Page 172 of Phobia
My eyes are wide, blurry with wetness as I stare at… Static.
Static the clown.
His black-painted lips are stretched thin, those long, sharp, white teeth on full display as he holds the bloodied ax head in his hand, sharp edge pressed against his covered palm.
He rotates it, twisting the handle inside my mouth—a mouth far too small for such a large piece of wood. I whimper and blubber, trying to speak around the wood gagging me, my eyes never straying from his white ones.
“What was that?” He presses closer and yanks out the handle. I gasp, splutter, and retch as vomit spews from between my lips and splatters on the worn, shredded, exposed carpet below.
With the strobe flashing behind him, Static comes into view in fractured segments.
A black and white striped shirt with the collar donning his neck… I shiver, my body twitching from the force. His hair is black and thick and pushed up into thick spikes in haunting disarray.
Pants with one half a solid black, the other striped to match his shirt. Thick, black boots with what I think are buckles… I crane my neck, but from the way I’m pinned againstsomething,I can’t make out more than that.
He steps around me, drawing closer. Hot air wafts across my face, and the dampness of my tears only heightens the sensation.
I try to squeeze my legs together against the pressure in my bladder, but it surmounts my capabilities. And the sharp scrape of that blade’s edge against the back of my neck followed by hollowed screams has my bladder releasing.
At first, the warmth is almost comforting against the haunting chill of the room, but then my lagging brain registers that I’m peeing all over myself, and I start sobbing.
They wrack my body. My lungs concave. My ribs protrude from my body. All as my urine streams down and soaks into the carpet. The smell… oh,Jesus,the smell wafts into the air, lingering with the fog.
A deep inhale sounds right next to my ear. A sharp whistling noise. The drag of a nose. A tongue. That ax…
All marrying to demolish my psyche.
Chapter 5
“I can taste your fear on my tongue…” I lick my lips. My tongue grazes the side of his sweaty neck. “And the scent of your piss. Fuck, you’re really scared, aren’t ya?” I throw my head back with a cackle, relishing in the merriment.
“P-p-please,” he begs helplessly, cowering away as my large frame rounds the dolly I have him strapped to.
Strobe lights flash around us, clogs of smoke thick in my lungs as I breathe him in.Allof him.
Ammonia, sweat, and terror.Fuck, that’s good.
“Please what, darlin’? Please don’t cut you with my pretty ax? Please don’t take your blood as my own? Please…”
His eyes are scrunched shut. A weak block of his reality.
It makes my blood thrum excitedly.
His ribs stick out from his midsection, forming a perfect hollow. I swipe the slick handle of my ax along a deep groove, relishing in the way he squeaks and shudders, trying to suck in even more to get away from the touch.
My eyes flicker back up to his mouth. The way his lips stretched so thin, they turned white. His jaw nearly unhinged as it opened wide for my ax.
My gaze drops to the floor, eyeing the small pool of watery vomit. I smirk. Took him longer than I thought.
But let’s not forget the piss staining his legs. The perfect puddle leeching into the paper-thin carpet beneath his feet. Into the wooden slats. The slow trickle as it continues to drip from the steel bottom plate of the dolly.
He’s the perfect victim. Or hewouldbe if…
I step close, uncaring of the piss dripping onto the sleek leather of my boots. They’re waterproof for a reason.
I drag my hand over his bare chest, swiping through the dribbles of vomit and sweat clinging to his smooth flesh. I drag my gloved hand across, ensuring he feels the light scrape of my pointed fingertips as I circle him, round and around.
At first, he tries to follow me. Eyes straining in their sockets as I disappear from sight. Head cranked back, turning left and right, seeking every visible inch I give him.
