Prison is a joke. I own every guard in here; even the ones that don't realize it. It truly is amazing how far blackmail goes these days. All it takes is a cheating spouse or a gambling addiction to move these pawns where I want them. Idiots, all of them.
The unfortunate downside of staying in this box is the boredom. The hours pass as I scrutinize my surroundings, back and forth, like a swinging pendulum on a grandfather clock.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
My head begins to ache and my heart begins to anxiously pound as the symptoms of withdrawal begin to surface.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
Sweat beads my upper lip and falls slowly onto my chin and neck.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
I can feel my blood begin to surge and boil in an attempt to burn through my skin and set the whole building ablaze with my fury and devious intentions. I have been too long without my drug and without my sweet nectar of life, power, and renewal. I need to be with her if only in the shadows.
Gray walls and a white jumpsuit.
This drab cell could really use a bit of color.
Overcome with emotion and needing a small pick-me-up (just a taste), I pull at the seam of my prison jumpsuit and remove her hidden picture.
Lily. My Dear Sweet Lily.
Oh what I would give to be out from behind these bars and up close to her again. To smell her sweet, flowery fragrance and run my fingers through her chestnut hair. Those big green eyes and long, curly locks have always been my undoing.
Tomorrow is day one of the trial and I know she'll be there at long last. Time away from her, my muse, is like a life without air.
Gourmet food without the desire of hunger.
Hatred without love and passion.
A predator without it's prey.
She is my equal. The yin to my yang. The intricate piece to my otherwise empty and uncompleted puzzle.
Everyday tasks and rituals that I perform hold no meaning to me anymore. My food tastes like ash. Conversations are mundane and are of no importance to me. Books are useless. Even sleep alludes me and clings instead to the other prisoners as their snores and coughs grow louder and invade my privacy. Until she is safe and sound with me, there will be neither rest nor peace for she is mine.
Lily. My Dear Sweet Lily.
The memories of our time together swirl at the edges of my brain, bright and powerful, eclipsing all other thoughts and streams of reasoning.
I wonder if she still tries to hide the scars on her back that I gave her 4 years ago for trying to run away? Or even the ones on her wrists and hands that were seared into her flesh as a child after I found the hidden Bible that whore, Rachael, had given her.
Reminiscing while I recline on the thin cot with my feet propped up, one on top the other, makes me smile with fondness. I wish I could say that all of her beatings and deserved disciplines were a waste of unmarred flesh; but honestly, she is more lovely to me scarred and disfigured. A fallen angel of lustrous beauty, my Lily.
Tomorrow she'll be in the same room as me and I'll finally get to marvel at my most recent handiwork to her face. Oh what I would sacrifice to trace the scar that ran from her eye down to her collar bone. I would slaughter every single person in that courtroom if it meant I could have just five minutes alone with the puckered flesh that had been hollowed out by my blade. To bask in it's beauty. What a masterpiece it is. I wonder, does it still hurt? Does she touch it when she looks in the mirror and think of me? Does it throb and pulse at the very mention of my name?
The very thought of having such power of her quickens my heart and tingles my nerves until I feel like an outlet of electricity.
Fervent.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Lily's strength and stubbornness shown even on the day she was born has always drawn me to her and intrigued each of my five sense. The sound her harmonious voice crying in agony as each pitch crescendos above the next resonates through my body. The sight of her gorgeous emerald irises flushed with tears and her pupils constricting and dilating in fear quickens my breath and sharpens my focus. The smell of her sweet strawberry essence rising in the air as I hold her hair in my fist makes my stomach churn in anticipation. The feeling of my fingertips grazing her scars ever so fondly, each of them creased and furrowed in deep-set lines, makes my palms quiver. The taste of-
Well...
I have yet to taste My Dear Sweet Lily. But I often dream of what awaits me beneath her modesty. What flavors I may discover. What powers I may reap when my taste buds awaken at the very movement of my tongue against her skin.
Her sweat.
Her blood.
But there is plenty of time to fantasize about our intimate tête-à-tête so for now, I will simply resign myself to the preludes of my pending masterpiece.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and drift through my highlight reel until I settle upon the ever-present and profoundly memorable expression on Lily's face during one of the sweetest moments of our courtship. I love the turn of her lips and the fire in her eyes. The ability to run from me even knowing what will follow. The defiance shining through even as my blade presses against her flesh and begins to flay what is beneath. She truly is a wild animal, exotic and full of passion.
Even so, the wildest of creatures must be broken. It's always been my basest animal instinct and My Dear Sweet Lily just needs to be taught such a lesson. Punished for her disobedience. Taught the errors of her ways. That has been the way of our people since the time of Renaissance and I wouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't uphold the laws. Her screams clang and echo deep within the caverns of my skull like a church bell in a tower. It was going to be a long, anxious night and so I will relish every second of remembrance until tomorrow comes and I can finally be at peace in her presence.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
The ache in my head begins to cease and the roar of each beat my heart pumps begins to dull and quiet. For now, my needs are satiated as I envelop and ride the waves of my high.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
My skin begins to dry and I can no longer feel my body dripping with perspiration.
Gray and white. Tick-tock.
The monster inside of me sighs in contentment and resigns itself to mild frustration as it curls within the darkness of my bowels and patiently awaits it's next release.
This drab cell could really use a bit of color.
My last thoughts before slumber are the sounds of her fleeting breath as she succumbs to unconsciousness. The smell of her blood as it flows through my fingers. The radiant color and texture as it drips from my clothes and coats the walls. The feeling of it caressing and moisturizing my skin. Dare I say, the taste of it? Oh the glorious feeling of a torn soul as it passes from this earth before your eyes.
Gray, red, and white.
Such promising colors.
My Dear Sweet Lily.
YOU ARE READING
Wild Thing
Mystery / ThrillerLily Calvinson grew up on a compound that would later be described as "the cult of the century." Followers were taught obedience, that God was their enemy, and any interaction or affiliation with churches, Bibles, or Christians could be punishable b...
