Bleeding Expection by Ada Andrews | #TheWattys2023

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

X. S.

The knife blade glistened in the moonlight. I stood opposite the gate of the house that pulsated with life. The buzz of the cars swishing along Kifissias Avenue and the parlous state of the police station in Marousi by the Olympic Stadium were my only company, as I walked in the house. I hid the knife next to my gun. My fingers were ready for action inside my leather gloves. I looked at the cunning tree shadows that flickered in the yard. They got wind of danger long before their owners. I took a sneak peek through the French window: industrialist Igor Balcerzak was triumphantly seated in his living room, the one who took no prisoners and put other famous Greek industry owners to shame. His licentious wife, in a festive short black dress, turned up for a few minutes before she disappeared again. I didn't hesitate. I rang the doorbell. I saw him put his glass of whisky on the table, and come towards me. The door opened.

"Hi, Igor," I greeted him.

"Hi! What are you doing here at this time of night?" he asked in surprise, his forehead wrinkled.

I pushed him in, slamming the door behind me. "I came to get what you owe me. On your knees!" I ordered. Terrified, as he was known for his submissive idiosyncrasy, he obeyed.

I pulled out the gun with the silencer and shot it right in the middle of his forehead. He slumped to the floor, blood oozing from his nose. I bent over the son of a bitch. I slit his throat, sealing his death. I then stabbed him in the heart and rib. My collectible silver CN100 knife turned red like Santorini's famous beach. I marvelled at the big pool of blood, and brought the blade to my lips, licking it contentedly. Disgusted, I spat on his knock-off Armani suit. The wretchedness of a veritable industrialist. I noiselessly went upstairs. I scoured the rooms one by one, until I spotted the nursery. Absolute darkness reigned, except for a faint yellow light coming from the bedside table. As the boys were asleep, I covered their mouths with some chloroform, dragging them into the artificial world of dreams. Now I had plenty of time on my hands to enjoy the best moment of the night. I would have a whale of a time with his licentious wife.

I pushed the bedroom door open with my military boot. I saw her in front of her mirror yanking up the strap of her short satin nightgown. "Now it's the two of us, bitch!"

I grabbed her by the throat, and lifted her like a possessed spirit trapped in someone else's body. "What...what are you doing?" she stammered, gasping for air.

I hurled her against the wall and locked the door. She winced in pain as her body dropped to the floor. A golden bolt of lightning rent the sky the moment I took the small radio out of my rucksack. Vivaldi's masterpiece Storm quenched my dry ears' thirst. I glimpsed at the woman lying on the floor. That room would become her purgatory. I snatched her by the hair, threw her in the middle of the room, and sat on top of her. My CN100 tore her nightgown to pieces. She whined.

"Tell me now, bitch, what's a thirty-five-year-old woman with two children doing with a fifty-year-old Pole who's trampling upon the very country that housed him?" I asked her, my blade stroking her velvet soft cheek.

"Please let go of me," she begged me with a whine.

I pressed the blade and stopped, almost a breath before I cut her skin. "Answer me, you whore!" I ordered.

"I love him," she confessed in fright.

"Love is so weird with you women," I remarked, sliding my knife down her face.

I tilted my head to one side, as the blade tore her skin right on her cheekbones. She cringed, pursing her lips, when she saw her own blood coming out. I rejoiced in its red colour, which coincidently happened to symbolise love. Such a beautiful colour for a misunderstood term.

"You find love in someone who finances you in order to take his dick, eh?" I wondered sarcastically.

I dismounted her. The storm was painting some golden cracks across the sky. The Heavenly Daughter looked exasperated to have been trapped. I opened the window. Vivaldi blared out to join the bolts of lightning. Until the track was over, the debauchee would be done for. The wind froze her naked body, making her shrink. I switched on the hair straightener on top of the dressing table, and lit a cigarette. The procedure was a ritual; it would never change. One cigarette before, one after, and the necessary time.

I took the rope out of my rucksack, the cigarette glowing between my fingers. "Let's see how much you can take for your love," I mocked her.

I went up to her. I yanked down my trousers, put the condom on, and slipped into her. The cigarette ash fell between her breasts. She screamed with pain. "Is that how much you can take?" I asked with disdain, letting the ash sear her neck this time.

"Help!!!" she yelled in despair.

"You whore!" I tugged at her hair, sealed her mouth, and put out my cigarette on her belly. My violent gestures subjugated her. She was unable to resist. I pulled out of her and lifted her up.

I tied her hands to the bed poster. I left her there defenceless and unable to avert disaster. She knew she would die, but she didn't know how and when. That terror in her eyes gave me such a hard-on! I grabbed the hair straightener. I dragged it from the neck all the way to her cleavage and her belly, where the umbilical cord was. Her muscles contorted with pain; she burst into tears, as I burnt her. I enjoyed the climax the specific body part offered me. I snatched the cricket bat I always carried on me, turned her around, and stuck it into her ass. My rage ran riot like a caged beast. Hatred and disgust. She was bleeding. Her head weariedly leant forward.

I stuck it up with my fist. "We're not over yet, bitch!"

I untied her, putting the rope in my rucksack. I hit her in the face, forcing her to open her eyes. I handcuffed her, pulling her body backwards. The bat kept ruining her anus. I slipped inside her again. She became a wooden puppet in my hands. She wouldn't react; she was only bleeding. Her body was loose, light, pliable. I removed the handcuffs and laid her on the floor. The blade pierced through her lungs, blood splattering all over the place; then it punctured her rib, her heart, and every single organ under her chest. I could no longer hear her breathing. I lit my cigarette to put an end to the ritual. I burnt her, leaving a triangle on her chest. The storm outside had let up. I picked up my stuff. It was then that Vivaldi's track was over. Last hurrah for yet another ritual, the storm, and the melody of a legendary classical musician. I jumped out of the window and disappeared.