The Skeleton In Me

Chapter Thirty

Cousin stared at the suffering creature. Bexley was nowhere in sight.

This angered him.

Dropping to his knees beside the animal, he could not fathom touching it. The horrific feeling of fur made him close his eyes and think of anything else that would feel better against his skin. He hated fur. He hated the feeling of any animal at all.

The touch of an animal reminded him of the cats that would force their way into his train car when the door was left open. He once watched a mother cat give birth to kittens right in front of him.

The sounds of its haunting moans of pain fascinated him. It was a good memory to him, at one point, back when he had little experience in the operation of producing life.

Throughout his time free from the circus, he has become bitter about it.

The mother cat was disgusting, birth is a repulsive act, and the way it would rub itself against his legs made his stomach twist in the most horrific way. 

He swallowed hard. His breath becoming rapid, he could feel his blood rush through his body.

Was this a product of his abhorrence to the thought of touching the animal, or because Bexley was not beside it?

The thought of what happened to Bexley was because of this animal angered him even further.

The dog was crying out, clearly distraught about its situation. It was in pain.

He was fucking glad it was.

The dog looked up at him, as if it just realized he was only inches away from it. It attempted to move at him, as if it'd bite him, but of course it couldn't.

It will never bite him. He felt the power of that thought alone. 

It will never bite him, because it was dying, and he was not.

His actions are thoughtless as he wrapped his hands around a rock, and lifted it. When he looked down at the creature he did not see a dog, he saw Mr. Father.

He swung the rock down, hard, as hard as his thin arms could muster. He lifted it, and swung it again, and again, and the blood splattered all over his arms, and face, and shirt and he kept going.

Mr. Father's face was smashed in, no longer resembling the man who withheld him from any form of decency. He no longer looked like a man at all.

His heart was pounding, his fury refused to retaliate.

He will kill the bastard. He will make it hurt.

He lifted the rock again, thrilled to see the smashed face become more and more distorted, but this time, the image of his former captor was replaced with Bexley. 

He gasped, the rock slipping from his hands as he staggered back. This was not possible.

He blinked several times, but she wouldn't go away. Her face was beaten so badly she was hardly recognizable. 

He could not grasp the fact that he did that.

No, he didn't do that.

He did. He absolutely did.

His hands shook as he backed away from her body. His chest ached in a way it never had before. He could not seem to breathe.

Slowly, he inched back towards her body, and reached out. He knew he had to confirm it. He touched her arm gently, and his senses told him it wasn't human skin he was touching, but wet, matted fur.

He blinked once more, and Bexley was gone.

That did not wash away the vile scene before him. It wasn't just the face of the dog that he had crushed to red, bone fragmented mush; it was its chest as well.