Beloved

He’s been there every night for years, the bone mask of his face glowing in the dim light that flows through my bedroom window, from the shadows.  Always staring at me with his dead eyes, at 2 am when I’m lying here lonely as hell and ready to scream in the silence.  At 9 am when my home is so glaringly bereft of voices I could go crazy from it. There is no respite.

 ·
The monsters under the bed are no help, always jeering and coughing out humorously derogatory statements, on occasion reaching out to caress the length of my calf as i stand shivering, locked in his attention. Not afraid, precisely, but certainly wary, lest his hand touch me as I pass, and the adamant tone of my thoughts cause that teeth rattling titter from under the bed again.
 ·
You’re afraid, they whisper, leaves in the wind. you like it, they giggle, like teenage boys just discovering where they are supposed to insert it, and I spit curses like daggers, inviting the bastards to shut up before storming past where he stands to lock myself in the bathroom.  I can hear them, arguing redundancies as though they matter, while I sit here wishing I could banish them from me. No dice, Lord knows I’ve tried for decades in so many damned ways to rid my mind, if not the least my bedroom of these assholes.  I’d settle for a few hours alone rather than having to hear lewd comments as I’m being plowed by Mr. Right Now, while HE stands in the darkness, watching me writhe on the bed.
 ·
Tonight my monsters are silent, conspicuously so. I even hang my head over the edge of the bed to try to catch a peek at them, and see only dust bunnies and the diamond ring that I had been searching for.  No sign of my profane friends,  My phone chirps that annoying text tone I keep meaning to replace, my attention drawn away from my mission. I remind myself yet again to change it and glance at the screen in disbelief. My date cancelled on me, again.  It never fails.
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Still silence from the Land of Snark below me and this was prime reason to snigger and snicker at my bad fortune.  By and large unlike them. Outside the wind moans along the edges of the window frames, breezy fingers scrabbling trying to find some way in. It’s snowing again, great white flakes that look like cotton and must taste like blue heaven.  It’s become colder, here by the window, my nipples hardened in the flimsy black bra I had chosen, my back a wave of raised flesh that feels slightly familiar.
 ·
Rattle, rustle, nearly inaudible noises set my nerve endings jangling, screaming to turn, to defenestrate myself, anything but stand here staring at the snow while some stranger sneaks up behind me, presumably with a weapon, dull as shit so it hurts more, poised to sever my brainstem or something equally as gory.  But I am unable to move, and stand frozen while an Icy finger traces the line of my spine, from the nape of my neck to the small of my back, slowly and deliberately.
 ·
I am alone, but for the dustbunnies and echoes of memories, this I know for sure.  My last lover had lit out for more mundane pastures and good riddance. Life is too short for shitty sex and this guy was in the negatives. It was the warm body next to me that kept him That frigid finger was now a hand that was slipping deftly along the outcrop of my hip, and up the slender side of my ribcage. I shiver, chilled, unsure of whether it was in fear or in arousal. Maybe both, I think as a pale appendage snakes up my body to cup my left breast, my back frozen against a hard torso.
 ·
I see a flicker of movement in my peripheral bubble and flick my eyes to another hand holding my assumably lost diamond ring, last seen in the dust under my bed. The hand, white as alabaster, perfectly smooth holds this sparkling precious in front of my face. How it sparkles in the light filtering in from the half-moon in the sky, eye-catching as it was the day he slipped it on my finger.
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The hand on my breast tightens, the fingers pinching my taut nipple with nearly painful pressure the skin around the fingers turning white and beginning to burn.
 ·
“You took it off.”
 ·
My mind twists away, insisting no, refuting the plausibility even as the he holds me tighter to his well muscled chest. My back is no longer cold but fiery as the flames that smothered him even as his hands pounded the windows.  The heavy smell that reminded me of cooked beef was filling my throat, coating my mouth with its oily fragrance and I wanted to vomit. I tried but am slammed hard against the big bay window, my teeth smashing against my lips.
 ·
“You aren’t real,” I spit through mangled lips, each word spraying droplets of blood on the glass.  Real enough that He could throw me like that, that I could feel his hardness agAinst my bareness, seeking entry.
 ·
I feel my stomach constrict and that familiar burning in my throat as he laughs, stabbing me, fingers digging deeper into my breast. I told you I’ll never let you go, he rattles in my ear, the scent of his burnt flesh heavy in my nose, You’re mine.  He had, right before i struck the match. I’d chained his left arm to the oh shit handle above his window, his right to the steering wheel. This was happening.
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My stomach retches violently and my last meal splatters on the window pane. My body betrays me, as it has always done and I orgasm against my will.
 ·
“You are wrong. She is mine.”
 ·
In my delirium, the grated, disintegrated voice was the igniter and I threw my head back to crack him directly on the face. It didn’t crack, exactly but made a wet crunch that made him stagger backwards.
 ·
“Don’t turn around, please,” the lightly accented voice spoke, monotone but for the cadence, “I will be just a moment.”  I wipe my forearm across my lips, grimacing at the disgusting taste in my mouth, and watch the snow fall. The night was bright and ice blue in the moonlight, the silence comfortable instead of awkward, until the bargaining and screams started.  They lasted forever.
 ·
I am no longer afraid of the shadows. his stare.  In fact I relish the sensation of his eyes following me, keeping me safe from harm. I belong to him, my beloved Closet Monster.
·
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The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Created by Matt Farnsworth ©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
The Orphan Killer 2
Bound x Blood
Created by Matt Farnsworth
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC All Rights Reserved
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