Demon in My View

Psalm II: The Red

Psalm II: The Red

Miles was waiting for the phone call, and while he waited, he watched the blood drip off the stainless steel table. The falling red was drying now, the pendulum drops descending like sap. It touched the claret pool on the floor and molded into it, increasing its volume the tiniest bit.

The wound looked like a small bomb had exploded on the nude woman's back. Her skin had been peeled off, the few remaining dry pieces jutting around the laceration like tiny beds of coral. Miles remembered as he had dug out the meat with his restless hands and invasive fingers that had searched and searched after the flaying had proved unsuccessful. He remembered her flesh had bloomed out like petals of gore.

Now he was leaning on the wall, staring at the curve of the woman's spine that jutted out of her flesh, fins through a rolling, red sea. The ivory arrows pointed at her flat ass where a pink heart had been tattooed on her right cheek.

Miles blinked and brought the blood stained glass in his hand to his lips. The strong whiskey stung his throat. He felt it travel to his stomach, a hot poker behind his chest. An ice cube chilled his lips. Miles caught it between his teeth and crunched on it as he walked up to the corpse's face.

She had been one of the plainer looking ones, but she had also been the best one in bed. His abdomen tightened as he remembered how intense she felt. Her legs had wrapped around him, pulling him deeper inside her with each of his thrusts. Her moans had been sensual and real, unlike others that yelped like birds or sighed like cats. In fact, it had been her cries of climax—her legs squeezing his hips, head thrown back as she rubbed herself on him—that had drawn his own.

But now she was dead. This one had made contact with the wife. It had been an accident, an unintentional bump in a department store that had been followed by an apology, but that had been enough for her illicit lover to want her dead. Rule #1 of being a whore to an Avid Eye member: never meet the wife.

Miles sighed. If only he could remember what his angel looked like, even something as simple as her hair color, he wouldn't have to mutilate all the women sent to him. In the end, they all end up dead of course. It was his job to kill these women when their rich and powerful lovers had grown tired of them for whatever reason.

He almost felt sorry for them. These pampered mistresses were given to him with their bouncy hair, toned legs, tiny waists, inflated tits, and pouty lips—they all had pouty lips, Miles noticed, and probably sturdy knees.

Women were property. At least these were. They were the lovers of those that made up the Avid Eye, a slang name to the big brother–like government that ran society. It was a silly term that poked fun at how these rich men had more enthusiasm in finding beautiful women for themselves than properly running their country. Even so, these were the type of men that even the slang title used to address them was spoken with capital letters, for even their mistresses had bodyguards. The Avid Eye wanted to make sure while their high maintenance whores were out and about, they wouldn't be kidnapped or raped...or jumping in bed with other men. Of course if they were sleeping around, it was usually with the guards themselves.

Miles would know. They always mistook him as another one of their bodyguards. Not that he minded. A fuck while on the job was a nice perk, but they never suspected who he truly was. Once these women did find out that he was a Blind, their demeanor changed. Though this end, the one he gave them, was better than the alternatives most women received in this world.

Most cried. All women were pretty when they cried. Their eyes would gloss over and grow big with fat tears that spilled down their powdered cheeks. Lips would be pulled into teeth bearing pouts. He would admire their flushed faces before taping their mouth shut. By then, the drug they had unknowingly consumed had taken effect and paralyzed their bodies.