Page 2 of Daddy's Muse
“You little—” David sneered, jostling his hold.
“Just let me go,” the redhead pleaded, voice trembling. “Please, Bryan…”
Bryan lifted the can above the boy’s nest of curls, dumping out the rest of the beer on his head. The redhead blinked rapidly, eyes widening and mouth open, unable to form words.
“At least you smell like a man now, faggot,” Bryan seethed. “Fucking ruined my mood. If you know what’s good for you, find someplace else to sleep tonight.”
The redhead’s face creased with worry. “W-wait, but I don’t have somewhere else.”
“You literallyjustoffered to stay out of the room for the night. Bry’s just taking you up on it,” David said, exasperated. He let go of the redhead completely, walking back towards the dorm entrance.
“Get a better attitude before you come back,” Bryan threatened before following his friend into the building.
Since then, it’d been fifteen minutes, but the boy still hadn’t moved, making no attempts to solve his problem.
He just sat there, alone and dripping wet.
Crumpled.
His arms stayed wrapped tight around himself, not for warmth anymore, but out of the sheer need to feel something holding him together. His jaw was clenched, and his legs were pulled so tightly toward his chest that his knees trembled.
I could see now the faint red imprint on his chin where Bryan had squeezed it. And his hands… his hands shook like they wanted to act, to fight or flee or at least wipe away the humiliation still dripping from his hair, but the rest of him refused to cooperate.
And for some reason, I couldn’t look away.
I’d witnessed things far more grotesque than this. I’d seen lives taken, sometimes by my hand, sometimes by fate, and rarely had I felt any pull toward the aftermath. I didn’t waste my thoughts on shattered people.
But this boy… he wasn’t like the others.
There was something raw in him—something unrefined and unguarded. His fear didn’t smell like the usual kind. It wasn’t a fear for his life, not really. It was a fear of being known, exposed like an open wound, and made to rot for someone else’s amusement.
And that stirred something unexpected in me.
Not sympathy, really, but curiosity.
Interest, too.
He was a pretty little thing. Sad. Hurting.
I waited as long as I could, still not exactly sure what made the pitiful boy so interesting to me. There was a sort of ache in my chest as I watched him shudder from the cold.
Part of me wanted to stay, if not just to see if those tears welling up in his eyes would finally fall. But I knew if I spent any longer here, I’d lose my opportunity to catch my prey before morning, so I somewhat begrudgingly rose.
Breathing in the chilly winter air, I took one last glance at the boy before deciding that I couldn’t let this distraction stop me from my hunt.
* * *
A few hours later, I carefully washed the fresh wound on my forearm, my thoughts drifting as I watched my blood drip into the sink and disappear down the drain. I still couldn’t believe that my prey had cut me. I’d never allowed any of my prey to wound me like this. Sure, some of them tried to fight back, but it was never of any use. The most I usually walked away with was some bruises or fingernail scratches.
I blamed the redheaded man from earlier, although I wasn’t sure why he’d even still been on my mind by the time I was standing over my prey, strangling the life out of him. I hadn’t noticed the switchblade.
I hissed softly as the antiseptic stung the slice across my arm. It wasn’t deep—nothing that wouldn’t heal—but it wasinfuriating.I should’ve seen it coming. I always saw it coming.
But tonight? Tonight, I’d been sloppy. Sloppiness had consequences. Consequences that would result in scars.
I stared into the mirror above the sink, watching the crimson snake down my skin. I wiped it away with methodical precision before bandaging the cut tightly and tugging my sleeve down over it.
A quiet laugh escaped me, humorless and bitter.
