Page 236 of Ominous: Part 1
Me: What?
Him: Almost killing you. It’s a rush.
Feelings of pleasure and nerves and fear run through me at once, and so does another feeling. Something I don’t really have the name for. Like I’d bow at his feet. Throw myself on my hands and knees to please him. Do anything he wanted. Anything at all.
I’d degrade myself for him if he wanted it.
In this moment,I adore him with everything I am.
And it’s what makes me type out my next words.
Me: I could never kill you.
Him: I feel the same. But it’s the best part, isn’t it? When I bring you back to life and let you live.
I circle myself faster, tipping my head back, arching my neck. I close my eyes, but it isn’t enough, my imagination. I want to see the knife to his throat. The blood on his skin.
I hold my phone up higher as I buck my hips against my hand.
I see the tendons in his neck. The stark ridges of his clavicle and the shadows beneath.
Then he sends more texts, and they’re enough to drive me over the edge.
Him: I’m hard just thinking about it. Your wide eyes, the way you fight me, but we both know I could murder you if I really wanted to. And that’s just it. I don’t. You’re precious enough for only me to hurt, so I can kiss you all better and have you thank me for every part of it.
Him: If you’re not touching yourself, you need to start.
But I don’t, because I’m gasping, my legs splayed to the side, my aching wrist over my brow, eyes closed as I imagine being held down in the water, his hand over my mouth and my nose, I’ve already finished. It never takes me long with him.
38
Eli
I see Mom.
She’s sitting on the edge of the tub in her nightgown, the water running, but it’s just slipping through the drain.
Her shoulders are shaking, her long, dark hair pulled into a single braid.
I can’t see her face, but I know she’s crying. Even with the hum of the bathroom fan and the sound of the water pouring from the faucet… I can hear it.
Swallowing hard, I step inside the warm room. She keeps a heater by the tub.
Dad told her it’s dangerous.
Mom seems to like dangerous things.
I once watched her hold a kitchen knife to her arm, but when I walked in, her head snapped up and she dropped it. Pretended it was all an accident as she kissed me on the head.
“Mama?” I call softly, one hand still on the silver handle of her bathroom.
For a moment, I’m not sure she’s heard me, but then I realize her entire body has gone rigid.
She drops her hands to her lap, smoothing down the silk of her black nightgown.
Then she looks over her shoulder and rearranges her features into something that’s trying to be nice.
It’s how she always looks at everyone else.
