There is a fine line between fantasy and reality. It's all about the give and the take.
In the Gutter, you learn to tell the difference real quick. Or you end up dead....
In the Gutter, you learn to tell the difference real quick. Or you end up dead....
Biter Bit by Tess Makovesky
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He
locks the door. He’s even put a chair under the handle, so nobody’s getting in
to disturb him now. He smiles, then laughs.
She’s
waiting for him. Demure, quiet enough for now but he knows her type. He slaps
her face, enjoying the thwack. That feels good. So good.
He
pushes her across the room and bends her over the desk. Soon he’s inside her,
bucking hard, and that feels good too. He needs more, though. He could strangle
her, breathing in her whimpers as he cuts off her vital air. Or he could hit
her, over and over, bone shattering and flesh bursting beneath his fists.
Or....
Better yet. He slides the paper-knife out of the drawer and tests the point. It’s
sharp enough to slice through card—perfect for what he needs. He brings it
round and up, sliding the cold blade across her belly, swallowing her wince.
He’s
almost there. Another few thrusts.... He positions himself, positions the tip
against her skin. There. Between the third and fourth ribs. That should do it. He
pants, holds back, savors the moment, then he strikes. The point bites deep; he
feels her shudder through his frame. Oh, that felt really—
There’s
a pop, and the fizz of escaping air. He slams down onto the desk, and feels the
knife bite home. Blood seeps, his blood, staining the front of his shirt. It
pools, then puddles, and the blossoming pain makes him gasp.
“Help.”
He needs someone, fast, but the door is locked and he’s too weak to shout. “Hel....”
His whisper frays to silence. He knows it’s too late.
Beneath
him, the tattered plastic of the doll flaps as the last air seeps through the
hole he made. His fantasy seemed so real. He can’t believe he forgot.
