Page 28 of Sweet SIN Slaughterhouse

Silence is running through my brain and I hate it. Turning on some music, “Breakin’ Dishes” by another queen of mine, Rihanna. The beats bring me back. I am badass, I am Sid fucking Sinclair. I run a slaughterhouse and don’t give two shits about what people think of me.

As confident as I am, I have moments of doubt andsadness, and that’s okay. Because I am about to break some motherfucking dishes up in here.

Turning on my blinker, I pull into the gravel side road. My accessories piled into the car rattle as the car shakes while crunching over the gravel.

“I swear if this road ruins my hair, I will cut a bitch… Oh wait, that’s already the plan.” Smirking to myself, my headlights shine on my tunnel and the gravel turns into pavement as I pull up into it. Typically I park outside, but I have shit to unload and I am not dragging it all behind me.

Sweating in this getup is not happening.

Pulling up to my spot, the long metal chain sparkles from the reflection of my headlights. Uncle Thomas isn’t here yet, which pleases me, as it gives me extra time to set up the entire scene.

This is an event. Not a detail will be missed or compromised.

Parking my Bentley, I keep it running so I have enough lighting and my beats on to keep me moving. Hopping out, I catch a reflection of myself on the side of the car and take the opportunity to do a quick fit check. My feet, still decorated in white bandages, and bare legs, and reaching my thighs, white ruffled and torn tulle greets my eyes, a white lace strapless bodice wraps around my torso, and my long dark hair hangs in waves over my shoulders and down my back. With dried blood red lipstick on my lips, I added my mother’s signature broken doll cracks on my cheeks and forehead with darkeye makeup. Lastly, the tulle veil, it’s very eighties and I am obsessed with the dramatics of the entire piece.

Bright lights shine on me, breaking my focus. It can only be one person. Turning my head, I look toward the oncoming vehicle just as “Kill This Love” plays next. Fucking perfect.

Smiling, my teeth show and the fang toppers pinch my lip, because I wanted a piece of Dad with me here too.

The vehicle stops, and the man of the hour hops out. Uncle Thomas.

“Where do you want her?”

Giddy with excitement, and as much as I want her set up for the scene now, we have things to do first.

Rubbing my hands together, I reply, “Help me move this shit first. The traitor can wait a little longer.”

13

SID

Car lights are off, and white candles decorate the area as I sit on a red blanket covered in red and black roses. The flickering flames leave shadows dancing on the cement cylinder walls as Uncle Thomas brings the last item out for my audience. Abi.

Everything is set up, waiting for our guest of honor's arrival. Thrown over his broad shoulders, her legs hang tied at the ankles and her body is limp. We have replaced the chains from my last visitor to hooks. Uncle Thomas hoists her up, throwing her shackled wrists on either side of the hook, holding her in place as her feet dangle. He slaps her hard, only once, to wake her. The crack of skin echoes, bringing a smile to my face. Today is a good day.

“Thank you,” is all I say as he walks back into the darkness.

He waves me off, “See you later,” and I know exactly what he is referencing. His vehicle starts, the enginepurrs before roaring to life as he reverses swiftly away, lights still off to not ruin the moment.

Taking a long stem rose in between my fingers, the thorns are sharp as the pads of my fingers dance along the tip of one. Abi’s eyes slowly open, dry coughs follow, then realization washes over her face. Her jaw drops, the self-declared untouchable being has been touched and brought to me for her last day.

“Did you have fun playing your games?” I artfully ask, the question is calculated. Will the truth fly off her tongue or must I force it out of her?

Her voice is growly as she whimpers, “Water.”

Uh, absolutely not.

“Wrong answer. Try again, please.” Because I am not one to be rude, obviously.

Abi coughs once more. “Help.”

My nose turns. Gross. How pathetic.

Bringing the rose to my mouth, I stick my tongue out and press the sharp green thorn into it. It stings, but only for a brief moment, then all I feel is warmth running down my chin. I leave my tongue hanging and as I slowly rise to my feet on the soft blanket, blood begins to trickle down my cleavage and stains the white lace. It’s perfect.

Dropping the rose, it falls next to me as I step forward. Taking the steel folding ladder, which is leaning against the cement wall, I unfold it and place it near the pest, because that is what she is now, a no name, worthless pest.

Carefully my toes curl around each cool step, her eyeswatch my every move and I push my fang into the hole on my tongue to ensure my blood is still freely flowing. When I reach the top step, allowing me to look down on her, the dripping blood falls into her open, dry mouth.

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