unrequited

he

I spin the pocket knife towards her. She squirms in fear, gulping. Her eyebrows are furrowed in worry and her face is sticky with tears. I fold my tongue in concentration, a habit that's been stuck with me since childhood. With the tip of my knife, I remove a lock of blonde hair from her left eye and smile crookedly as she stiffens under the sharpness of my knife.

 I give her a once-over. Her white canvases are muddy and slightly torn. Her socks have ripped out almost completely and left splotches of fresh blood in their place. She sees me looking at her and closes her legs (as much as she can, considering she's tied in ropes). Her hands are tied behind the stool she's sitting on. They're bright red and sticky with sweat because of how tightly I've tied them. What to do, I couldn't risk it. Her exposed thighs are scarred with blood and her shorts are torn around the ends which don't look suspicious since all shorts are like that now-a-days anyway. 

"Please...p-please don't do this..." she begs. She closes her eyes and looks up, as if praying, while tears race down her cheeks. Every time she rattles the chair in hopes to loosen the ropes, the rusted steel chair clinks and shakes but she fails to escape. I wonder how she has so much energy. 

I scoff. It's okay. I like watching her beg. I pull my chair closer to her's so that our knees are now touching each other's. She immediately retaliates at my touch, spreading her legs to avoid touching mine. "I beg you..." she whispers in between ragged breaths. 

I'm enjoying every second of this.

A light at the end of the small, square shaped room flickers and then goes off. I tut irritably but decide not to get up, enjoying my position way too much. I continue rotating the pocket knife over the table, stopping the knife accurately every time it points at her. She yelps a little each time, and I  feel proud of intimidating her. 

I hum an old lullaby, one which my mom used to sing to me what seems like a million years ago. It used to comfort me then but in the dead of  this small basement, it echoes eerily across the room, sending uninvited chills down my body. 

Her white tank top is sticking over her curvy frame, giving a rather prominent shape to her chest and hips. Her petite shoulders and bare collarbones make her arms look somewhat muscular even though they aren't. I've always found her pointed jawline and soft features alluring, but it's kind of odd, even for me, to still find someone attractive while they're muddy, stinky and hot with sweat. It's her fault for dressing the way she has on a dark, stormy night. She should've known better.

"Stop it..." she says, meaning for me take my eyes off her. Her voice sounds ghostly, forlorn. 

"Why..." I say, through gritted teeth, "don't you..." I hold the hand of my knife and point it monstrously into the table, "...make me?" and I  whoop it inside, glaring at the cut that I've made into the wood while my hands feel numb by the strain. 

She sniffles and looks away, closing her eyes tightly, probably hoping the next time it's not her heart that the knife is staked into. 

"You really don't know me...do you?" I ask, "you don't remember what you did?" 

She shakes her head frantically, eyes still closed. 

"Well, let me remind you." 

                                                                                              *** 

So, that's all for now! Like the previous mystery story, I'm letting this one take it's own course as well. Although it won't be a full novel, it'll definitely be bigger than the first short story. Hope you liked this part and are intrigued to find out more :) 

Have a good weekend and take care. Please comment, vote and share if you enjoyed it. 

See you on Monday! :D