HOW TO RUIN YOUR LIFE (LGBTQ+)

7

I could kill her right now.

    I stared at Izzy's naked body on the bed in front of me, her hands tied to her ankles, a blindfold over her eyes, whimpering softly, her body shaking in pain. I held a folded belt in my hands, and I was breathing hard from the exertion of using it on Izzy.

    The ways I could kill her flooded my brain.

Choking.

Suffocation.

Beating.

Stabbing.

Tossing out the window.

    I stumbled backwards, the belt dropping from my hand. We'd been going at it for about forty five minutes, so why now?

    "A - asa?" Izzy said quietly, her voice breaking slightly. "Are you...okay?"

    I raked my fingers through my hair, breathing hard but quiet. "Shut up," I said, speaking to the voices in my head.

    Stab her.

    Choke her.

    KILL.

    "I won't," I said.

    My head was pounding, the voices growing louder and more demanding. I wanted to kill her. I could feel the desire clawing through my body, crawling up my throat, running down to my fingertips, dripping down to my toes. It was consuming me.

    But I wouldn't do it.

    Not to Izzy, or anyone, ever again.

    He was the only one I killed, and he was the first and the last. I wouldn't kill anyone else after him. Only him.

    I sat down on the bench across from the bed, wringing my hands together, staring at the floor, waiting for the feeling to melt away. It always did. It always faded, just enough so that I could hear it in the back of my brain, but it wasn't screaming at me.

    It dissipated within a few minutes, and I sighed.

    "Asa? Are you there?" Izzy asked, her voice slightly higher pitched than usual.

    I stood up, then walked over to the bed, reaching down Izzy's body, and she groaned as I smoothed my hand over her bruised inner thigh, then slapped it, making her cry out. "I'm here," I said. "Let's finish."

-

She was gone when I awoke the next morning.

    It was a good thing. She didn't leave a note, but she made the bed and left everything the way it was before she arrived.

    I had probably gone too far. She looked like the victim of a mugging when I untied her several hours after we'd started, and she was too exhausted to try to cover herself or put on airs, so she had just laid there, naked on the bed, her eyes half open and staring into space. I didn't feel guilty at all. She had pestered me until I succumbed, and now she knew what I was really like.

    I had watched her for a few seconds, making sure she was breathing fine, and then I'd thrown a blanket over her and turned off the lights, leaving her in the darkness to sleep.

    I would probably never see her again. I had taken my aggression out on her, and surprised myself with the amount of pain I was giving her. I had barely scratched the surface of what I really wanted to do, deep down.

    I climbed out of bed, walked down to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. I opened the basement door, walking down the steps to bring the fruit to Cleo, who was lying down on top of the blanket.

    She wasn't wearing a blindfold, but I was wearing a hoodie and a medical mask again, hiding my face from her. "Put your blindfold back on," I ordered. "And your earmuffs. Those stay on when the basement door opens."

    Cleo sat up, looking up at me with big eyes. "I don't like them."

    "Put them on."

    "No."

    "If you don't put them on, I'll break a bone."

    She folded her arms. "I don't want to put them on."

    I scoffed, crouching down in front of her. "Didn't you hear me, little girl? I'll break one of your bones if you don't put them on. Do you want that?"

    She bared her teeth. "My name is Cleo, okay? My name is Cleo, I'm seven years old, and I don't like to wear things over my eyes or on my ears. It makes me sad."

    I sat in silence for a few seconds, stunned. She watched me, her arms folded tightly and her face an expression of fierceness that was incredibly out of place.

    "I thought you were four," I finally said.

    She rolled her eyes. "I'm seven."

    "You're so tiny."

    "It's because the cook feeds me too many vegetables."

    I was about to respond, when I realized I had lost control of the conversation. I wasn't used to having children in the basement, let alone someone who wasn't afraid of me at all. I usually hosted teenagers and young adults.

    I took a breath, then shook my head in defeat. Of course I wasn't going to break any of her bones. Most hostages believed me, or did what I asked without needing to be threatened.

    "Whatever," I said softly, standing to my full height. I dropped the apple in her lap, and she looked at it, then back up at me.

    "I told you my name. It's Cleo. So what's your name?"

    I looked her over one more time, then turned and walked away, back toward the stairs. She watched me go, without asking again.

    I closed the door behind me once I reached the top of the stairs, and leaned against it. I couldn't let myself slip like that again. My job was to keep the hostages alive, then release them when the payment came through. I was in charge of disposing of hostages if the payment didn't come through, but that wasn't something that had ever happened.

    Everyone wanted their children back, so they paid whatever was asked of them, and kept it quiet and low key as well. Even after the money was paid.

    But a part of me always wished that the money didn't come through. The part that I was doing my best to suffocate every day. But it wouldn't die, like a cockroach. If the money didn't come through, I would have a body to kill, right in front of me, served up like a meal. It wouldn't be traced back to me, and I wouldn't have to put in any effort to find someone.

    I lifted a hand up to my face, rubbing my eyes.

    This was getting out of hand. I needed to do something to quell the thirst to kill as soon as possible, or I could end up going insane, or worse, lose control of myself.

    I would find something.

    But I wouldn't go out into the city and become a hunted killer. No, I needed something lowkey, isolated, and something that I could do often. Something to let off a bit of steam.

    Just a bit.

    Yes, I would find something for sure.