Page 24 of Wicked Vile King
Someone grumbles up ahead and earns a punch to the gut for it, sending the line staggering back a little as the sweaty guard from earlier arrives at my side. He looks at me like he's considering seeing what I'm made of. Bro should know better than that though. Just because I'm not currently feeling the urge to see his organs, doesn't mean I won't make the fucker choke on his own teeth if given the proper motivation.
Apparently, this guard has a brain because he settles for scowling at me and saying, "Crazy fucker."
I nearly laugh.
Like why do you think I'm here, you bastard? I'm the reason—well one of three, counting Kill and Gabe—that the lockdown protocolexists. It used to be shelter in place. Now, they cage us up like animals until they can con themselves into believing control has been restored. Today's instigators will get sent the hole and the rest of us will be sent to our rooms, where they'll cut the zip-ties off of those of us lucky enough to earn them and lock us inside.
The line continues down the dead halls and up the spiral stairs, my steps hitting an even tempo until, finally, we arrive at our dorm. Gabe's restraints are removed first, and he disappears into the room next to ours as Kill and I are deposited at our shitty excuse for a place to sleep. The guards slice away the zip-ties around our wrists, and a moment later, the heavy metal door closes and latches into place with a click.
"Fuck," Kill says, dropping onto his bed.
I mirror the sentiment, but my brain is whirling, wondering what she is doing, what she's thinking of, and if it's about me.
I hope so.
The compulsion won't accept anything less, until she is as consumed by thoughts of me as I am of her, until I'm her past, present, and future, and there's no one and nothing but me.
I could sneak out and go to her dorm, but everyone will be on high alert now, and the roommate won't be as easy to dispose of this time. Also, she's probably already fixed their window anyway, so for now, I wait.
I drop onto my bed as Kill bitches about being hungry.
I am too. A fight always brings out a good appetite in me, but I don't find myself thinking of food as I stare up at the stone ceiling. At some point, they tried to paint it, but the white paint has long chipped, exposing the gray bones beneath.
The wind howls as morning rain peppers the window. I look up at the white-speckled ceiling and imagine my pretty pet.
Hog-tied and naked on the floor.
Bound in ropes that indent her flesh and leave pink, raised welts on her skin.
Her perfect, pale flesh sullied with my cum.
I smile as someone pounds on their door down the hall and screams bloody murder.
This semester's going to be fun.
7
SAINT
Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
2,880 minutes.
An entire fucking weekend lost to another lockdown, but at least it wasn't lost to the boredom, I guess. Surprisingly, I wasn't bored at all. Annoyed at being separated, yes, but bored? Absolutely not.
One taste of her and two not-by-chance encounters gave me enough to keep that door closed, for now at least. She's like my own personal pornfolio, except I don't do self-gratification—haven't for years since even the hardcore BDSM shit ceased to be enough to keep the urges at bay. Still, it's nice to know I haven't become asexual in its absence.
She's proven I can still feel something.
I feel a lot of things for her, though Kill keeps distracting me.
He's done about a thousand push-ups a fucking day since the Academy locked us all in our rooms. The fucker can't keep still on a good day, and now he's jonesing to be let out, twitching so much, he makesmyskin itch. I guess I don't blame him. He doesn't have anything to keep his boredom satiated. He doesn't haveher.
Breakfast was served in the dorm rooms this morning, and I thought Kill was going to vibrate until he fucking exploded . . . or I killed him for annoying the ever-living-fuck out of me, whichever came first. A cigarette calmed him for about thirty-nine seconds before he went back to the push-ups, trying to stave off the hardwired rage that kept him breathing during a bunch of nasty shit that went down with his parents.
I don't know much about it, just bits and pieces I've picked up over the years when he's drunk from booze stolen from employee quarters or, on the rare occasion, he is not lying through his teeth in group therapy. It's an age-old story, probably shared by dozens of kids who have passed through the Asylum. A failed marriage, a husband's rage, and blaming the weakest link: the child.
