Page 13 of Dima's Vision
“You know that none of that was your fault, right?”
I put my chopstick down and look at him like he’s an idiot. “Are you saying that it’s not my fault that every single person that comes in long-term contact with me somehow dies through no fault of my own? Dima, look, you’re a nice guy. You’ve known me for what?” My eyes flick to the cuckoo clock on his wall. “Six hours? That is nowhere near enough time to see what type of weird shit happens when I’m around. Just saying.” I shrug, ignoring the pit in my stomach.
I don’t want to be the girl that kills people by osmosis. I mean, I don’t mind killing people for my job, but I don’t want people I care about to die just because they’ve been near me. I shake off the loneliness that creeps in when I think too much about it, and instead eat my feelings because that’s what I do best. Well, that and fuck. I know it’s not a good outlet, but whenyou can’t make real connections with people because you’re afraid they’ll die, short term connection, skin on skin, affection, attention, however fleeting, makes me feel a little less alone.
“Kristie,” Dima reaches his long ass arm across the table, his thumb on my chin raising my face to meet his steely blue gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. My visions led me to you. I’ll save you.”
I give him a tight smile. He doesn’t know it yet but he’ll have to save himself from me. I need to put space between us. After I have him. I want to explore the connection we have, the way my mind quiets when he’s near. I want to taste him, feel him, feel the peace I have with him before I turn my back on him. It’s for his own good.
Taking a deep breath, then blowing it out, I paste a smile on my face. “So, we killing this dude or not?”
He dabs his mouth with his napkin before balling it up and tossing it onto the table. His eyes search mine before he tips his chin. He stands, holding his hand out to me. I place mine in his, ignoring the shiver that runs through me at his touch.
“Let’s do this,Ved’ma moya.”
I follow him out of the room, down the hall. We pass his bedroom. I know it’s his because his unique smell, sandalwood with a hint of tobacco, drifts out of the room as I walk past on my way to look at Glenn’s flabby ass in the air, his taint on show. It’s not a nice sight, and Dima doesn’t strike me as a guy who likes that kind of action, so I know it’s purely for practical reasons.
“Your time has come, Glenn. I want you to feel everything those little girls and boys felt. I want you to feel terror. Pain. Despair. I want you to beg for mercy, for absolution, and know that it’s all in vain.” Dima murmurs, his low voice carrying enough for Glenn to hear his words and tense up.
Dima pulls latex gloves over his large hands, snapping them not as sensory torture for Glenn, but in a practical manner. The same way he covers his short, thick wooden club with lube froma pump bottle. Using one hand at the top of Glenn’s ass he uses his fingers to spread apart Glenn’s hairy ass cheeks, lines up his club and forces it into Glenn’s body. The howl that escapes Glenn bounces off the walls of the home gym room I’m standing in. The mirrors on the walls showing every angle of Glenn’s torture. I should be feeling ill, disgusted, grossed out and yet I’m strangely at ease.
Watching Dima is like watching performance art. He’s beautiful in his brutality, zoning out as if he is nothing more than a weapon of fate. I guess in some ways, we both are.
“Please, stop,” Glenn gasps, his body shaking with pain or fear or something else I’m not inclined to care about.
“Aw Glenny boy, it’s not much fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” I ask him, making eye contact with him in the mirror across from him as I slowly prowl toward him.
Dima removes the club, Glenn’s body slackening in relief.
“I wouldn’t relax too much if I were you,” I whisper in his ear, the stench of his greasy hair making me feel a little ill.
My eyes flick to Dima’s, over Glenn’s limp, pasty body. We hold eye contact as he forces an even larger club inside of Glenn’s body, thrusting it in and out twice, three times before Glenn goes limp, drool dripping from his open mouth, pooling on the floor mixed with his snot and tears.
“Is it done now?” I whisper.
“Da,”he nods once, pulling his gun from the back of his black tactical pants.
“Let me.”
Pulling the concealed blade from my boot I rest it against Glenn’s throat, then in one swift movement draw it across, from one ear to the other, watching as the blood flows freely, pooling on the floor, swirling and dancing. My eyes flutter closed when the whispering starts, Glenn’s secrets pouring out of him.They’re dark, grotesque, and frightening. I can feel every ounce of pain he inflicted in his miserable life, and the glee he took in it.
“Kristie, come back to me,” a deep murmur washes over me, like an embrace and I blink my eyes open, shocked at how close Dima is, how his large hands wrap about my biceps, holding me ever so gently. “There you are,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me closer.
My blade drops from my hand, the metal making a dull thud on the rubber mat on the floor. My arms wrap around Dima’s waist, my face pressed to his chest as I silently cry for those little lives Glenn and his buddies snuffed out. And there are many that went to Glenn for his services. I know their names, their roles. Some of them are part of my family, the Mancini Mafia, others are like me and Dima. Gifted. Or cursed. Whichever way you want to look at it.
Dima gently rocks me, then stands back, holding me at arms length. His eyes search mine, finding whatever it is he was looking for.
“Come, let’s wash his evil off us.” Taking my hand he guides me out of the room, down the hall into the master suite.
He gently closes the door behind us, shutting out the rest of the world along with my common sense and every excuse as to why I can’t keep him.
Chapter 7
Dima
Idon’t say a word as I lead her to my bedroom. The pain in her eyes is raw, I can see her heart ache in her big hazel eyes when she looks up at me, tears pooling once again. What I wouldn’t do to steal her pain away.
I leave her standing in the middle of my room as I move to my bathroom, cranking the shower on and leaving it to heat. She looks so small and vulnerable standing there, gazing at the picture on the wall. Moving to her, I stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my presence, but giving her space to process.
