.

Fuck him!

He wants me to force him… he wants me to consume him.

So fine.

Ready, little piggy? Because here I fucking come.

Storming towards the house, heat coils around my spine, burning, suffocating, thick with the need to act. I grab the food I made him, my arm swiping the table set up for him and I. Dishes crash, silverware clatters, the scrape of ceramic against tile sends a jolt through my skull before my body slumps into the wall and slides down.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Her heels grow louder and louder. Rhythmic, deliberate, echoing in the hollow space inside my chest. My legs move toward me, curling up, and pulling me inward, small, contained, and wrapped up like I used to be.

The sound stops beside me.

Close. Too close .

My eyes remain on the shattered white piece of glass, a sharp, jagged remnant, waiting for purpose.

I need to create.

Pain.

“My sweet boy,” her voice purrs, soft,sweet, and wrong, always wrong. I feel her nails–long and pointed–scrape my skull,slow enough to send chills racing down my spine.

“Let Mother make you feel better.”

No.

Moving of its own accord, my hand reaches for the glass. A gift, an offering, a demand. Biting into my arm, I slice downward.

Red.

Bright. Sticky. Right.

It appears on my skin, blooming, warm and thick. The pain is nothing, insignificant, a whisper beneath the roaring in my head. Using my fingers, I dip into the warm blood. It coats my skin, smooth, familiar .

All I see is red.

The blood. Her nails. Her lips as they wrap around my cock. My fingers move towards my face, dragging, smearing, painting.

Red.

So much red.

My cock hardens, my memory pulling me under.

I can’t escape her.

I can’t escape him.

The good thing about being a psychopath is that you have little to no regard for others. Empathy is an inconvenience, one I’ve never had to worry about. I wasn’t only devoid of emotions but also morals. A body without a conscience, a mind without restraint.

I’m always planning, always two steps ahead, watching the board shift in my favor before anyone else realizes they’re a pawn. And with some outside help, I was able to get two birds with one stone. A masterpiece in motion. And this little art project will come to fruition. He will see. He will understand.

I will show him the way, and I know exactly how …

Pushing to my feet, I storm to the small room where my little birdie lies asleep. Soft breaths, the steady rise and fall of her chest, untouched. Unmarked. A canvas waiting for its first stroke. The Rose missing her Thorn—but it’s okay. It’s better this way.

I walk over to her sleeping form, naked and just waiting to be carved into. A perfect offering.

I smile.

Walking back to the kitchen, I grab something that I can use. The lack of my preferred tools is inconvenient, and not having them might prove difficult, but true art is about adaptation. Grabbing the sharpest knife from the block, I head back into the room and get to work. Precision matters. Placement matters. I gently smack her thigh before pressing the blade to her flesh, testing the resistance—the way her skin yields under the slightest pressure.

It’s hard work slicing flesh without the help of a motor, but it’s therapeutic. The pull of the blade, the slow give, and the way the body reacts, even in sleep. To see all the red. To see silent pain in the subtle twitches of her muscles—trapped in her own nightmare. Can’t escape it. Can’t see it, but can feel it.

This I can control. This I can claim.

I need to stop giving room for light to creep in. The darkness suits me—it’s the only thing that ever has.

If I couldn’t be Ren Sato, then I needed to be the Laguna Bay Painter.

The killer.

The artist.

The piece of flesh falls into my waiting hand. Still warm, still twitching with the last remnants of life. I don’t bother to stop the flow of crimson. The body will take care of that on its own. After all, we are on a tight schedule.

I will teach him a lesson, a very important one. A truth etched into bone and carved into flesh.

Walking to the kitchen, a slice of dark meat in one hand and a knife in the other, I place the flesh on a plate resting on the counter and throw the knife into the sink. Turning on the faucet, washing away the blood from my hands and then from the flesh. It runs down the drain in pink rivulets, the water scorching hot against my skin, but I barely notice.

I pull a pan out and place it on the stove along with a gracious portion of butter, and turn the burner on. Then, I collect some seasonings—garlic, thyme, rosemary, and oregano. Familiar comforts. I add the seasonings to the flesh while I burn the butter with more garlic before adding the main ingredient. Its sizzle is sharp and loud. The scent fills the kitchen, rich and gamey. It smells like something familiar. Something comforting. Funny how the brain doesn’t discriminate—it only recognizes food.

After searing both sides, I wait a bit longer, letting it cook medium-well, tender and savory. The heat pulls the juices to the surface, searing flavor into the fibers. I don’t know if this is the correct way to do this, but instinct tells me it is.

What’s the difference between cow and human?

Nothing.

Nothing if you ask me. Meat is meat. Hunger is hunger. We are all animals.