Page 16 of The Last Feast

UNTIED

AUGUSTE

Once we’ve cleaned ourselves and dressed—me in my jeans, Hana in my t-shirt—she tries to distance herself as she rotates the spotlight so it’s facing the ceiling. But she can’t escape me now that she’s captured my attention, so I thread my fingers through hers and pull her into my side.

She glares up at me, the spotlight casting menacing shadows on her face to match her tone. “Do you need to be tied up again?”

“You don’t want that to happen.”

“Really?” she deadpans, attempting to pull her hand free.

“Really,” I mimic her, giving her what neither of us want as I let go of her hand.

She can’t hide the disappointment or the way she stares at her now-free limb, curling her fingers in to trap the warmth of my hand.

The metallic creaking has become part of the environment I don’t care about, so I don’t look up when it gets louder, along with the muffled cries and steady drips of blood from Odette’s severed wrist. Neither does Hana—she gives me her full attention while she lies, “I liked you better when you were tied up.”

“You like me better like this.” I take a step closer to her, and she takes one back.

“No, I don’t. You’re talking more and you don’t wait for permission to touch me.”

My apathy has been cured only where this woman is concerned. Just like the paint flaking from her face, the more of her that’s revealed, the deeper I’m enamored by her.

“I don’t need permission.” I take another step. “Because you claimed me as your own. Does your hand ask if it can touch your body?”

She slowly shakes her head as she continues retreating without tearing her eyes off me.

“Exactly. I’m yours, and if you tie me up…” I say slowly before abruptly snatching her neck. “Then I can’t do this.” I slam my lips over hers as I wind my arm around her hips. She tastes like freedom. I’ve spent so long drowning while fearing someone will hear me; now that she has, it’s freeing.

She moans into my mouth as she flattens her chest against mine.

Her fingers slowly trail up my body to my shoulders, and as soon as she digs her nails in, I pull her up.

Hana wraps her legs around my waist, and I cup the back of her head as I slowly push my tongue into her mouth, exploring every part of this woman I want to be mine.

She pushes her head forward, meeting me in need. And I smile. I smile.

Pulling back enough to look at her breathless and weak, I ask, “Do you still like me better tied up?”

She looks down at the floor then back up at me. “You’re really tall.”

“I’ll carry you, baby. Arms around my neck.” I kiss her cheek as I hold her ass on my forearm and look for whatever she might need. “Where are we going?”

Her smile stretches from ear to ear as she lightly says, “To kill your little girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I should probably argue about the issue of killing someone, but there’s no tomorrow. There are no consequences or anxiety to creep up on me.

Hana unwraps her legs from my waist and drops down to her feet.

I grab her hand before she can run off into the shadows, but she keeps walking, dragging me with her.

There’s still one anxiety left—her leaving.

If she isn’t with me, I go back to being Auguste.

Timid, well-mannered, silent Auguste, who cares more about what everyone is thinking of me than myself.

With Hana, I’m Jamie. Still fucked up, but I don’t care. I accept those fucked up parts of myself. They don’t consume me.

The glare from the spotlight reflecting off the metal panels provides a dim glow so we can see where we’re going. She doesn’t slow down, though; she just storms through the maze like she created it then walks between the trees to reach the metal siding, where a ladder is fixed in place.

I don’t want her to fall, so I pull her back and place one foot on the bottom rung.

But she yanks my arm, stopping me from touching the ladder. “You’ll leave fingerprints.”

“So will you.”

Removing the knife she tucked into my jeans, she shakes her head. “I don’t exist. The orphanage doesn’t keep records of people abandoned there.”

There’s no time for me to tell her she exists to me or ask more about her childhood, because she begins climbing the ladder. My heart is in my throat as I watch her climb, how she gets smaller and smaller then balances at the very top with her knees on the metal poles.

If she falls, it’s over.

The muffled screaming gets louder, distracting her as she tries to cut through the wires. I don’t care about fingerprints or DNA, not if she’s going to get hurt. My steps clang, echoing around the space as I race up to her.

When I reach the top, she’s already cut through the wires around Odette’s ankles. She crawls along the pole to cut through the others around her waist, chest, and arms. “I told you not to touch anything.”

“You were going to fall,” I argue back as she cuts through the wires securing the gag in Odette’s mouth.

As soon as it’s removed, she weakly screams, “Help!” but gravity pulls her down before Hana can cut through the remaining wires.

She slips through them, falling through the air to land with dull thud.

The labored groans are low, but I don’t give a thought to the obvious evidence of Odette’s internal bleeding as Hana tries to hide how she assesses me.

I’m attuned to her now, so it’s no use. I suppose that’s what happens when someone violently returns parts of oneself back to them.

Holding the ladder with one hand, I pat my back. “Climb on, baby. I don’t want you to fall.”

When she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, I know she’s mine. If she wasn’t, she’d argue. She’d complain like she did before.

And when her soft lips brush my nape, I know I’m hers.

There’s something awe-inspiring about someone strong in their own right allowing themselves to soften and be helped. There’s no misguided conviction about her needing me, but she allows me to feel like she does as I carry her down the ladder.

I hold her thighs on the way to where Odette fell.

We both watch the crumpled shadow as she wheezes, an inky puddle forming beneath her.

Auguste would question why she needs to die.

Jamie accepts it needs to happen because it’s what Hana wants, so I set my woman on her feet and then change the angle of the spotlight.

Hana fills with excitement as she skips towards Odette.

Her shadow looms over her, the mirrors creating new ones in different directions as she cocks her leg back then kicks Odette in the head, rendering her unconscious.

Then, she repositions her within the maze, directly in front of the mirrors.

It’s not the same way she tied me up; rather, she lays Odette flat on her back then wraps new electrical wires around her wrists and ankles before tying them to the structural supports hidden between the fake tress until Odette’s limp body is lifted a few inches above the ground.

She looks at me like she knows I’m beginning to question my decision to be here as she collects her weapons. It was going to be easy to witness her murdering someone, but I’ve continuously given more importance to what other people think of me, so the shame of being intrigued rears its head.

The object of my fascination has never been women.

It’s always been watching men bleed and witnessing them struggle.

I could lie to myself, say it’s because I imagine the priest who hurt me was in that position, but the truth is, it’s not.

I don’t imagine a particular person or desire revenge.

My curiosity is more fucked up than that.

I just want to see the blood, watch the life drain away, then find tangible evidence there’s no one coming to collect my soul. Then, I’m safe.

Religion is an odd concept. Theoretically, it’s meant to inspire hope.

Realistically, it’s been used as a means of control to warp people into keeping their mouths shut, because whatever’s going to come after this life is going to be worse.

You can’t speak up about a priest hurting you when he’s helping so many people in your community.

You can’t point out their hypocrisy, not when the spokesperson for the faith is the person you’re terrified of.

I can rationalize my fear when I was a child.

I didn’t know any better—ignorance is expected when your only knowledge comes from adults with ulterior motives.

But as an adult, that fear’s still there—this dread they’re right, and when Odette takes her last breath, I’ll catch a glimpse of something to prove my soul is destined to burn for eternity because I broke the covenant the Father gave me by telling my parents.

Yet, I can’t do it, because I’m not like him. I can’t take away the choice of someone weaker than me. I can’t brutally hurt a woman—even if it’s not the exact same manner as I’ve experienced—because she’s smaller than me, restrained, and therefore vulnerable, just like I was.

And I can’t stop Hana as she drops her ax by my feet, because the fear instilled within me as a child wars against the devotion I’ve found as a man.

She holds the knife that started this out to me and softly says, “I’ll let you have the first cut.”

I pause, debating whether to fall back into old patterns of being fearful or to step into the future as the man Hana has allowed me to be. There’s no judgment on her features as she holds the knife flat in her palm, waiting for me to make a decision.

“What if I don’t?” I ask, my mouth dry at the thought of her sending me away.

“Then you don’t.” She shrugs.

Death has always been something I’ve viscerally reacted to. While others would recoil, I’ve found it erotic, though not in the way I do now, because seeing Hana’s bloodstained skin is nowhere fucking near anything I’ve ever witnessed as we leave the fear factory through a back entrance.