Miss Angelina [2024 Rewrite]

[3] Desecration

There was something radically powerful in knowing you are the last person to enjoy someone's body. The boy had finished and lay there, panting like a wild beast after a kill. I ended up with my head beside his, catching my breath and savouring the aftermath. As his eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, I lifted myself from him and leaned back, drawing in all the courage that had evaporated in those fevered moments.

My sultry, insatiable demeanour—addicted to the highs of sex and love—had dissipated. The voracious seductress had melted away, and even the murderous witch lurking within me had retreated into the fog. In that fragile, transient moment, I felt a strange amalgamation of vulnerability and power, as if standing on the precipice of transformation, emptied and renewed by the act we had just shared.

Looking down at his face, I realised that if I didn't do this now, I might never summon the resolve to do it at all. I gripped his hands and pressed my forehead against his, synchronizing our breathing and savouring the profound silence that enveloped us. When his eyes refused to meet mine, I pulled back slightly, my gaze falling into the deep blue of the duvet as I held onto his hands tightly.

As he gazes at me drowsily, I reach for the tray once more, finding the morphine needle in its usual spot. I inhale his scent before injecting the liquid into his neck, savouring the confusion that flickers in his eyes.

"Are you feeling drowsy, baby? It might be easier for you if you just let those eyes close," I murmur. Almost immediately, his eyes shut in desperation, and I can see the tension in his clenched jaw though the rest of his body remains surprisingly still.

"Luke, I need your assistance," I call out to the bedroom door, having noticed him lingering outside. The door opens slowly, and his head pops around the oak frame.

"Done already?" he chuckles. I slide off the bed, my steps trembling slightly.

"Take him downstairs. I'll be there soon. And don't drop him—they don't appreciate damaged goods," I slur, pulling on the nearest available shirt. It was a pity it was one of his tattered cotton shirts; I would have preferred something more appealing for his final moments. As the last living soul he'd see, I wasn't going to make an effort to dress up for him.

"Remember, you'll need to burn that. Anything of his must be burnt," Luke says while slinging the boy's body over his shoulder. I murmur my annoyance and gesture for him to leave the room quickly. I gnaw on my lip, watching as he manoeuvres himself across the room.

"He went missing two months ago, Luke. I doubt they care. I hardly notice news reports anymore." Luke rolls his eyes, a devious smile slipping over his lips. It falters slightly as I frown, and he shakes his head, leaning against the wall to balance the boy without dropping him.

"If they ever look into it, Angelina, and trace him here, you wouldn't want his things scattered around multiple rooms for them to find," he groans. I slip on a pair of trainers, and as he takes a few steps back into the room, I quickly slip past him, trying to avoid another argument. I can already hear the tension rising in his voice.