Breaking You

by dirtgoth

Summary:

A somewhat grounded-in-canonical-reality imagining of how Art would break someone down to do anything for him and be completely devoted to him.

*Included the non/con warning for the beginning, but that changes up pretty quickly.

**It's more coercion/dubious consent, but I want to be sensitive to anyone who doesn't want to read that kind of thing because it is a little dark for some tastes. Ultimately though, our reader is into Art, just internally, morally conflicted about it.

Chapter 1

Summary:

You have the misfortune of running into Art the Clown while out with your friends. They don't live to tell the tale, but for you it's just the beginning...

Notes:

I like to think this takes place between Terrifier 1 and 2, after Art is brought back from the dead, but before the story line with Sienna. This is my idea of how Art would take you from someone completely terrified and repulsed by him to someone willing to do nearly anything for him.

Here you will find the evolution yourself, the reader, from a person with morals and ambitions into someone broken, desperate and unrecognizable.

Will try to update regularly! (I have this story mapped out, it's just a matter of getting it written...)

“Ouch, fuck,” you curse as sizzling oil from the frying pan jumps up to land on your bare hand. You’re already running late, so bothering to cook an egg seems counterproductive, but you have an exam today and you don’t want to show up on an empty stomach.

You flip your egg and run over to the pile of clothes stacked on your dresser - you don’t have far to go in your cramped one bedroom. Though most of the units in your building near campus are studios, so you consider yourself lucky.

You sift through your clothes in search of a clean top to throw on over your jeans. Appearances have never mattered much to you. You’re one for practicality, keeping your nails trimmed short, your face bare and your hair more often than not, thrown back into a ponytail. You quickly finish dressing and return to your breakfast in the skillet, which you’ve overcooked slightly.

Still, you throw the egg on a plate with some toast and eat quickly, hunched over your Microbiology textbook for last minute studying. It's a required class for your environmental conservation MS, but one you wish you didn't have to struggle through. Once you’ve finished, you cram your feet into your well-worn tennis shoes, pour what's left in the coffee pot into a mug, and head for the door.

Before leaving, you stop at the framed picture you keep of your Mom on the side table near the door. You give the framed photo a kiss and silently ask her for luck on your exam. She passed away 4 years ago from cancer, the anniversary approaching in a few short weeks. You still hold her near and talk to her often as though she were still with you. Her rosary beads lay on the table beside her photo and you give them a squeeze for luck as well.

Once out the door, you walk the few short blocks to class in the crisp morning air, hoping for the best.

***

“It wasn’t that bad,” Sarah says. Easy for her to say. It seems like she aces nearly everything without trying. You fix her with a grimace from across the table.

“Are you kidding,” you retort, “I’m sure I failed it!”

You’re sitting in a crowded bar with your friends on a Friday night. The occasion is supposed to be celebratory, but you’re still ruminating on the disastrous Microbio exam from earlier that day.

“Hey come on, forget about it,” Jen says with a nudge to your arm. “Anyway, I’ve got something that will definitely help you feel better,” she continues with a devilish grin. She waggles her eyebrows at the both of you and discreetly pulls a baggy containing three small white pills from her purse.

“No way, you’re kidding,” you say as your spirits lift just a little.

“Dead serious,” she smiles, her lip ring glinting in the low light of the bar “We’re celebrating tonight.”

“I can’t believe you,” says Sarah, shaking her head and biting back a small smile of her own.

“What,” says Jen, ever the risk taker, “Kyle still had some left over from Halloween - that really good stuff he got, and he let me have it. Sarah, you have to try it!”

Kyle was Jen’s drug-dealing on-again-off-again boyfriend. You didn’t have a problem with him. In fact, you felt that Jen was the one who went hot and cold on him, leaving him guessing where they stood. Jen liked to keep her options open. Jen liked to have fun. And tonight she had scored the three of you some high quality ecstasy to celebrate ever-studious Sarah’s research grant approval.

“You get to go to Greece next month, bitch,” Jen continued while Sarah looked at her, speechless. “We need to celebrate!”

“Okay, twist my arm,” Sarah rolls her eyes. She wasn’t much of a partier, but she could still let loose sometimes. You know how hard she had been working on her research proposal to study Greek funeral practices as part of her Masters thesis on ancient cultures perspectives surrounding death and the afterlife. Morbid stuff, but that was Sarah.

“You deserve it,” you told her, “you’ve been busting your ass to get this.”

“So, you’re in?” Jen asked.

“Oh, hell yeah,” you replied, holding up your drink to cheers your friends. The three of you knocked back what remained in your glasses and left the bar, your night just getting started.

***

“Do you feel it yet?” Jen asked from the front seat of the car. Music played softly from the radio.

You sat in the back, noticing a giddiness bubbling up in your stomach, the hairs on your arms seeming to stand on end and a tightness in your jaw.

“Yeah I think so,” you replied with an easy smile, “What about you, Sarah?”

“I don’t know,” she giggled from the passenger seat next to Jen, “I’ve never done this before.”

“I think you are…”Jen smiled conspiratorially at you and then lunged to tickle Sarah’s ribs. Sarah shrieked and cackled as Jen attacked her sides playfully.

“Stop it, stop it!” she cried, swatting Jen away and trying to catch her breath. Even once Jen had stopped, Sarah continued to laugh, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Yeah, okay,” she conceded breathlessly, “I’m fucked up.”

“Good,” replied Jen, satisfied, “Let’s go for a walk.” Without waiting for either of you to respond, she got out of the car.

Jen had driven the three of you to the huge cemetery on the edge of town. It seemed fitting given the topic of Sarah’s research, and it was also a gorgeous night for early November. The air hung still and heavy, smelling of dead leaves and distant bonfire smoke, some of the day’s warmth still lingering after sunset.

You marveled at the stars above you once you stepped out of the car. The world felt deliciously brand new.

“Hey, come on,” Jen called. She was already walking hand in hand with Sarah ahead of you. You jogged to catch up to them, enjoying the spring in your step and the rush of the night air against your skin.

The three of you meandered through the cemetery, taking in the night, occasionally bursting into laughter at Jen’s stupid jokes or a random noise startling the three of you. The mood was light and carefree, and you had forgotten all about your sinking Microbiology grade.

“So, how do you wanna be buried anyway?” Jen asked Sarah, “Like what do you want to happen to you when you die?”

Of course Sarah had an answer at the ready. “I think traditional Japanese cremation is beautiful,” she replied wistfully. “But I wouldn’t want to appropriate, or like infringe on the practice or anything. And I don’t think my loved ones would be into picking up my bones afterwards… But I definitely wanna be cremated,” she finished matter of factly, then giggled.

You wandered farther down the path, not caring much for their talk of death and burials. After getting a few paces farther ahead, you swore you saw a shadow drift across the gravestones on your left. You froze, hearing Sarah and Jen still laughing behind you. You waited, listening for other noises. That shadow was too large to belong to an animal and you were feeling a little freaked out.

You decided to return to your friends. Rounding the bend in the path to find Jen kissing Sarah up against a tree. Behind them, you could see a figure silhouetted in the darkness.

“Guys,” the pit in your stomach growing by the second, “What the fuck is that?”

“Come on,” Jen laughed. “We’re just goofing around.”

“You started it,” whined Sarah, smacking her on the arm.

“No, look,” you continued once you had their attention. “What the fuck is *that*?”

Jen and Sarah froze once they matched your gaze and saw the shadowed figure moving towards them. The three of you watched in wordless horror as a tall man in black and white clown makeup and matching outfit emerged from the darkness. He was grinning maniacally at your shock.

“Fuck,” Jen breathes breaking the silence.

The clown steps forward, revealing an axe from behind his back. Before anyone can say anything else he lunges and swings the axe, bringing it down brutally into the top of Jen’s skull. She collapses into a heap instantly. He wrenches the axe up with an awful squelch.

You remain frozen in terror as Sarah shrieks and turns to run, but not before the axe wielding maniac takes out one of her legs with a sickening crack. The sight of her blood and her guttural cries of agony make your stomach turn, and you back behind the nearest tree, out of sight.

You can’t make sense of what you’re seeing. The clown takes a knee in front of Sarah and grins into her face. “Please, please, no,” she’s begging and sobbing. The clown's shoulders shake in silent laughter, mocking her.

He stands and takes the ax to her other leg, drawing out another terrible scream. Then he buries the ax in her ribs, cutting her cries short. He hacks haphazardly at Jen and Sarah’s bodies a few more times, though you’re sure they’re dead.

Tears stream down your face and you tremble in your hiding place. You know it’s a matter of time before the killer turns his attention to you. Now he’s crouched over your friends’ bodies, and you’re unable to see what he’s doing. Soon he stands and rights himself, picking the ax back up and beginning his search for you. You hold your breath as he approaches. He stalks menacingly towards the trees where you’re hiding, somehow barely making a sound. It doesn’t take him long to find you.

You stifle a sob as his gaze locks onto you and he approaches ever so slowly, grinning all the while. He puts up a hand and waves his fingers at you, almost playfully. His smile nearly divides his face in two, and you can see the blackened rotting teeth inside his mouth. Still frozen in place, you accept your fate and say a silent prayer.

Once the clown reaches you, he heaves his ax upwards and you’re sure it’s the last thing you’ll ever see. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for an impact that never comes. He stops just shy of your face.

When you open your eyes the clown is doubled over pointing and laughing without a sound. You get the sense that this could be your chance to run, though you aren’t sure how far you could get. As if reading your mind the clown stops his pantomimed laughter and bears down on you, holding you against the tree with the ax to your throat.

“Please,” you cry, tears flowing freely “Why are you doing this?”

You can smell the stench of blood and death on his skin. He leans in closer, showing all his rotten teeth. You shiver and sob, held in place with the heavy ax blade slick with your friends’ blood. The clown gets right up in your face, not even an inch away, and licks the side of your face, cheek to temple. His breath makes you gag. He presses the ax more firmly against your throat cutting off your breathing.

He stops for a moment and considers you. You have no idea what could be going through his deranged mind, and you begin to move your lips in prayer, speaking to your mother, hoping there may be some way out of this. The clown is watching your mouth now, trying to figure out what you’re saying. He holds a hand to his ear and leans towards you in an “I can’t hear you” gesture. He takes some pressure off the blade so you can speak.

“Please, you can let me go. You don’t have to do this,” you begin crying all over again. “I don’t want to die.”

The clown shrugs his shoulders as if to say “So what?”.

“Please just let me live,” you cry, “I’ll do anything you want.” As soon as the words leave your lips you think better than to have spoken them. Why would you say such a thing?

The clown puts a hand over his mouth in shocked delight, tantalized by your admission. Then a whole new kind of darkness floods into his cold eyes. He leans in close again, this time taking the flesh of your cheek between his teeth, biting down hard. He bites a chunk of your flesh completely off and blood pours freely from the wound, which he licks hungrily from your face.

You start to scream, but he drops the ax and clamps a gloved hand over your mouth. You’re surprised by his strength as you try and fail to wrestle out of his grip. He pulls your back from against the tree and braces you up against his body, pinning both arms to your sides. Then he removes his hand from your mouth and presses a fingertip against the wound on your cheek.

You wince at this, giving up on trying to break free. He wrestles one of your arms out of your jacket without loosening his grip on you. With the blood on his fingertip he begins tracing lines across your bare skin.

Despite your terror, you become aware for the first time of the drug still flowing through your system. You grow still at his soft touch, shivering as the clown collects more blood on his fingers and continues to line gentle strokes across your upper arm. The sensation is strangely pleasant and you momentarily forget everything that’s just occurred, floating in a dreamlike haze. His touch mixed with the warm wetness of your own blood feels like smooth electricity traveling across your skin.

You nearly stumble to the ground when he lets you go. Dizzied, you stagger backwards, desperate to put as much space between yourself and the clown as possible as you regain your wits.

He snickers at your off balance flailing. Then he blows you a kiss, winks, and gives you another wave before sauntering off into the darkness.

You look down at your arm to see the word “ANYTHING” standing out in streaked red letters against your skin in the moonlight.

***

Police arrive on the scene quickly after you call them. You’re taken into the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a trauma blanket.

You know the scene is gruesome, though you haven't seen it yourself. The reactions and demeanor of the police and EMTs tell you all you need to know.

“We’ll need to get you some antibiotics. That’s a nasty bite,” says the paramedic assisting you. You feel like you’re floating underwater, barely registering anything that’s happening around you.

You’re bandaged and have your vitals taken. The flash of the crime scene photographer’s camera sends a chill down your spine each time it goes off. A few cops ask you some general questions and tell you they’ll need to take an official statement once you’re checked out in the ER.

You’re whisked away to the hospital in a state of near catatonia. You spend the rest of the night coming down from the ecstasy, hooked up to IV antibiotics, staring at the linoleum floor of the emergency room while chaos continues to swirl around you.

Throughout all of it, the brutal attack replays in your mind. The sounds of your friends' screams and splitting bones trapped in your ears. The smell of death lingers on your skin. You can still feel where the blade of the ax pressed against your neck, and worst of all where the clown traced his sinister message. You swear it feels as though it's burning through your flesh.

ANYTHING.

Why had you said that? But more importantly you were now wondering, why had he taken you seriously? Why hadn’t he brushed that off as the babblings of someone desperate for their life? That’s all it had been after all. And what could that clown possibly ask you to do?

You didn’t want to know. Carefully, you sipped water from a paper cup someone had given you and grimaced. You could still feel his fingers on your skin.

Notes:

Will be posting more soon! Let me know what you'd like to see next from our clown...

Chapter 2

Summary:

Art returns when you least expect it.

Notes:

Some non-con in this chapter, be warned.

You were all over the local news. Every channel was repeating what you already knew. You had been attacked by the Miles County Clown - Art the Clown - and he had murdered your two best friends.

You had given your statement to the police, robotically reciting the events of the attack. They had told you not to worry about the message on your arm, that the killer acts randomly and sporadically in ways that don’t follow a linear train of thought. He likely wouldn’t be back to bother you again.

However, you felt they were just telling you this to make you feel better. The truth is ever since Art the Clown sauntered off into the night, you had felt like you were being watched. Maybe it was simply PTSD but you were on edge and felt that there were eyes on you, especially once you were alone back at your apartment.

You had immediately showered, washing Art’s burning message and the stench of his touch off of your body. Then you proceeded to turn off your phone and sleep for 13 hours.

When you turned your phone back on, you had dozens of calls from classmates and teachers trying to check up on you. You returned the calls and “yeah, uh huh, okay-ed” your way through the conversations dully, thanking them for their concern.

You spent the weekend holed up in your apartment, staring at the TV without really watching it. Unable to eat without hearing the brutal thud of ax blade into bone. Unable to sleep without seeing Art’s face behind your eyelids. You existed as a zombie for the rest of those 36 hours, unreachable to the outside world.

***
Everyone is shocked to see you walk into the lecture hall on Monday. Your professor stops mid sentence and every set of eyes in the room turns to fix on you. Your face still bandaged, eyes ringed with dark circles from nearly no sleep, you find a seat amongst your classmates.

Truthfully, you didn’t know what else to do. You couldn’t stand to sit alone in your apartment another moment, staring at news broadcasts and answering calls of concern. Unable to eat, sleep, or do anything else, you figured you might as well show up to class.

Of course, your professor pulls you aside at the end of his lecture and offers you an indefinite extension on all of your assignments and exams. You’ve basically been given a free passing grade, and you’re certain all of your other professors and adjuncts will follow suit.

Once you make it through the day of everyone’s silent shock and unbearable walking on eggshells around you, you decide to take a walk through the park near campus.

It’s a large park, bordering on being a forest preserve, and being among the trees has always brought you peace. You take notice of the fallen leaves and the brilliant colors of those that still cling to the branches above you. Squirrels busily scavenge and leap from tree to tree, while birds chip jovially all around you.

How could it be that something so horrible had happened to you in the same world that contains this much beauty and tranquility?

The bite on your face still aches. You find a bench and sit down. You pull out a notebook and begin to catalog the different kinds of trees, flowers, and plant life you can see around you - an exercise that has always calmed you. You list oaks and maples and aster and goldenrod and stonecrop.

Your thoughts turn to your schoolwork. You’re more than halfway through your masters program - the most difficult semesters ahead of you. The work that remains to be done on your conservation thesis is daunting, but you suppose it’s a welcome distraction from the terror replaying in your mind. You can’t let that bastard clown sabotage all your hard work.

You don’t want any of this to cost you your normal life. Getting your MS in environmental conservation, working part time at the campus library, tutoring on the side - these were the things you cared about. You would be damned to let that all slip away.

You linger over an hour in the park before deciding to head home. Really, you have nowhere else to go. Besides, your stomach is growling, so you make your way back to your apartment and hope that you can finally keep some food down.

***

“Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it lingerrrrr,” you sing along loud and off key to the music playing from your bluetooth speaker as you shower. You managed to eat a bowl of miso soup, and you’re feeling somewhat like a normal human.

You emerge from the shower, apply your favorite strawberry scented lotion and put on your cozy, charcoal grey bathrobe and slippers. Your plan for the night is to return some phone calls and watch a romantic comedy. Hopefully, you’ll actually be able to get some sleep too.

However, as you leave the bathroom, you freeze in horror. Art the Clown is standing still as a statue in your kitchen, a grin plastered on his face. He had to have picked the lock while you were in the shower; there were no signs of forced entry you could see.

Slowly, Art raises a finger to his lips, making his eyes wide and petting the air in front of him with his other hand as if to hush and soothe you. You break from your frozen terror and run for the bedroom, not really thinking through where you'll get from there.

Art tears after you down the short hallway and catches up to you easily, yanking you backwards by your hair. He drags you back into the kitchen and puts a knife to your neck. You can feel your pulse hammering where the cold, sharp blade meets your skin.

He boxes you in, pressing your back to the refrigerator. You can smell the stench of death on him as he leans in close to you, pressing his face into your hair and inhaling deeply - getting a whiff of your fancy lotion, no doubt. You let out a gasp as he licks a wide stripe up the side of your neck, knife still held firmly in place.

Then without warning, he jerks you around the other way, slamming your hips into the counter’s edge and pressing your face flat on the granite surface. You notice dumbly that you could have cleaned it better.

You shake in fear, having no idea what this clown’s plans are for you. He has dropped the knife and now has a painful fistful of your hair, bracing you against the counter with the weight of his body, while his other hand begins to wander.

He smooths his large hand up and down the plush fabric of your bathrobe, feeling the curves of your shivering body underneath. Art snakes his hand around your shoulder and tugs open the front of your robe, snickering as he does so, leaving your breasts nearly fully exposed against the cold counter top.

You’re entirely aware now of how much larger he is than you, how much stronger. You shake your shoulders and try to gain purchase on the floor with your slippered feet, but he merely presses your face harder into the granite and leans against your hips with his full weight. You feel painful bruises forming where your hipbones meet the counter's edge.

Still keeping his hand on the outside of your bathrobe, he gropes you between your legs. You flinch at his touch as he grabs rough fistfuls of your inner thigh, slowly working his way higher. Art presses his hand firmly against the apex of your thighs, feeling your warmth as he rubs slowly against your folds through the fabric of your robe.

“Please - don’t -” you let you a broken sob. At this he leans forward. With his face level to yours, Art once again places a finger to his lips to shush you. He releases his rough grip on your hair and instead gently runs his fingers through it. You can’t stop yourself from crying.

With the force he’s using to hold you in place, you can feel his erection pressed against your thigh. Your tears fall silently on to the counter and you brace yourself for whatever’s coming next.

Art kicks your feet apart, widening your stance, and flips up the bottom of your robe. Exposed to the cold air now, you feel his eyes on you. Again he presses his body against yours and you can easily feel how hard he is.

Slowly and deliberately he begins to grid against your ass, keeping a solid grip on your hips. The fabric of his costume creates friction as you feel his length pressed against you. You try to squirm, but he seems to enjoy that, sighing and pressing harder into you with your movements. So you give up and lay still as the speed and harshness of his thrusts increases.

You think of Jen and Sarah and you can’t tell if you envy them or if you’re lucky. You bite down on your bottom lip as Art pushes you roughly against the counter top with every thrust. All you can do is wait for it to be over.

Eventually, you feel a warmth spread against your skin as Art’s hips stutter against yours, and you hope it’s finally over.

The clown straightens your robe for you and turns you around to face him. You can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye as he gazes down at you. Again he holds a finger to his lips and then presses it to yours. He takes your chin in his other hand and forces you to look up at him. With his finger to your lips he nods vigorously.

You merely look back and say nothing, your eyes vacant and tear stained. He takes the hand holding your chin and nods your head for you, forcing your agreement to secrecy. Then Art lets you go, pats you on the head and turns to leave.

All the fight is gone from your body, and you simply watch him head for the door, stunned and exhausted. He pauses and gives you one last wave, and covers his mouth in a faux giggle before letting himself out.

You collapse on the floor in disbelief, your plans for the evening now thoroughly derailed. You have a horrible sinking feeling that this nightmare is far from over.

Notes:

More to come soon!

Chapter 3

Summary:

You learn some new information about the Miles County Clown that doesn't bode well.

Notes:

Thanks for reading this far! Hopefully this story isn't moving too slowly, still trying to balance the plot and pacing and get things set up.

After another sleepless night, you’re dead on your feet as you pace through the library stacks, reshelving books. You couldn’t close your eyes without vividly recalling every detail of Art’s visit to your apartment. You sipped some coffee with a shaky hand, and placed the mug back down on the cart you were rolling. You pushed your cart out into the aisle without looking where you were headed and startled as you nearly ran someone over.

“Sorry!” you stammer automatically. You look up to see you’ve nearly mowed down Kyle. He looks equally surprised to see you.

After the initial shock fades, there’s a lingering awkwardness between the two of you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, not sure what to say.

“So,” he breaks the silence, “How are you holding up?”

“Bad,” you reply truthfully. “What about you?”

“Bad,” he copies your answer with an exasperated half smile. You watch his face. He looks tired.

“I, uh,” Kyle continues, “This just, doesn’t seem real.”

“No,” you say, “It’s a nightmare.” And there’s really nothing left to say. You are absolutely living in a nightmare. No one even knows that the clown broke into your house again last night, assaulted you, and swore you to secrecy. You feel like you’re losing your mind.

“I can’t even imagine how you must feel,” Kyle says.

“Yeah uh,” You pause. There’s really nowhere left for this conversation to go. What could you say? ‘Yeah, it was really traumatizing to see your girlfriend get murdered with an ax in front of me.’ This was a situation beyond words.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Kyle says, noticing your discomfort. He pauses, but you can tell he wants to say more.

“Do you think we could talk sometime,” he asks. “I just, I have no one to talk to. This is keeping me up at night. I don’t know what to do.” The words he was holding back came spilling out. “I thought you might need someone to talk to too. I think that could be nice, but I understand if you don’t want to.”

You consider his offer. You do feel on the verge of insanity and Kyle is one of the only people who can even remotely relate to the way you feel.

“Yeah okay,” you say. “Do you want to get coffee later? I’m done here at four.”

“I uh, yeah, it’s a date,” he gives a small smile. “Thanks.”

“See ya,” you say as he heads further down the aisle away from you. You continue to roll your cart of books through the stacks and try not to think of black and white grease paint and the feeling of those hands on your hips.

***

Admittedly, looking forward to meeting up with Kyle did make the day pass faster, though you’re not sure what you’ll talk about. You sip your chai latte as you sit in your chair near the window, anxiously early, and try to brace yourself for anything. Soon you see him enter the cafe. He breaks into a genuine smile and gives you a wave. Once he’s ordered himself a drip coffee, he sits down with you at your table.

“So, things have been rough,” you say, stating the obvious as a way of greeting.

“Yeah, I, like I said, this really just doesn’t seem real,” Kyle starts in. “I mean, I thought Art the Clown was the one that was supposed to be dead, not…” He shakes his head and grimaces at a thought too painful to finish.

“Wait,” you ask, “What do you mean he’s supposed to be dead?” This is the first you’ve heard of such a thing. The police didn’t mention anything to you about Art dying.

“Yeah,” Kyle tells you, “The dude like, shot himself in the head last year when the cops found him. He was supposed to be dead.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say, “I saw him.” Twice. But you leave that part out. Even though you could tell Kyle what happened to you last night, there’s a shifting feeling in your gut that holds you back.

“Maybe he’s a copycat,” Kyle ventures. “Some sicko out there would do something like that…”

“I don’t know,” you’re skeptical. You know who you saw, the sinister presence you felt with you, that wasn’t just some one-off copycat.

“How could he shoot himself and-,” you continue on a new train of thought, “-and still be alive?” The words make no sense to you.

“Supposedly they autopsied him and everything, but then something happened with the body,” Kyle tells you. You wonder how he knows so much about the Miles County Clown. “Like, the body was gone,” he finishes.

“Gone?” you repeat.

“Yeah, gone,” Kyle sips his coffee. “Like, he had an accomplice or something, like, hide his body, or some kind of foul play happened. The guy’s supposed to be dead though. This doesn’t make any sense.”

A pause hangs in the air between you. You swallow hard.

“Like how could this,” Kyle’s voice breaks, “How could this happen?”

You’re hit with a wave of grief for your friends. The enormity of it all, the finality, settles heavy in the pit of your stomach. You’ll never hear Jen’s jokes again, never listen to Sarah humblebrag about her grades. It’s gutting.

“How do you know so much about the killer, anyway?” you ask, steering the conversation.

“One of his victims last year lived on my street,” Kyle tells you, collecting himself. “My mom was like, so freaked out. Majorly freaked out. When they reported he’d shot himself it was a relief.”

“Do you think it could really be him?” you ask. “Could he be back?”

“I don’t see how,” says Kyle, “But you’re the one who saw him, not me.”

He takes another sip of coffee and murmurs, “I can’t even imagine…”

Your chai latte is growing cold. You’ve been unable to pick it back up since the conversation started, your stomach busy tying itself in knots. The sun has begun to set, painting the sky in deep orange and fuchsia.

“Do you want to take a walk with me?” you ask. The coffee shop suddenly feels cramped. “I just need to move my legs.”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Kyle gets up and follows you.

The two of you walk wordlessly across campus for a bit, taking in the last of the day’s sun. There’s a group of kids playing frisbee and plenty of people out walking their dogs; it’s a gorgeous night. Much like last Friday night. You get a shiver up your spine and an eerie feeling of deja vu. You let it pass and shift your attention to the trees around you, mentally cataloging.

“Let’s walk to the lake,” you say. The idea of being near water sounds soothing.

“Sure,” Kyle replies. “I always like going out there.”

You don’t make much conversation while you walk, but it’s nice to have company. You can’t help but feel bad for Kyle. His hair flops in his face and his wrinkled flannel pushes out behind him in the breeze. He looks like a little boy, you think. He didn’t deserve for any of this to happen to him. None of you did.

Once you make it to the lake you sit down at one of the docks. The sun has disappeared and it’s growing dark quickly. There’s no one out on the water, but it’s peaceful. Hearing the waves calms you as instantly as you hoped it would.

“Jen and I used to come out here,” Kyle breaks the silence. Not knowing what to say, you simply place your hand over his and give him a sad half smile.

"We would get high and watch the stars and listen to the water," he continues, "God-" he looks away. "You know, what pisses me off the most, is what that fucker did to their bodies."

"I uh-" you hadn't seen the crime scene photos and Jen and Sarah's families were the ones to identify them. You aren't sure what he's talking about.

"Sorry, I'm sure you don't want to talk about this," he apologizes.

"No, it's okay," you tell him. You notice you never removed your hand from on top of his.

“It’s just not fair,” he says flatly.

“No, it’s not,” you say, staring into the rippling water, “I miss her.”

“I miss her too,” Kyle agrees. “And Sarah,” he says, “I mean, fuck, she was gonna go to Greece. It’s so fucked up.”

The darkness pressing in around you has you feeling a bit more confessional. You’re glad to feel close to Kyle in this moment. It’s the first real closeness you’ve felt since this madness began.

“I haven’t been able to sleep,” you tell him. “It’s like every time I shut my eyes, I see his face. It’s like he’s always right behind me.”

As soon as you finish speaking you swear you hear footsteps coming up the wood planks behind you. You whip your head around to look, but no one’s there.

“Jeez, you aren’t kidding,” Kyle half laughs.

“I’m serious,” your heart is still hammering in your chest, “You didn’t hear that?”

“No,” says Kyle “It’s okay though, if you’re freaked out we can go.”

You aren’t sure what will help you feel less uneasy. You agree that it might be time to go. Before getting up, you lean your head on Kyle’s shoulder and squeeze his hand again. The breeze has picked up in the short time you’ve been sitting out on the water, and you hunch your shoulders against it, starting down the dock.

You still think you can hear something underneath the boardwalk, but you try to put it out of your mind. It’s like a clicking and a rustling…

Then, without warning, you hear a chainsaw rev from underneath where you stand. Before you can process anything, the blade is driven up through the boards between your feet. You shriek and see the panic on Kyle’s face as you both start to run. You don’t get anywhere though.

Art, who had been crouched on the shallow sandbar under the dock, jumps up to greet you with a manic grin. He’s wielding a chainsaw, and you immediately fall to your knees and cover your head, doing anything you can to protect yourself. Art’s not going for you though. He turns to Kyle and rips through his neck, severing his head completely in one smooth motion.

Blood shoots like a geyser into the air, and Kyle’s head thuds and rolls across the dock with a sound you’ll never forget. Next, Art severs Kyle’s arm at shoulder, sending forth another torrent of blood. His body falls slack to the ground. Art is in hysterics laughing at your petrified face. He steps towards you, kicking Kyle’s head into the lake as he approaches.

He crouches down to your level, the grin on his blood covered face making you sick to your stomach. He reaches out and tweaks you on the nose, then breaks into another manic fit of silent giggles. You have nowhere to go. Art is blocking your path of escape - you’d jump into the water, but it’s November and you’d likely freeze to death. Not to mention the killer clown would probably jump in after you.

You stay crouched and shivering while Art stands and makes casual work of dealing with Kyle's body. He produces a length of rope from a black trash bag and ties the chainsaw down to Kyle’s hacked up torso. Art grabs a few more rocks to weigh the body down, and then heaves what remains of Kyle into the lake. He claps his hands together as if dusting them off and turns to walk away.

However he pauses dramatically, turning back towards you and holding up a finger as though he forgot something. Kyle’s severed arm still remains on the boardwalk and Art picks it up, carefully lining something out against the necrotic skin. Once he's finished, he fixes you with a smile and sets the arm down in front of you.

ANYTHING was once again spelled out in blood, this time the message delivered upon dead flesh.

Art gives a finger wiggle wave and manages to quickly disappear from sight with his trash bag. You promptly lean forward and vomit into the black water.

***

 

You return home a haggard mess, disbelief and terror still swirling within you. You don’t feel safe. Calling the police somehow no longer feels like an option. You’ve become entangled with the Miles County Clown in a way you cannot fathom. You are in over your head.

In the bathroom you stare at your reflection. You look like a ghost. It takes all the effort you have to scrub the blood from your face and body. Moving like a shell-shocked zombie, you change your clothes and start a load of laundry. The mundaneness of the activity nearly makes you laugh. How can laundry detergent exist alongside the senseless violence you just witnessed?

You feel with certainty that Art is going to come looking for you again, it’s just a matter of when. When will your paths cross again? You feel absolutely sick with dread. You wrack your brain for answers, for some semblance of security, a way out of this madness, but nothing comes.

Absolutely broken, you kneel down in front of the photo of your mother and sob.

“I’m so scared, Mom,” you tell her. “I don’t know what to do.” You let your sobs wrack your body, shaking you to the core. You cry out in agony for all that’s been taken from you. You sob and scream until your throat is raw and no more tears come. Numb, not knowing what else to do, you pick up your mother’s rosary.

The beads are cool in your fingers, deep red and heavier than they look. You allow the weight of them in your palm to ground you. Slowly you recite the prayers you can remember.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” your voice comes out cracked and broken as more tears threaten to fall, “hallowed be Thy name: Thy kingdom come: Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread: and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

You repeat every prayer you know multiple times. When your lips can no longer move and exhaustion begins to overtake you, you simply clutch the beads in your hands and wait for the light of morning to come.

Notes:

Will likely be updating once a week? but who knows, this story is kind of just flowing. If anyone wants to beta read or give suggestions let me know! (Things will be getting smutty in the next chapter...)

Chapter 4

Summary:

Things continue to get worse for you, and you learn you aren't getting rid of Art anytime soon.

Notes:

Finally some real smut in this chapter, thanks to anyone who's bearing with me on this story so far! Still in the non-con/dub-con territory.

Morning comes and you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. Numbness and stiffness plague your entire body and your eyes burn from lack of sleep. You pace your apartment, getting your blood moving again, and decide to get ready to head to campus like you usually would. You feel as though you’re moving through a dream. You scrub your face, apply lotion, dress yourself, and make it to your lab practicum a few minutes late. You hide in the back, hoping to go unnoticed.

However, there’s no such luck to be had. After the adjunct instructor starts everyone on the lab tasks for the day, he beelines straight for you. He tells you that your academic advisor wants to see you, and that if you’d like to go now it won’t count against you. You figure you might as well get it over with.

Storm clouds threaten overhead as you walk the few buildings over in the crisp autumn air to her office. Once inside, she greets you warmly, and offers you tea or coffee. You decline, already on edge, you decide you don’t need any caffeine. You pick at your cuticles as she settles back into the chair behind her desk, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor.

You’ve always liked your academic advisor, Ms. Greene. She has always inspired a lot of confidence in you. Now she sits behind her desk and gazes at you with soft sympathy through her glasses. You feel as though you already know what she’s going to say.

“Thank you for coming to meet with me,” Ms. Greene begins, “First of all, I want to offer you my deepest condolences. This has been an unprecedented, shocking time for the entire community, but I’m aware of how deeply it has affected you on a personal level.”

“Thank you,” you say, feeling pins and needles dance across your body. Suddenly, you feel very lightheaded. Your mouth is dry.

“That being the case, I wanted to offer you an academic sabbatical for the remainder of the school year. You can take the time you need to focus on healing and taking care of yourself in any way that you need.”

Panic rushes through you. You want to laugh in her face. No amount of therapy or meditation can fix what’s happened. Now she’s trying to steer you away from the one shred of normalcy you still have.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” you tell her. She gives you a look of blatant skepticism. “Really,” you continue, “I want to focus on my school work.”

“I don’t want your studies to suffer as a result of this tragedy. I’m sure you want to push yourself right now, but I strongly advise against it. You’ve already been granted an indefinite extension by all of your professors. I say, why not expand that to a full academic leave. There’s really no need to put yourself through all this,” she speaks in a level voice laced with concern that makes you want to scream.

“But what about the grants I’m applying for?” The deadlines are at the end of the year. She can’t be expecting you to let those opportunities pass you by.

Ms. Greene shakes her head and sighs, “I really think we ought to try for them next year. I don’t think it’s right for you to overextend yourself.”

“I’m not overextending myself,” you insist. “This research means so much to me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m encouraging you to take this break,” she repeats. “I want you to be able to do your best work. It’s not too late to withdraw your name from the grant applications. None of this will be a mark against you at all. These opportunities will still be here for you next year.”

You sit there speechless. It feels as though you’re being forced to endure yet another loss.

“Please, just sleep on it,” Ms. Greene tells you before excusing you from her office.

Instead of returning to class, you walk the opposite direction across campus. You pass by a memorial for Jen and Sarah. Unable to bring yourself to stop and face the photographs, heartfelt letters, flowers and stuffed animals littering the sidewalk, you continue walking towards the library. Rain begins to fall as you walk, and you’re forced to pick up your pace.

You reach the library, only slightly damp, and shiver as you pass through the doors. Ben, another student worker greets you when you walk in.

“Hey, I thought you were off today,” he says.

“Um, no” you give him a confused look, “I’m pretty sure I work eleven to four.”

He matches your confusion and pulls up the work schedule on the front desk computer.

“Yeah,” he informs you, “It looks like all your shifts for the next two weeks have been covered. They must have thought you’d need some time off.”

“Oh,” you reply dumbly, “No one told me.” Or maybe they had. Your phone had been blowing up since Saturday and you couldn’t be bothered to keep up with it.

“Well,” Ben chuckles awkwardly, “You’ve got the afternoon off. You can go do something fun.”

“Sure,” you say sarcastically, gesturing to the downpour outside. You leave him and head for the computers. You decide to make yourself comfortable since you’re trapped without an umbrella for the foreseeable future.

Settling into a seat at the research alcove, you boot up the computer in front of you. It lurches to life with some effort, electronic wheezing and coughing. The library is nearly empty today, though you suppose it almost always is. You’re thankful for the solitude.
You check your email and work on some papers you still need to finish. Though no one seems to care whether you’ll ever turn them in. After working for about an hour, you pause. Something makes you pull up the university’s grant list. “Application deadline: December 31st.” The text illuminated on the glare of the screen stares back at you, and you feel your heart being tugged inside your chest. Are you really going to wait another year?

All you feel is a plummeting sensation. Free falling without a parachute, no sign of where the bottom might be.

Something else overtakes you, and you check over your shoulder before typing into the search bar “Miles County Clown”. Article after article pops up on your screen and you read them all feverishly. “Brutal killings on Halloween” - “Body count rises again in wake of Miles County Clown” - “Two grad students tragically murdered”.

You read about the people he killed on Halloween last year, and how he supposedly shot himself at the scene. You read about the botched autopsy. The coroner ended up dead. Now Art the Clown is back. You read articles speculating as to whether this is a copycat killer. You force yourself to look at all the available crime scene photos, though there aren’t many from the killings a year ago.

Next you read articles about Jen and Sarah. Tears pool in your vision when you see their photos smiling at you on the screen. Unable to stop yourself, you search for their crime scene photos. What had Kyle said about what had happened to their bodies? You weren’t sure you were ready to know what he meant, but you clicked ahead nonetheless.

Black and white scans of the crime scene sprawled before you. You looked in horror, unable to tear your gaze away. Honestly you couldn’t believe that these few photos had somehow made it to public view; they were absolutely horrific.

Even in black and white, the gore of the photos was a lot to look at. Sarah’s intestines had been pulled from her body and shaped into a heart. “Xoxo, Art” was written across her chest in blood. Jen’s split skull was visible in another photo. Her body, though more intact, also bore a message: “2gethr 4evr”. You shivered.

Did he mean Sarah and Jen would be together forever? Maybe at face value it could mean that, but you felt a pit growing in your stomach. Could there be another meaning to the message? Could Art have been targeting you from the start? Is that why he has been showing up again and again?

You close the window and run to the bathroom to splash water on your face. Taking in shaky breaths, you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your mind is just running away with this, you tell yourself. Sarah and Jen had been kissing when Art attacked them. He was probably just mocking them. You collect yourself and head back to get your things.

Ben waves goodbye as you leave, but you walk right past. You hope he doesn’t take your rudeness personally. You just have a feeling that anyone you interact with is unsafe.

***

 

You make it back to your apartment in the evening as the sun is setting. Ready to put this day behind you, you turn the key in the lock and shrug your way through the door. As you hang up your coat, you turn on the light and turn around. You let out a shriek and press your body flat to the door.

Art is standing in the center of your living room. He throws his hands out to the side and waves them in a kind of “surprise” motion while he smiles at you. He walks towards you slowly. Once he reaches you he grips onto you like a vice, pinning your arms to your side.

You flinch and shake, but he’s not doing anything. He’s just looking at you, searching your face - for what? Fear? Something else? What else could there be?

“What the fuck. Do you want?” you bite out through gritted teeth, then kick him hard in the shin. He stumbles and chuckles at this silently as though he liked it, tightening his grip on you.

“I’m serious,” you yell, “What the fuck do you want with me?” You try to wrench yourself from his hold.

In one motion, Art jerks you away from the door and pins you to the floor with his body.

“Get off me,” you plead, with less bravado now. “Why are you doing this?”

Of course he doesn’t answer, just stares down at you. You smell death on his skin, and you notice he already has blood on him. On his hands, his face - the black half of his costume clings to his shoulder, absolutely wet with it.

He lowers his face to yours and licks a stripe up your neck just as he’s done every time you’ve encountered him like this. You shudder and he pulls back, looking at you again. He reaches up and gently runs his thumb over the scar on your cheek, leaving a smear of blood behind, no doubt. He pouts his bottom lip out at you, then he places a small kiss there. You can barely stand the smell of him, the closeness of him.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you feel his bloody hands on you, moving over your body. His hands lift your shirt and you feel his ice cold touch on the bare flesh of your stomach. Then he's pulling down on your jeans. You try to squirm away but it’s no use. In a matter of seconds your jeans are off, thrown to the side carelessly.

With his hands pinning your arms to the floor and elbows spreading your legs apart, he moves his attention lower. You can feel his breath between your legs, then the warmth of his tongue pressed against the cotton of your underwear. Testing your reaction, he circles your clit through the fabric.

Your head spins with the quickness of all of this. He's pinned you to the floor and undressed you before you'd even made it into the apartment. You try not to give any kind of reaction as Art shows attention to the most intimate part of you. After a moment of teasing you through the fabric, he slides your underwear off completely, careful not to let you move, though you feel paralyzed anyway. A shock runs through you as his tongue reconnects with the now bare skin of your folds. Slowly, he circles your clit again and you can feel yourself getting wetter.

He licks over your folds again and again, tasting your arousal. Then he pushes his tongue inside you, and you let out an involuntary gasp. You feel him smile at this. He removes a hand that had been pinning your arm to continue tumbling circles around your clit while he slides his tongue in and out of you. Your body is flooded with warmth and you realize in horror that he wants you to enjoy this.

Art takes his time, leaving no part of your anatomy neglected. Carefully he slides a finger into your entrance and you shudder. He slides his finger back and forth easily before adding another while he continues sucking on your swollen clit. He curls his fingers inside you and you let out a moan.

You can feel an undeniable warmth building in your lower abdomen as Art continues to lick and finger and suck you just right. Your head swims with pleasure. Your face is hot and you feel your thighs twitch as he flicks his tongue over the sensitive nub of your clit once again. His movements are careful and attentive and you feel yourself nearing the edge of release with surprising quickness. How is he so good at this, you catch yourself wondering.

He moves his fingers more quickly now, curling them upwards and hitting the sweet spot inside you perfectly with every motion. His mouth is still on you as well, and you can feel that you’re a wet dripping mess under his tongue. Art moves his head and flicks his tongue in time with the motions of his hand, and you whimper and bite your bottom lip, trying desperately to hold back your orgasm.

He presses his tongue flat against your hot folds, applying pressure while he trusts his two fingers into you even deeper. Then with a few more expertly placed flicks of his tongue, you’re coming undone around his hand, crying out in pleasure despite your best efforts.

Art leans back and watches you, looking satisfied, still fucking you through the aftershocks of your orgasm with his hand. You can’t believe how good you feel. Everything is hot and hazy and you feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

Now, he picks you up and moves you back against the wall. He kneels down on the floor and positions you in his lap, pinned between the wall and his body with your legs spread, straddling him. He has a hungry look in his eyes and your breath catches in your throat.
The next thing you hear is the sound of fabric tearing, and then you feel immediate pressure as he begins to push into you. You didn’t look down, but he feels big. You feel a burn and stretch as he pushes the head of his cock into your walls. Even though you're fully aroused, he has to work to get himself inside.

You grit your teeth against the pain as you feel him straining deeper and deeper within you. Once you feel that his full length is within you, you relax a bit. The burning discomfort soon transforms into pleasure as you feel him begin to move against you. Art puts his hands on your hips and moves you in time with his own motions, grinding your body against his slow, tentative thrusts.

You bite back another moan. The pleasure and fullness you feel is immense. He moves inside you carefully, hitting each delicious, pleasurable spot. He begins to establish a rhythm, lifting you up a bit and letting you fall back down on his shaft with each thrust. You can’t deny how good it feels, and as he begins to fuck you harder, you can’t keep quiet.

You whine and moan, and Art takes the opportunity to place a thumb into your open mouth. He smooths the pad of his gloved thumb across your tongue while he fucks you, venturing deeper towards the back of your throat. He begins to slide his thumb down your throat, your teeth catching on his fist as he blocks your airway. You gag, and Art grins deviously. He removes his hand and takes his now spit-coated thumb down between your legs to rub fast circles over your aching clit.

You cry out loudly at the overwhelming stimulation mixing with the deep, burning pleasure of him fucking into you. Art then wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you down and close against him. He bites down hard on your neck and you stifle a whimper of pain. He ruts up into you even harder as you clench around him.

He continues to fuck you like this, his face pressed into you neck. He licks at the place he bit down and you shiver at the sensation. Then rather suddenly, Art stops his movements and looks up at you. He pulls out of you, and you’re embarrassed to feel what a wet, dripping mess you are for him. He turns you around and positions you on your hands and knees. Though you could try to run, as he’s no longer pinning you in place, it’s the farthest thing from your mind.

Art pushes himself back into you harshly from behind and you hiss and flinch at his roughness. He holds your hips firmly and begins thrusting into you much harder than before, his full length sliding in and out of your dripping cunt. You can hear the sound of your skin slapping against his. He reaches around to rub at your clit again, and your eyes grow heavy lidded and you feel another orgasm building deep inside you.

You’re in utter disbelief that this is happening. All you can do is ride the waves of pleasure that are pulsing through your body as Art does whatever he pleases. You can feel yourself nearing the edge, when he stops again. You look behind you and follow his gaze. You realize he’s noticed the framed picture of your mother on the table near the door. Your heart drops.

Without pulling out of you, he reaches over and removes the photo from the table, placing it facing you on the floor. Then he finds the rosary beads and is especially delighted, a depraved look spreading across his face. He takes the beads in his hand and begins fucking you roughly once again, holding your hair so you’re forced to face the photograph.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and it only makes the pleasure you’re feeling that much more intense. Then you feel a new sensation of pressure as Art teases his thumb over your tight hole. He stops fucking you for a moment, but doesn’t pull out and you feel him wet your puckered hole with his spit. Next you feel the cold, foreign sensation of him pushing the beads inside you one by one. You tremble with disgust while he works them inside you.

Once about half the length of the rosary is inside your tight hole, Art begins fucking you again, holding the other end of the beads in his clenched fist. He thrusts into you hard again and again, hitting your cervix each time. You feel yourself growing lightheaded at the overwhelming sensation. You feel fuzzy and overstimulated and humiliated. Art spanks your ass hard, as though to keep you present.

The sting of his palm mixed with the tension on the beads along with his cock thrusting in and out of you relentlessly form a dark delicious pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. You’re barely holding it together now. Tears form in your eyes as his relentless pace doesn’t let up. The tingling bubble of heat within you builds and builds against the friction of his body against yours. Without warning, Art pulls the rosary from inside you with a jerk that twists deep in your belly.

Before you can do anything to stop it, you’re coming undone around Art’s cock as he fucks you. He feels you clench around him and his pace quickens. You ride his thrusts through your wave of release until you feel his hips stutter against you and you realize he’s finished deep inside you. You feel the warm wetness of it slide down your thighs as he pulls out of you.

You pant and gasp as you come down from your high. Art stands over you, and crouches down to give you a grin. You scramble for your jeans and try to cover yourself, but he just chuckles at you and waves his hand as if to say don’t bother.

He picks up his trash bag and turns for the door, but pauses to kneel down and give you one long, lingering kiss on the mouth, holding your chin in his hand. He tastes like cold grease paint and subtle decay. Then gives you a gentle pat on the cheek and leaves.

You stared down at your mother’s rosary, covered in filth and cum and felt absolutely disgusted with yourself.

Notes:

If you've been reading, thanks so much! Please leave a comment and lmk what you think!

Chapter 5

Summary:

You attend your friends funerals, and tension continues to rise as you feel you're being watched.

You sleep for the first time all week, as exhaustion finally takes you over. The clown is in your dreams. He’s touching you, licking you, doing all things he did to you on the floor of your apartment and more. Only this time you're in a bed together, and you aren’t putting up any kind of a fight. You’re encouraging him. You’re reveling in it.

He bites down into your flesh. He pulls your hair. You suck on his fingers and dig your nails into his back. You cry out in ecstasy. It all folds over on itself and replays again and again. Electric pleasure flows through you, and you feel as though you’re one body with him. You don’t want it to end.

You wake up slick with sweat, heart racing, wet between your legs. Hot shame pulses though you at the realization of what you’ve dreamt. You feel somehow responsible and sick to your stomach.

You take a cold shower and scrub yourself thoroughly to banish the dream.

Once out of the shower, you busy yourself with making a pot of coffee and turning on the TV for some background noise. You put your dishes away, and finish the other chores that went neglected last night. Without much success, you try to push away your feelings of shame and disgust. You’re still sore between your legs, and you have a large, tender bruise on your neck where Art bit you.

Once the coffee is brewed, you pour yourself a mug and sit down in front of the TV, still in your bathrobe. There are no classes today because Sarah and Jen’s services will be this afternoon. For now, you will yourself not to think about it.

You flip absentmindedly through a book and sip your coffee, not paying much attention to the TV, until a news bulletin captures your focus.

“A local university student, Kyle Whitwell, has been reported missing-”

You freeze. Does anyone know you were the last person to see him alive? How long until the body in the lake is discovered? Are the police going to question you again? Should you tell them what you know?

“-Whitwell was last seen on campus this past Tuesday evening. Anyone with information regarding the disappearance is encouraged to come forward.”

It’s not clear what you should do. You feel an enormous grief in your chest. You also feel guilty that Art has let you live, as though you don’t deserve it. You feel revolted with yourself that the same monster who ended your friends’ lives could have brought you so much pleasure. You’re terrified, though, that if you come forward and say anything your fate will be the same as theirs. You feel like a despicable coward.

A knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts. You get up to answer it.
At the door is your Aunt Margaret, wearing a look of concern. You are tempted to shoo her away, convinced Art could show up at any moment and kill her in cold blood.

“Hey sweetie,” she says warmly and wraps you in a hug. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve just been so worried. I had to come check on you. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you apologize. You let her in, feeling exposed, as though you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Though there are no visible signs of the obscenity that occurred in your apartment last night, it feels obvious. You quickly cover the bruise on your neck with your hair.

You allow your aunt inside, and the two of you sit on the couch together after you grab her a cup of coffee.

“You’re going to the services today, right?” she asks you.

“Yeah, I’m going,” you assure her.

“Good,” she says. “I can come with you if you need some support.”

“I don’t know,” you manage, swallowing down some coffee. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“I just feel like you’ve been alone through all of this,” Aunt Margaret fusses over you. “I want you to know I’m here to support you if you need it.”

“Thank you,” you tell her. A few moments of awkward silence pass between you.

“You know,” you say, overtaken by a sudden braveness, “one of my classmates is missing. I just saw it on the news.”

“Oh my goodness, what?” says Margaret in disbelief. “Does anyone know what could have happened?”

“No,” you lie, “no, I don’t think so. But I’m worried.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to worry,” Margaret says, patting you on the leg. “The police will sort it out.”

“I just,” you begin, struggling with your words, “I’m scared. I feel like I’m being watched.” The confession falls out of your mouth and hangs heavy in the air between you.

Aunt Margaret looks at you with fresh concern.

“Sweetie, I know you're scared, but no one’s watching you,” she assures. “The police are going to catch whoever attacked you, okay?”

You swallow hard and nod.

“You can stay with me if it will make you feel better,” she tells you.

“I, um, I’ll think about it,” you say. “Thanks.” You feel without a doubt that staying with your aunt would spell certain death for her.

“Honey, it’s gonna be alright,” she wraps you in a tight hug, and you fight the urge to cry.

 

***

 

You go for a walk with still a few hours to kill before the funeral services begin. The winding trails of a park near your home bring you comfort. You ended up telling your aunt not to worry about you. The two of you made a bit more awkward small talk before she left, telling you she’d see you later this afternoon.

Truthfully, you’re procrastinating getting ready for the funerals. The finality of Jen and Sarah being mourned by everyone you know - closed casket, at that - and then buried in the ground is too much for you. How could it be that not even a week ago they were still alive? A week ago things were still normal.

You walk for a long time, until you feel yourself growing tired with hunger. You stop to pick up a sandwich on your way home and decide to sit in the sandwich shop to eat it - prolonging your return to your apartment and your reckoning with reality. You’re surprised by your own appetite. This is the first real meal you’ve had all week, and it leaves you feeling much better off.

When you return home, you notice an envelope has been slid under your door. Picking it up you can immediately tell where it came from, and your pulse quickens.

“XOXO” stands alone on the outside in red.

You open the envelope and inside you find a small silver bracelet. You recognize it as a bracelet Sarah always wore. It wasn’t just the same bracelet - it was her bracelet. You knew without a doubt. You nearly heave up the sandwich you just had.

Why the fuck was he tormenting you like this? What was this supposed to mean? Art had to know that the funerals were today. The whole town knew. Was this his sick way of telling you that he’d be there watching? That’s how it felt.
With no more time to waste, you get yourself ready to go out. Black wasn’t required attire for the funeral services, it had been announced. Rather than being a mourning of their deaths, this occasion was meant to be framed as a celebration of their lives. The families had requested that attendees wear bright colors.

Still, you pulled a black dress from your closet. It was the only thing that felt right. You couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate anything. There was no room for hope in your heart. Along with your black attire, you wore Sarah’s silver bracelet.

 

***

 

The funeral was brutal.

Sarah got her beautiful urn, and Jen had a closed casket. Their families wept at the front of the room while guests swarmed them with condolences.

The ceremony had been gut-wrenching. So many people got up to speak, delivering tearful speeches, heartfelt anecdotes and grief spilled over these girls’ futures cut short. You had stayed in the back, said polite hello’s, and accepted hugs from those who approached you. Mostly you just tried to pretend you were somewhere else. The stuffy smell of the funeral home was suffocating, and you felt out of place in your black dress.

You felt marked like a beacon of sin in your black attire amongst a sea of color - the lone survivor, the one who didn’t deserve it.

Now the procession has moved to the cemetery for the burial. The very same cemetery Sarah and Jen were murdered in just one week ago. Something about that seemed wrong to you.

The air felt tainted. You felt like Art was watching you. You scanned the horizon against the overcast sky for him, looked deep into the trees on the periphery of the gravestones. Of course, though, you’ll only see him when he wants you to see him.

As the service ended and everyone dispersed, you found yourself drawn to the pastor who had officiated the services. You approached him cautiously, like a frightened animal. He turned to you and greeted you with an openness that made you want to turn around and head for the hills.

“How are you, dear?” His voice is placid and fragile.

“I - I need to ask you,” your palms are sweating and you feel frantic. “How do you know…that, that they’re in heaven?” He pauses and regards you with care.

“It’s simply where we put our faith,” he tells you serenely. “We know they walk with the Lord because we believe, and we know it in our hearts to be true.”

“I just -” tears sting your eyes, “I need to know why I’m still here,” you stammer with urgency.

“Oh, dear,” you can hear the sorrow in his voice, “That’s something that can only be shown to you. Your purpose here is yours to find out. You can only trust and let God lead you to it.”

“But,” you begin. But what if you’ve never felt farther from God in your life? What if the devil has made it his mission to stalk you while you sleep? What if you feel sin within you, and you don’t turn away?

“My dear child,” the pastor interrupts your thoughts, “the Lord is most certainly with you.”

As he’s speaking to you, you swear you see a flash of black and white in the trees. You lose the conversation completely, and scan your periphery for movement. The trees rustle again and your heart rate picks up.

“He’s with you even in your darkest moments,” you hear the pastor saying. The world is spinning too fast. You have to move your feet.

“I, uh, thank you, Father,” you manage.

“Of course, my child,” he nods warmly to you. “Know that you are blessed.”

You decide to take that for what it's worth, and head straight for the movement you’re sure you’d seen. Crunching through the fallen leaves, you reach the outcropping of trees along the edge of the cemetery. Your legs feel unsteady, and you look around to make sure you're out of earshot of the funeral goers.

“I know you’re here,” you call out accusingly, trying to sound brave.

The trees rustle with the wind around you, and you turn in circles, desperate not to be caught off guard.

Art appears behind you, and you startle when you see him. Something stirs within you when you look at him this time. You feel unclean and ashamed, but still a warmth burns beneath the mire of your guilt and confusion. The impulse to cover yourself arises when you feel his eyes on you. You take a sure step towards the clown.

“Why are you here?” you ask him, working hard to keep the tremble out of your voice.

He covers his mouth with both hands as though trying to keep a secret, and glances quickly from left to right. Then he notices you’re wearing Sarah’s bracelet and points excitedly. Instinctively, you cover your arm.

“Why did you give me this?,” frustration builds in your voice, “Why are you watching me?”

Art clasps his hands together and kicks up one leg behind him, acting bashful. He blinks up at you through his painted eyelids and smiles coyly.

“What-” you murmur, stepping closer.

Then he points at himself, draws the outline of a heart on his chest, and points to you, pressing the end of his index finger squarely into your sternum. His touch is cold, but it burns you all the same.

“No,” you tell him. “You don’t love me. You’re disgusting.” You’re yelling at him now. All your fear is gone, and what remains is your grief, anger and agony. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t know why you chose me to torment, but this has to stop. I don’t want to play your sick game.”

Art is watching you tell him off, pouting his lip and acting hurt by your words. You fix him with the coldest glare you can manage.

“I’ll make sure you get caught,” you tell him in a low voice. At that, his mouth forms a surprised “O” and he snickers into his hand. Then he points off into the distance, as though there’s something behind you, and runs off when you turn to look. How he’s able to disappear so damn fast, you’ll never understand.

You feel a mix of emotions as you head out of the woods. Pride, for having stood up for yourself, but also a sick, sinking shame at your connection to this murderer. You feel vulnerable and embarrassed by your body’s automatic response to his presence. The way that warmth had bloomed in your chest when he looked at you. What the fuck was wrong with you?

As you follow the stragglers out of the cemetery, you’re approached by a man in a police uniform. You recognize him as the same officer that took your statement the night of Sarah and Jen’s murder. Time slows down. Something seems odd about this.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you like this,” he tells you with a straight face, “but if you wouldn’t mind coming with me. We have some questions for you about Kyle Whitwell’s disappearance.”

Notes:

Kind of a slower chapter, but thanks for reading! Wanted to get this one up so I can get into what's next!

Chapter 6

Summary:

You try to help yourself, only to fall deeper into darkness.

Notes:

Hope you enjoy this tension and smut filled chapter!

The recycled air drifting in through the vents at the police station is frigid despite the temperature outside being so cold. You shift uncomfortably in your folding chair and shiver. They’ve taken you back to a sparse interrogation room. You nervously chomp a piece of gum and wait for someone to enter the room. Through the small window of reinforced glass cut out of the door, you can see the glow of a vending machine. The ticking of the wall clock above you is deafening in the silence.

The door opens abruptly and two men shuffle inside - the officer you’ve already spoken with and a handsome, clean shaven man in plain clothes.

“Thank you for cooperating with us,” says the plain clothes man. “I’m Detective Ward.” He reaches out a hand to shake, which you accept limply.

“We’re just here to ask you a few questions,” the officer speaks this time. “You’re not under suspicion of anything.” You nod your head in understanding.

Detective Ward takes the seat across from you at the small table in the room. He smells warm and cinnamony. Your nerves are frayed, but his presence steadies you a bit. The officer hovers behind Detective Ward with crossed arms.

Detective Ward clears his throat before he speaks. “We understand you were one of the last people to see Kyle Whitwell alive,” he states plainly, cutting to the chase. “Can you describe for us the events of this past Tuesday, November the 12th?”

“Yeah,” you cross and uncross your legs, finding it impossible to get comfortable. “I did see him, we had coffee together.”

“And where was this?” the detective asks you.

“The coffee shop on campus… Kyle, he had wanted to talk to me because, well you know, his girlfriend was one of the people killed.” You decide to give more information. Detective Ward makes a note.

“Yes, Jennifer Kaufman, right?” he asks you for confirmation.

“Yes.”

“Was Kyle acting particularly upset or strange when you spoke?” the detective continues with his questions.

“Well, of course he was upset,” you say, “but nothing out of the ordinary. We talked about Jen. How much we miss her.” You're careful to use the present tense.

“Did the two of you go anywhere else after you had coffee?”
Your mouth goes dry. You had expected him to ask this, but you hadn’t decided your response. There was a strong force tugging at your heart, willing you to tell them everything. You wanted to be able to hand this situation over to them and have it all be fixed instantly. But you knew it would never be that simple, and you worried a confession would doom you entirely.

“We uh, we went for a walk,” you say. Detective Ward jots more notes.

“Where did you walk?” he asks you.

You told Art you’d have him caught. This is your chance to confess everything. You need someone else on your side; you know you can’t face him alone. But still, the feeling of his hands on you lingers, making you squirm. You know he could do so much worse. Caught in a cold steel vice, your heart clenches.

“We walked to the lake,” you tell Detective Ward. “We sat on the dock while the sun was setting and we kept talking.”

The closer you get to admitting the whole truth, the more it begins to feel like a freefall to certain death. You draw in a deep breath.

“Okay, and when you finished talking you went your separate ways? Or did you walk back together?” Detective Ward chews the end of his pencil. His eyes are a warm chestnut brown. You desperately want him to be able to fix this for you.

“No.” you say. “We didn’t leave together.”

“Who left first?” the detective asks.

You can feel the frigid ghost of Art’s hand clenching around your throat, but you decide to speak all the same.

“Kyle never left,” you admit.

“What do you mean,” Detective Ward leans forward in his chair. Suddenly, his demeanor shifts intensity and he’s laser focused on you. The officer behind him gives a look of confusion.

“He never left,” you repeat, “because he was killed there.”

“He was killed?” the detective asks incredulously. “And you know this for a fact? Did you see this happen?”

“Yes,” you say, and suddenly tears are streaming down your face. “I saw it happen. It was the same person who killed Jen and Sarah.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” the officer asks accusingly.

“I was scared,” you’re shaking with sobs now.

“It’s okay,” Detective Ward tells you. “What matters is that you’re telling us now. It makes sense that you’re scared, but we’re here to help you.” Then he turns to address the officer behind him, “Please, get her some water.”

You're treated to a styrofoam cup of tepid tap water while you retell the horrific events of Kyle’s murder to Detective Ward. He takes note of everything and is surprisingly kind and attentive to your fragile state.

“Okay,” he says once you’ve gone over the details to his satisfaction, “We can say for damn near certain that this is the same killer. We’ve got a pattern established in some ways. You were present for all of the murders, so there we have a reliable witness.”

“I think he’s watching me,” you blurt abruptly. “He left me this.” You hold up Sarah’s bracelet on your wrist. The detective looks at you inquisitively.

“It was Sarah’s,” you explain, “She always wore it, including the night she was killed. Someone left it at my door with a note today. It had to have been him.”

“Yeah, I would say you’re probably right about that,” Detective Ward agrees as he finishes writing everything down. “What we don’t know yet is why he’s targeting you. Do you feel safe inside your current residence?”

“No,” you answer honestly, though you decide to leave out the details of Art’s other visits to your apartment.

“Is there anywhere else you can stay for a while? We can make sure we have eyes on you.”

“Um,” you hesitate to bring your Aunt into this. You still aren’t certain the police will have this handled, though you want to believe it. “I can do some asking.”

“Okay, good,” he says. “Let us know where you’ll be and we’ll have officers watching the house, and if he contacts you again, tell us right away. We’re on this, okay?” He sounds so self assured. You try to match his confidence, but it feels like a pair of shoes that don’t fit right, uncomfortable, constricting.

You thank Detective Ward and leave for your apartment.

 

***

 

On the drive home, you call your aunt. You decide not to tell her that you talked to the police because you don’t want her worried about you. You do ask, however, if she still has her old camper.

“I just wanna get a break,” you tell her. “I think it would be nice to stay somewhere else for a while, out in nature. Just to clear my head.”

“Oh sure, sweetie,” Aunt Margaret says, receptive to your idea, “it’s still parked on the empty lot across the street. Would you mind keeping it out there? I haven’t done any maintenance on that thing in years. I don’t want it breaking down on you if you try to take it somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” you tell her. “I just need a change of scenery.”

“Oh, that’s great sweetie,” she agrees, “I think you do too. It will be nice to have you nearby. You can always come up to the house if you need anything, and stay as long as you like.”

“Okay, thanks,” you say. “I’ll get some things together tonight and be out there tomorrow.”

“Sounds perfect, dear. It’s Saturday, so I’ll be around all day. Anytime you decide to come by will be great.”

“Alright, thanks again.”

“Of course, sweetheart. See you soon, love you.”

“Love you too, bye.”

Back at your apartment you find yourself paralyzed by the daunting task of packing your things. Everything feels as though it’s moving too fast. You can’t believe you're essentially going into hiding from a killer clown. Even though you told the police nearly everything, you can’t help but feel that Art still has the upperhand somehow.

A wave of grief for your friends swells in your chest. Jen, Kyle, Sarah - who else will die? You find yourself staring into a box of old photos. A photo of all four of you together at the lake pierces you through the heart. The life you once had feels so far away. Anger rises within you to accompany your grief.

You get up and move to the kitchen, digging through your cabinets until you find a bottle of wine. Desperate to quiet the emotions swirling within your body, you pour yourself a large glass. It sits in the glass red and thick like blood. You throw your head back and gulp it down without caring.

In the bedroom you throw clothes into a duffle bag, keeping your glass of liquid fortitude close at hand. With each piece of clothing that goes into the bag, you swallow down another mouthful. Soon your head is spinning. You move back to the stack of photos, pulling each image of Sarah, Kyle and Jen from the box. You place them safely inside the cover of a book and tuck that in the bag as well. You empty your glass down your throat and head to the kitchen to refill it.

You start on your second glass of wine as you collect toiletries from the bathroom. Upon picking up your grey robe, you can’t help but remember the first time Art was in your apartment. This prompts you to drink more. You gather shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant - adding each item to your duffle bag. Next you retrieve your textbooks and notes. You stand back to survey your work and to take another sip from your glass. To your surprise, it’s already empty.

You decide to abandon the glass altogether and go straight for the bottle as you continue your packing. You stop in front of the framed photo of your mother. With shaking hands you pick it up and clutch it to your chest. The tainted rosary beads seem to taunt you with a salacious glint from their place on the table.

“I love you, Mom,” you tell the photograph, and you take another hefty swig from the bottle. Your vision begins to swim with tears and drunkenness as you look down at your mother’s face. “I don’t know what to do,” you murmur. “I don’t think I’m safe.”

You pack the photograph away, leaving the rosary behind. You can hardly bear to look at it. Exhaustion is beginning to over take you, and you flop down on the couch with your bottle of wine. You turn on the TV and stare blankly. Flipping past news bulletins about the search for Kyle and a manhunt for Art the Clown, you settle on an old TV game show. The nostalgic rerun is comforting and you finish the bottle of wine on the couch before falling into a dreamless sleep.

 

***

Morning comes and you awake with a pounding headache and no memory of passing out on the couch. After brewing a pot of coffee, you load your things into your car and head to your aunt’s trailer. It’s a gorgeous day. The air is light, and the sun paints everything golden.

Aunt Margaret helps you get settled in and you do your best to hide your hangover. Once you’ve finished getting situated, you give Detective Ward a call to let him know where you’ll be staying. Then you spend the afternoon holed up in the trailer reading and napping intermittently.

Sometime past two, you’re awoken by a knock on the trailer door and you get up to answer it. To your complete surprise, Art the Clown is standing at your door wearing his usual smile. He pushes past you before you can do anything to stop him.

“No,” you say, “No, you can’t be here. How did you find me?”

Art just shrugs at you and continues grinning mischievously. He heaves his trash bag up onto the small table of your breakfast nook and begins rifling through it. He produces some rope and steps towards you with a gleeful shimmy before wrapping it around your shoulders. Art makes quick work of trying your arms to your sides. Then he finds a roll of duct tape and tears off a segment with his teeth, placing it over your mouth. You doubt you would have yelled for help anyway. Pushing you down onto your pullout couch, Art then ties your legs together using more rope. You try to kick him away, but it’s no use.

Leaving you immobilized and unable to speak, Art returns to his trash bag, busily searching for something. He pulls out a knife and taunts you with it, using the tip of the blade to push your hair behind your ear. Then he positions the blade behind your ear and acts as though he’s thinking of slicing it off. You tense at this and Art giggles. He continues to loom over you and threaten you with the knife, you aren’t sure where he’s going with this, but you get the feeling that he wants to take his time.

Suddenly, you hear a car pull up, and you strain to see out the window next to you. Art follows your gaze and you both see a police cruiser parked idling outside your trailer. He drops the knife and to your shock quickly turns to pull a gun from his black trash bag. He points it between you and the car outside, silently willing you to understand his threat with wide eyes.

Then, Art rushes to your side and unties you one handed, keeping the gun trained on you. He sits down and pulls you into his lap.You feel the barrel of the gun pressed under your chin, angled forward. A shot meant to maim, not kill. Message received.

Something seems off. He should be laughing with silent glee, ready to pull the trigger, but Art’s face is serious for once, and it chills your blood. You lock eyes with him and you swear you feel a near, imperceptible tremble in his arms that grasp you so tightly. It’s as if he doesn’t want to have to do this. His intense stare is willing you to comply, which would already be enough on its own, but the gun poised to blow your jaw clean off seals your decision.

You hear the engine of the police cruiser cut off and the door slam shut.

Art abruptly lets you go, pushing you as he does, and you stumble shakily to the door of the trailer. With a grimace you pull the duct tape from your mouth and look to Art, sitting straight faced on your couch with a loaded gun. You crack the door and see Detective Ward standing outside.

“Hey,” he says, “I hope you’re doing alright. I just wanted to come by and check in.”

You step out of the trailer and shut the door behind you quickly, trying to hide the tremor in your hands. You know that if you try anything it's a swift and certain death for you and the detective.

“Thanks,” you force a tight smile. “I’m alright.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it out here,” he says. “Hopefully this will keep that lunatic from bothering you any more. We’re going to keep an eye on your apartment to see if he tries anything else.”

“That sounds good,” you say numbly, maintaining your vacant grin. “I appreciate you stopping by.”

“Of course,” says Detective Ward. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Adrenaline courses through your veins. You look over your shoulder and see the blinds shift where Art is watching from inside.

“No, I’m alright,” you insist quickly. “Thanks again.”

“Well, okay,” he says, “Let us know if you need anything at all.”

Your heart sinks as Detective Ward turns to leave. You wish he had noticed something was amiss, that he could somehow see Art beaming with delight just on the other side of the trailer’s walls. A presence so sinister is one that should be able to be sensed a mile away. But the detective simply gets back inside the cruiser and gives you a wave as he pulls away. You feel a bubble of relief surface for him amidst the black dread swimming in your chest.

Once inside the trailer, you're immediately face to face with Art. He takes your face in his hands and leans in close to you. He presses his forehead to yours and pauses, taking all of you in, your warmth, your smell, the beating of your heart. You shiver at the stillness of the moment, the whiplash of it rendering you immobile. Your heart hammers in your chest.

Then Art throws you backwards, and you skid across the floor trying to catch yourself. You regain your balance to stand, and he’s on you again with the gun. He stands close enough to touch you, but doesn’t reach out. Instead he takes aim at your left leg. Your eyes are glued to him, waiting for his next move as you tremble. Slowly, he moves around you and takes a seat on the couch, gun still trained on you. With a grin on his face and dark lust in his eyes, Art beckons you toward him.

You obey, and when you reach him he puts a hand on your shoulder, lowering you to your knees. The barrel of the gun kisses your temple. With a light dancing in his eyes, he reaches across with his free hand to retrieve his knife. First he traces the blade delicately across your cheekbone, laughing as he does it. Then you hear fabric tearing, and he exposes his full length to you.

Seeing it up close makes your stomach somersault. You knew it was big, but this further confirmation of Art’s size leaves you dizzy and intimidated. It’s obvious what he wants you to do. Still, you hesitate. He twists the barrel of the gun to remind you of its presence, and leers down at you. In his opposite hand he still clutches the knife, resting it on this thigh. You look up at him, and he gives you a nod of encouragement.

You sit forwards on your knees and take the head of his cock into your mouth. You suck him into your mouth and taste his slit against your tongue, already slick with precum. You suck his tip gently and you feel more blood rush to the head of his dick in response. Art puts the gun down and places his hand on the back of your head. You feel the blade of the knife press into your neck.

He pushes you down around his length slowly, and you take him into your mouth. He grips a handful of your hair and moves your head up and down, taking his time. You can’t help but slide your tongue along the underside of his cock as you try to ensure that you can breathe, and you feel him twitch. He begins slowly thrusting up into your mouth, the knife still held firmly to your neck.

To your complete horror and mortification, you feel yourself getting wet. The weight of him on your tongue, filling your throat more and he presses you down farther with each thrust, is causing a familiar heat to build within you. Your jaw strains and your eyes begin to water. Still the pulsing between your legs persists.

Art presses your head down seemingly as far as he can, burying your face in his lap, and begins fucking up into your throat. You drool around his cock as you try to relax your throat to stop from gagging. Being used like this has your cunt pulsing with need, and embarrassment arises alongside your arousal. He continues to fuck your throat, putting the knife down so he can pull you closer to reposition you. He pulls you towards him and tilts your head forward so you can take as much of his length as possible.

He pushes you down onto the base of his throbbing cock and holds you there. Then lifts you off slowly, keeping you poised on his tip. Near automatically, you look into his eyes and swirl your tongue over the head. Art shudders at this and the lust in his eyes reignites. He stands and drags you with him as he presses you against the wall, still crumpled on the floor beneath him.

Art takes a moment to position you and himself, before he starts properly fucking your face. One hand on the back of your head, the other around your throat, he thrusts himself in and out of your mouth faster than before. All you can do is look up at him and relax your throat to take him. Something has come over you, and you no longer feel the urge to fight him off. Lust has overpowered your senses.

He looks down at you with a hunger like you’ve never seen, and you moan around his length, causing him to pick up his pace even more. Drool runs down your chin. You’ve never felt so much like a toy to be played with. Tears slick your face as Art uses you for his pleasure.

After a few moments of him roughly fucking your throat, he seems to grow tired of it. He pulls out of your mouth and rubs his hot, spit-covered cock against your face. You feel drawn to him in a way you can’t explain. Art picks you up from the floor and moves you over to the couch. You go willingly.

He places you in his lap, facing away from him and quickly rips off your jeans. Immediately his hand is between your legs. When he feels your soaked panties, he raises a hand to cover his mouth in mock surprise. Then he laughs at you, his body shaking silently as he works his hand beneath your underwear. The moment his fingers connect with the skin of your wet folds, you sigh and lean your head back on his shoulder.

You’re already so wet for him. Art slides two fingers inside you easily and begins fucking you with his hand. He places his other hand around your throat, keeping you held in place against his shoulder. His face is close to yours like this and you can smell his rancid breath, but it doesn’t even phase you. The pleasure you're feeling is too immense.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck and moan for him. He rubs your clit with his thumb and curls his fingers inside you. Already it seems, he’s so familiar with your body and the ways it responds to his touch. He moves his fingers inside your walls as though they were made just for him. Never have you felt anything close to the pleasure he’s giving you with just his hand. The last time he touched you like this you were afraid, but now all of your fear has evaporated in the heat of your desire.

You begin to roll your hips as he fucks you with his hand, and Art smiles at your enthusiasm. Your body is moving of its own volition, desperate to be filled. He grinds his thumb down hard on the sensitive nub of your clit, and you whimper in return. You can still feel his hard-on pressed against your back.

Art seems to enjoy holding you in his lap like this. He’s in no hurry to move things along. He grabs a hold of your face and pulls his fingers out of your pussy, raising them to your lips. Without hesitating, you take his fingers into your mouth and suck them hungrily, tasting yourself on his skin. Then he turns your face towards him and kisses you deeply.

It’s all teeth and tongue and you open yourself to him, letting him taste the inside of your mouth. His kiss is strangely cold, but it electrifies you. There’s a flavor of old dirt, a smell of decay, but somehow it doesn’t repulse you. You find it intoxicating, and kiss him deeper, letting Art explore the inside of your mouth with his.

Heat continues to rise inside your body as you kiss, and you move to find his hand, pulling it back between your legs. He slides his fingers back inside you easily, and you sigh and pull away. Art gives you a chiding look, but continues to move his fingers across your slick folds. He revels in your blatant arousal, teasing you slowly with his touch.

Soon he can’t toy with you any longer, and instead grabs you by the hips and waist, turning you around to face him on his lap. You look into his eyes and position yourself above him. He looks up at you, watching you lustfully as you slide yourself down onto his length. You grit your teeth at the stretch of him.

You sit still in his lap for a moment, adjusting to the fullness within your walls. You feel his cock twitch inside you, and soon he loses patience and grabs onto your ass, moving your hips for you. The friction of it burns deliciously. You’re so full, stretched just right.

You look down at Art’s face as you begin to bounce on his lap, and you see a look of something close to adoration. His face is relaxed and his eyes are heavy lidded as he watches you slide yourself up and down on his cock. There is no room for any other thoughts in your head as you begin to chase your own pleasure. The feeling of him inside you is just too good.

Your pulse pounds in your ears and your entire body feels hot as you ride him. Art keeps his hand on your hips, moving with you subtly, but letting you do most of the work. You can’t take your eyes off of him. You no longer see a monster, but something else entirely. You let out small, open mouth pants as you work yourself up and down on his length.

Then he grabs the back of your head and pulls you down to kiss him again. You bear down on him fully with your hips, and gasp into his mouth as you feel his tip brush your cervix. You ride the sweet bruising sensation and roll your hips against him, pressing down hard and moaning into his mouth. You can’t believe how desperate you are for him.

“Fuck,” you breathe, as you break away from his kiss. You stare into his eyes, not moving, and a wave of dark pleasure rushes up from beneath you. You lean down to kiss him again, tasting death and sin. “Fuck me,” you beg against his mouth, and you feel his cold lips curl into a smile.

Art lifts you off of him and lays you on your back. The emptiness you feel is excruciating. You wait for him to position himself above you, holding your breath. Art leans over you and he’s all you can see. He rubs the head of his cock over the wet folds of your aching cunt, teasing you. You feel him pressed against your entrance, but he waits, looking down at you with glinting eyes.

“Please,” you tell him, and he pushes himself inside. Right away he establishes a rhythm, fucking you rough and deep. You feel him bruising your insides and you can’t get enough. You wrap your legs around his hips, and feel your orgasm building steadily. You moan into his shoulder, and bite down as he continues to fuck into you relentlessly.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you can’t stop yourself from saying. At this Art leans back and continues to fuck you upright so he can thumb circles on your over-sensitive clit. You cry out as he strokes your clit in time with his thrusts. You can’t take much of this, and soon your body is wracked with waves of pleasure as you come apart underneath him.

Your body clenches around his cock and Art throws your legs over his shoulders, leaning down and thrusting into you twice as fast trying to reach his own release. It doesn’t take him long before his body is shuddering and you feel him pulsing within you.

He drops your legs and pulls out of you, and you lie on your back dizzy with pleasure. Your body still pulses with the remnants of your orgasm, and you can’t bring yourself to move.

Art stays for a minute. He puts his weapons away and mends the tear he made in the fabric of his suit. You lay there watching him, unsure what to think. You want to feel disgust, but all that lingers in your body is euphoria, and you want to pull him towards you again.

After he finishes what he was doing, Art stands and gathers his trash bag.

“Where are you going?” you ask him, and he turns to look at you with surprise, as though he forgot you were there. He regards you and looks around the room, spotting a pen lying on top of your notes. He steps towards you and takes your hand, your skin tingles where he touches you. Art scrawls a quick note on the back of your hand.

“See u soon”, it reads. With that he heads for the door, giving you a smile and a wave before he goes.

Notes:

Leave a comment if your liking this story, would love to know what you'd like to see next!

Chapter 7

Summary:

You attempt to recover from Art's last visit.

Notes:

Kind of a short chapter ahead, but things are going to start getting crazy, don't worry!

You sit outside, facing the trees with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A warm mug of coffee rests between your hands. It’s late morning, and you're willing your grogginess away.

You slept fitfully, dreaming of Art hacking people to pieces in front of you. You would awaken in a cold sweat, only to be greeted by your actual memories of Art’s last visit, and feel all the worse for it. You would rather return to your murderous nightmares than face the complex reality of what had transpired between you and that monster. You still don’t understand what came over you. Did he have some kind of influence over you, or were you acting of your own free will? Each answer seemed uniquely terrifying.

Outside on the front steps of the camper, you clutch your coffee close. The air has a bite to it, but it’s nice enough to sit outside and take in the late morning sun. You watch as leaves cascade down from the trees above you. You haven’t heard from your aunt since she helped you settle in early yesterday, and you figure you’ll see what she’s up to once you finish your coffee and shake off the last of your nightmares.

Up at the house, Aunt Margaret is pleasantly surprised to see you. She seems to not notice your unkempt state, and you try your best to maintain a chipper facade. She offers to make you waffles, but you decline. Instead you ask if you could get some maintenance done on the camper.

“Oh, sure,” she answers, bustling around the kitchen, “Be my guest. That would be a huge favor to me, honestly. Are you wanting to go somewhere with it?”

“Yeah, I changed my mind, actually,” you tell her. “I do want to get away somewhere. I think I need some real solitude to clear my head.”

“Okay, sweetheart, but I want you to be careful,” your aunt worries over you. “If it’s what you think you need to do, I can’t stop you. But I just worry with everything that’s going on. Did you know they found that Whitwell boy’s body yesterday?”

“No,” you say, though you can’t be too surprised. You had basically led the police right to it. “What happened?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

“He was attacked - by that killer - they think,” she tells you as she scrubs a glass with a furrowed brow. “- that demented clown man -” She shivers in visible disgust, “I just can’t believe the things that are happening today.”

“But they found him?” You ask for confirmation.

“Yes,” she says, still agitated. “In pieces. They found him in pieces.”

You grimace.

“That’s why I want you to be careful,” she insists. “I just worry.” You prime her with a smile, preparing to tell the biggest lie of your life.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s not like I’m going to run into him twice.”

She wraps you in a fierce hug where you sit at the kitchen table, pulling you into her chest.

“You just can’t be too careful, dear,” she says with finality. She lets you go and gets back to her dishes.

“Okay, I’ll stop fussing over you now,” Aunt Margaret says with a small laugh. “You can take the camper into town today and see if it needs any work done.”

“Alright, thanks,” you say. “I’ll probably get going soon.”

“Where are you thinking you'll go with it?” she asks you.

“I was thinking of taking it to the forest preserve for a week,” you answer honestly.

“You’re going to stay out there by yourself all week?” she asks in surprise, “Don’t you have class?”

“They’re giving me a sabbatical,” you explain. “I didn’t want to take it at first, but I think I need it.”

Again you tell her the bare truth. You can’t imagine returning to school, trying to work on grant applications, papers, and lab reports. You need to get as far away from everything as you can, and you'll call Ms. Greene today to tell her as much. Art finding you is just a chance you have to take at this point, a reality you have to prepare for. It seems that it doesn’t matter where you go - he's promised to find you, and you don’t want to let him stop you from trying to get some peace. You feel deeply that you need to make this trip to try and regain some semblance of your sanity.

“That’s probably a good idea, sweetheart,” Aunt Margaret agrees. “You’re still grieving. You need to rest.”

You nod and stare down at your hands.

“Well,” she says, hanging up her dish towel, “I won’t keep you any longer. Go ahead and get that camper checked out, and I’ll have lunch ready when you get back.”

 

***

 

At the mechanic shop, Art the Clown is on the news, and you have to look away. His police sketch on the screen seems to be leering at you. You scroll on your phone, though there’s nothing there to see, trying to occupy yourself with something other than thoughts of him. The mechanic at the desk calls your name, and you jerk your head up.

“So we took a look at it,” he says with a slight drawl, “Gonna need an oil change, obviously, and we gotta put new brake pads on it. That’ll probably take a day or two, okay?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Alright, we’ll call you when it’s ready.”

With that, you're out the door. On the bus ride back to your aunt's you find yourself feeling strangely optimistic.

***

 

The next two days you spend at your aunt’s house are pure bliss. You sleep late, eat well and take long luxurious showers in the guest bathroom. It’s really nice to have some company. On Sunday, you watch game shows with Aunt Margaret and help her do yard work. When she goes to work on Monday, you laze about the house, reading, watching TV and doing spa treatments.

You did your nails, took a hot bath and waxed your legs. You even found a clay mask in your aunt’s medicine cabinet. Though when you looked at yourself in the mirror with the pale goop spread across your face, it reminded you too much of Art and you had to scrub it off.

Thankfully for the most part, you don’t think of the murderous clown, and it comes as a relief. For the first time since all of this began, you find yourself able to truly rest. You’re really looking forward to getting away to the woods for a week. Solitude in nature will likely have you feeling even more like yourself.

Now it’s Tuesday afternoon and you’re waiting for your aunt to return from work. The early autumn sunlight streams golden through the kitchen windows at a certain angle that elicits poignant nostalgia. You find yourself feeling gratitude for the moment. You’re happy to still be alive. Though things are far from perfect, you’re still here with a beating heart, and a rare thankfulness settles on your shoulders. You wonder if this sudden peace is your mother watching over you from some far away paradise, telling you that things really will be okay somehow.

With thoughts of her in your head, you begin preparing dinner. You miss your mother’s cooking terribly. In your aunt’s kitchen you find the ingredients for a soup she used to make all the time. It feels as though you have no other choice but to make it, echoing the care she once gave to you. You begin cooking, and with each of your actions you feel as though you’re furthering an invisible chain of love and compassion. A warm feeling of closeness to your mother rises in your chest and brings tears to your eyes.

You finish the soup just as Aunt Margaret is making it through the door. The two of you eat together, making mundane conversation, and then sit down together in the living room, turning on the usual TV game show channel.

“She would be proud of you, you know,” your aunt turns to you and says during a commercial break. You know instantly that she means you mom.

“I like to think she would be,” you say. Though, you're less sure of it now.

“She would be,” Aunt Margaret says with certainty. “You know who you are. You’re a wonderful person and you’re going to become something great.”

***

The next morning, you get a call first thing that the camper is ready. You tell your aunt goodbye and leave to pick it up right away. You stop at your apartment to swap out your clothes and make sure you have everything you need for the week.

For some reason, being there feels eerie, like it’s a life that’s no longer yours. You suppose you still feel the ghost of Art’s presence, paired with a longing for the normalcy that existed before you ever knew him. You don’t stay long, eager to get on the road. Once you have everything you need, you leave the apartment behind, darkened like a locked tomb.

The drive out to the forest preserve is easy and relaxing. You listen to your favorite music and take in the last of the changing leaves as you drive. Pulling the camper into the park entrance and up the winding gravel drive, you feel at home.

You’ve camped out here many times before, real camping at that, in a tent with no running water or electricity for weeks at a time. Instead of staying on the lot with the other trailers, you’re able to maneuver the rather small vehicle up to one of the more remote sites you’ve stayed at before. You want true peace and solitude.

Once you park the camper, satisfied with your location, you begin settling in. You start a fire for yourself that you plan to keep burning all day with fire starters you picked up on the way. Sure you know how to start a fire from scratch, but you didn’t want to rough it that badly. You also picked up some groceries and plan to make full use of the campers fridge and microwave. Some luxuries are nice after all.

After you’re set up, you take a short hike around the preserve. Your fire is small, but you don’t want to leave it unattended. The peace that settles deep in your bones as you take in the sights and sounds around you is truly blissful.

You return to your campsite and read for hours. You nap in the sun. You even do some sketching, though you feel you aren’t very good at it. You’ll have lots of time to practice this week. As darkness falls, you make yourself some dinner and relax by the fire. The nighttime sounds of the forest surrounding you are comforting.

Then you hear a strange rustling that you take to be an animal of some kind. It worries you slightly, but you figure if you mind your own business, it will do the same. You sit with your feet propped up, facing your camper to the west, watching the last of the color leave the sky. Your back is to the denser forest behind you.

The rustling comes again, and you’re tempted to go looking for the source, but honestly you’re tired of being afraid. You push your anxieties down with ease and continue to watch the flickering fire. However, the sounds persist, and just as you’re placing them as footsteps and turning to look, you feel a sharp pain in the side of your neck.

You lose your balance and fall to the ground, dead leaves scraping your cheek as your face connects with the earth. You struggle to right yourself, completely disoriented. Why can’t you move? Panic courses through your veins, but you feel it quickly become dulled and diluted by the urge to succumb to sleep. You manage to flip yourself onto your back with great effort. The last thing you see is an image you can’t make any sense of: Art the Clown standing over you, illuminated by the firelight.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Things continue to intensify after Art kidnaps you.

Notes:

Here's a heftier chapter after that last short one. Lots of gore and a little smut in this chapter, things are happening, get ready!

Your head is throbbing and your mouth is dry as you regain consciousness. Gravity feels wrong and you realize you’re laying on your side. You choke as you try to swallow around the thick piece of fabric that gags you. Attempting to move, you find that your hands are bound behind your back with sturdy rope that digs into your wrists and forearms. You try futilely to kick your legs, but they are in much the same state: bound tightly from ankle to knee and again from knee to hip. You realize you aren’t going anywhere.

The floor is cold and dirty, so is the rest of the small, dimly lit room. It looks like some kind of basement - some kind of depraved torture basement. There are chains and saws and hammers hanging on the wall above a workbench. You’d take it to be maybe a carpenter’s tools, but you know who put you here. Without your consent, images of how each of the instruments could be used viciously against you materialize in your mind.

You’ve witnessed the ruthlessness of your captor, the violence he’s capable of, and you think with some relief that it’s finally your turn to meet an end at his hand. But the small relief you feel at the thought of this nightmare being over is drowned in unbridled dread at the suffering you know you will endure first.

Your morbid imaginings of your last moments of life are interrupted when you hear something behind you. A shuffling, and a soft muffled sobbing fills the cool, damp air in the room. You’re not alone, you realize. You struggle to crane your neck and look behind you, muscles cramping, and you see two other people bound and gagged like you are. They’re tied back to back against a support beam in the center of the room, a man and a woman, you think. Unlike you, they’re also blindfolded.

As they wake and fight through a haze of confusion, they both begin to struggle and cry as they process, much like you did, the bleak reality of their situation. You want to say something to them, but you’re gagged, and you feel that this predicament is beyond words anyway. What kind of hope or comfort could you offer to these poor people when you have none for yourself?

You hear approaching footsteps and you try to prepare yourself for what could happen next. The other two captives continue to struggle and cry out for help. You can’t see him because of your position facing the wall, but you know Art has come into the room. You can literally feel his presence, like the air in the room has gone even colder somehow.

He ignores his captives and crouches down next to you first, caressing the side of your face. You look up at him and see the evil smile you’ve grown all too familiar with. He lifts you from the floor and positions you against the wall so you have an unobstructed view of his other prisoners, thrashing desperately against their restraints. The sight makes you nauseous. You know he wants you to see whatever he’s about to do to them.

With a spring in his step, Art retrieves an ax from the wall above the workbench, and then moves to stand in front of the bound man who is now directly across from you. Art pulls off his blindfold and the man looks around wildly. Art lowers himself to eye level and waves playfully at the man who stares back at him with confusion and panic in his eyes. Then the frightened man locks eyes with you, and you wish he wouldn’t. You wish you could dematerialize into the wall behind you. You don’t know what’s about to happen but you’re sure it’s going to be excruciating, and Art wants you to see every moment of it.

Now, Art brandishes the ax he’d been concealing in front of the man, and in response the man thrashes against his restraints with renewed fervor. Art just keeps smiling at him as his captive struggles and sobs. He lifts the ax and brings it down hard, connecting with the man’s leg just above the knee. He screams in agony as Art pulls the ax from the wound and hacks into him again.

You can’t bring yourself to look away. It feels like your responsibility to bear witness to this. Art puts the ax down and walks away, surveying his wall of torture instruments for something else. He returns with a hacksaw. Taking a knee beside the man’s mangled leg, Art taunts him with his new weapon of choice. You can hear the man pleading and crying through his gag as he shakes his head no. Art gives him an animated nod, mocking him, and begins sawing through what remains of the man’s leg, severing it with appalling ease.

The man’s screams are gut wrenching, and you have to look away. Blood runs like a river from his severed limb. Art tosses the severed leg aside like it’s trash and watches the man continue to sob and bleed. After a moment, he tourniquets the man’s leg with a scrap of fabric. You realize Art doesn’t want this guy bleeding out on him, that this is far from over.

Satisfied with the damage he’s done to his first victim, Art turns his attention to the woman on the opposite side of the support beam. You can’t see her as clearly and you’re thankful. The man across from you is staring at you now with a mixture of fear and desperation. You avoid his gaze. Art removes the woman’s gag, but not her blindfold, and she starts screaming for help.

“Please, please! Someone help! Who are you? Please!” She calls out hysterically. Art leaves her there, yelling for her life, and makes his way back to the workbench on your side of the room. You and the captive man watch in horror as Art heats an iron brand with a torch. Again the man starts trying to beg around his gag, choking on his pleas to Art’s delight, while the woman screams incessantly behind him.

Art returns to the woman now, though she still can’t see him, with the iron now red-hot. He catches her in the middle of her desperate appeals, and shoves the brand into her mouth, searing her tongue. You’re thankful you can’t see her face, though what you can hear is probably worse. She lets out a shrill, throat-tearing, scream followed by guttural sobs. Art silently points and laughs, dancing around her delightedly, seemingly for no one’s benefit but his own. He jabs her leg with the brand again, as a kind of after thought, before he returns to the workbench to select another diabolical tool.

Art picks up the bloodied ax again and returns to the woman whose calls for help have been replaced by soft, steady sobbing. The man has a look of agony on his face, knowing much like you, what the sadistic clown is about to do. Art kneels down to remove the woman’s blindfold and she simply continues to sob, all the fight seeming to have left her already. You see her body flinch and her legs jerk as Art hacks into her with the ax over and over again, spraying blood across the room. This goes on for a long time, the sickening thuds, the woman's cries replaced with soft groans and eventually silence. You think you’re going to vomit.

The man across from you is now looking up at the ceiling, moving his lips and murmuring around the gag in his mouth. He’s praying, you think. Art makes his way back around the room and notices this as well. He holds a hand to his ear, leaning in to listen to the man’s prayers. Then he laughs mockingly, doing the sign of the cross and spitting on him before moving to lunge at him with the ax again. The man flinches terribly, but Art stops shy of actually hitting him, doubling over in silent laughter at his fear.

How long is he going to drag this out, you wonder. Art leans down and removes the man’s gag. Immediately he starts begging for his life.

“Please,” he cries, “please, you don’t have to do this.” Art shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, yeah I know.

“Please stop, please let us go,” he’s begging, trying to appeal to something that you know Art simply does not have. “I’ll do anything,” he sobs.

Art turns to you with a wry smile when the man says this, and you freeze. He wags his finger at the man and approaches you.

“Wha- what are you doing?” he asks through his panic. Art drags you over to the man, setting you at his feet. You lay with your face inches from his severed leg. You look up at Art, not wanting to face the gore of ruined flesh, tendons, and bone.

“I mean it,” he repeats, “I’ll do anything, just don’t kill us.” Art holds a finger to the man's lips, kneeling down to face him. Then he turns to look at you and points. The man follows his gaze, not understanding, but you do. You know that Art’s saying be careful what you wish for - that you’re the living proof of someone who once said something so careless and stupid.

“Please,” he says, misunderstanding, “don’t hurt her.” Art shakes his head and strokes the man’s cheek gently before standing to pick up the ax again.

Before he can say anything else, Art swings the ax back and buries it viciously in his abdomen. Blood splatters across your face, and you flinch and squirm, but are unable to move away. Relentlessly, Art brings the ax down again and again, until much like the woman beside him, the man’s cries eventually diminish to nothing. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can literally feel the rush of air that accompanies each swing of the ax, and warm blood continues to spatter sickeningly against your skin.

When he’s finished making a mess of the man’s lifeless body, Art turns his attention back to you. You shiver and squirm, but you know it's useless to struggle. Still, every instinct in your body is urging you to flee. He lowers himself to your level and looks at you with feigned concern. The hacksaw is still on the floor nearby, and Art reaches for it. He holds the bloodied blade to your throat menacingly. The teeth of the blade make contact with your flesh and raise goosebumps on your skin. You’re pretty sure he’s playing with you, but you’re not sure enough. Art watches your pulse jumping in your throat with satisfaction.

He sets down the saw, but you remain tense. Moving you by the shoulders, Art slides you back over near the wall and sits down next to you. He half cradles you in his arms and looks down at your tear stained face with sympathy. He turns you towards the mangled corpses of his victims and holds you in his arms carefully. You look at the carnage, tears beginning to blur your vision, and you cry silently for them. Art holds you and rocks you in his arms, petting your hair and trying to soothe you.

The dissonance of the moment, this sudden uncharacteristic display of tenderness - genuine or not, is deeply jarring and upsetting. You feel a black hole of dread open in your chest. Art just continues to hold you. He shushes you and wipes away your tears as you both sit on the floor, covered in blood and viscera. He holds you until you have no more tears to cry.

You begin to feel exhaustion overtake your body, and Art finally stands and leaves you there on the floor. He exits the room without looking back at you, and you’re left to stare at the aftermath of his attack, bloodied and bound on the cold basement floor.

 

***

 

Somehow, you sleep while you’re left tied up and gagged in the basement. It’s not good sleep by any means, but your body’s own survival cues override your discomfort and distress, and you experience a few hours of unconsciousness.

When you wake, you’re incredibly stiff-limbed and uncomfortable, thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life, and on the verge of soiling yourself from being tied up for so long. You wonder how long it’s been. The bodies in the room with you are beginning to smell. You do your best to ignore it, but the air is thick with coppery blood and decay.

Pushing with all your weight against the wall, you manage to sit up. You’re trying to get your bearings, maybe figure out a way to escape, when you hear Art coming back down the stairs. He enters the room and clasps his hands against his cheek and beams at you when he sees you. Then he looks at the bodies lying on the floor and wipes away an invisible tear before looking at you with a mocking pout. He approaches you and removes your gag.

“Can I have some water?” is the first thing you say, your voice gravelly and dry. Art seems to consider this. “And go to the bathroom? Please?” All you can do is ask, you figure. Art shrugs, as if to say okay, why not. Apparently it didn’t occur to him that you’d need to take the piss of a lifetime at this point. Or he expected you to have wet your pants already.

He kneels down and slices through the rope binding your legs with a large hunting knife. The relief at the loss of pressure on your limbs is glorious. Art lifts you to your feet, and you struggle to stand and walk. He holds you by your bound wrists, steadying you and guiding you up the stairs with disinterest.

Once upstairs you realize you’re in some kind of abandoned home. Probably an old home slated for demolition. You think you can see construction equipment outside. It’s pouring down rain though, so no one will be working today. You can’t quite tell by the light what time of day it is, but you’d guess late morning.

Art leads you to the bathroom. It’s small, walls painted light blue, with lacy curtains still hanging over the window. You look around uncomfortably for a moment, unsure how exactly you’ll go about this. Art realizes you’re going to need some help and unbuttons your jeans. You curse yourself for feeling so embarrassed by this. He helps you out of your pants and leaves the room so you can do your business. Thank god, you aren’t sure you could have managed if he was going to stand there staring at you.

You flush the toilet with your hands bound behind your back and then start struggling to pull your pants back on. Art comes in and sees this, amusement on his face, and of course to your mortification he has to help dress you again. He turns on the sink, and the first thing you do is thrust your mouth under the running water to gulp it down.

Art leaves the room again, and you wonder why he’s trusting you not to run. You’re certain he must still have the upperhand. After all, you don’t even know where you are, let alone how far you could get before he caught up to you. You shut off the faucet with your elbow, leaving the bathroom to explore the rest of the house.

It’s still furnished. Plastic covered couches, shelves and cabinets packed with dusty knick-knacks, and framed black and white photos fill the dimly lit space. You find Art in the kitchen. Apparently, that wasn’t left completely barren either. He’s poured a bowl of cereal and motions for you to come into the room. It’s utterly bizarre to see him in such an otherwise domestic setting. He offers you the cereal.

“I don’t know,” you say. “How long has that milk been in there?” you ask, gesturing towards the fridge. Art opens the fridge, takes the milk back out, smells it and shrugs. You just stare at him. Then he holds it out for you to smell. You roll your eyes and lean forward to smell it yourself, not believing the absurdity of this situation. Surprisingly it smells mostly fine, and you are starving, so you sit down at the table.

You let Art feed you bites of cereal, and you wonder why he’s doing this. What is he getting out of this? What does he want from you? Sure, the last time he visited it was pretty clear what he wanted, but if that was all he cared about he could have had it by now without going through all this extra trouble. You feel tense and uncomfortable as he feeds you, not liking the feeling of his eyes on you. He’s watching as you chew each bite with a strangely placid expression on his face. You scowl back, but he takes no notice.

Art gets up from the table when you’re done and puts the bowl in the sink. Who would have thought. Then he gets you up from the table and, to your dismay, leads you back downstairs.

You grimace at the smell when it hits your nose and fight to keep down the food you just ate. Art puts his hands on your shoulders and then holds up a finger, telling you to wait right there. You look at him with pleading eyes, but he simply smiles back at you. Then he returns with a blindfold and covers your eyes.

Immediately, you start to panic. You feel Art’s hands on your shoulders again, urging you to stay put, and you feel you have no other choice but to do just that.

You listen intently as you hear the sound of plastic trash bags rustling and things sliding and scraping across the floor. He’s moving the bodies, you realize. You begin to feel sick again and you sit down, leaning your back against the wall.

After Art presumably bags up the bodies, he returns to you and helps you stand. He turns you around, and you feel him thrust the handles of a plastic garbage bag into your bound hands. At first, you don’t want to grab on, but he doesn’t leave you until you do. You know without a doubt that you’re holding the remains of one of the people he slaughtered, or part of them anyway. The bag has a sickening weight to it and it thuds against the back of your legs when you take a step forward.

Art is behind you, nudging you forward up the stairs. You take careful, blind steps, trying not to lose your balance as you pull the trash bag with you. The weight of it dragging behind you, thudding against every step you climb is making you lightheaded. Art keeps pushing you forward, and soon enough you reach the top of the stairs.

He maneuvers you out the back door of the house by continuing to push against you, not with his hands, you realize, but with the garbage bags of corpse parts. Once you’re outside you come to a stop, standing in the pouring rain. Art takes the garbage bag from you, and you hear the thud of its weight connecting with something solid and metal. A couple more thuds, and then Art is guiding you by the arms again and helping you into the passenger seat of a vehicle.

He shuts the door, and you hear him get into the driver's seat and start the engine. You focus on the comforting sound of rain hitting the windshield, and try not to think about where he could be taking you, worse yet, the reason why.

***

The rain has let up by the time you make it to your destination. You’re guessing you drove for close to an hour. Once he parks, Art reaches over and removes your blindfold.

You realize you’re sitting in a pickup truck. A small work truck that was apparently left on site with the keys in it. Just as you’d guessed, you look behind you and find that the bed is full of black trash bags. You’re in a remote, wooded area. Likely very remote - like, no one-can-hear-you-scream remote.

Art hops out of the truck, grabs a shovel from the back, and starts digging. The ground is soft, and you watch him work with ease, digging a hole about a hundred yards in front of the truck. You know what’s going to happen next, and you wish you didn’t have to be a part of it.

It takes him a while to dig a proper grave, and when he’s done, instead of heading for the garbage bags in the back, he comes over to your side and opens the door. You look at him, covered in blood and dirt, and he smiles up at you, holding out his hands to help you out of the truck. Reluctantly, you exit the vehicle. As you step down, you lose your balance and nearly fall to the ground, but Art catches you, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

It’s so strange, the way he’s been extending so much care to you today, when yesterday he gleefully murdered two people in front of you and seemed to delight in your revulsion and horror. Even now, Art treats you with a gentleness that almost makes you forget why you’re here. Almost.

He guides you around to the back of the truck, and your stomach lurches. Art drops the tailgate and swings the three trash bags to the ground, letting them connect with the earth in an unceremonious heap. He hands you one like he did before, placing it in the grasp of your bound hands. He picks up the other two and moves towards the fresh grave. You’re pretty certain he could carry all three bags himself, but for some reason he wants you to do this with him.

You follow behind, dragging your bag across the sticks and leaves covering the ground. You try not to think about which pieces of who could be inside it. Art reaches the hole in the ground first, and he drops the bags in without hesitation. When you catch up to him, you can’t help yourself from looking down into the six foot hole. You stand and stare, and Art watches you, waiting to see what you’ll do. After what feels like a lifetime, you turn and drop your garbage bag on top of the other two.

Art runs, literally runs, with a spring in his step, back to the truck and returns with another shovel. He moves behind you, finally untying your hands. You should feel relieved, but all you feel is dread because you know what he wants you to do. Art hands you the shovel.

“Fuck no,” you say backing away. He looks mildly hurt by this. You think again about running, but you know he’d likely catch you. For all you know, he could have a gun on him. Nothing feels like a good option. You take the shovel from him and have half a mind to swing it at his head. The image plays vividly in your mind's eye. Smack him in the head with the shovel, run to the truck, drive to the nearest town and get help. You could do it.

You’re running all this through in your head, when you realize you’ve just been standing there, holding the shovel while Art piles dirt on top of the bodies. He looks up at you, urging you to dig with him. He’s standing on the other side of the hole now, out of reach. The moment to act has passed.

You stand there watching him, wondering what you could possibly do to get out of this. Coming up with nothing, you step forward and pitch a shovelful of dirt into the grave. Art smiles at you when he sees you do this. For every three shovels that Art dumps onto the bodies, you toss one. You’re careful to keep this pace, watching him as intently as he’s watching you until the job is done.

When the bodies are buried, Art packs in the loose dirt with his shovel and then walks directly to you. He takes you in his arms, standing there next to the shallow grave and you stiffen at his advance. He runs his hands up and down along the curves of your body - shoulders to waist to hips to thighs - and back up again, breathing deeply as his hands traverse your body.

Something about his hands on you makes you feel like you can’t fight - makes you wonder why you’d ever want to, and you let him wrap his arms around you tightly. You look up at him, feeling suddenly intoxicated and completely taken by surprise, and let him kiss you. His mouth is cold and firm against yours, guiding you to something you’d never seek of your own volition, but still you let him take you.

He grabs you like an undertow with the force of his kiss, pressing into you harshly and with certainty. You open up to him, giving into his certainty, inviting him to lick into your mouth and grab you firmly by the hips. A warmth begins spreading through your body, and you wonder with a sense of detachment what’s come over you. You’re completely melting into Art’s kiss as though you’re under some outside influence.

With your arms thrown around his neck, you let him take you to the ground. Laying on the soft, fresh-packed earth, you allow him to ravage your body with his hands and mouth. His teeth dig into your neck and his hands pull impatiently at your clothing. You cling onto him, pulling him closer, and let him have his way.

The fear and distaste you felt before are now miles away and you're consumed entirely by the feeling of his body against yours. You had feared that this would happen again, that he’d somehow get the better of you, finding a way to bring you nothing but irresistible pleasure. This feeling was becoming familiar, and your instinct was to welcome it.

Art’s hands find their way under your shirt, groping you desperately. You lean into his touch, encouraging his roaming hands. He kneads the soft mounds of your breasts, and you sigh against his skin. With needy force, he tears your bra off your body. The harsh friction of the material ripping against your skin makes you stifle a cry of pain. With better access to your chest, Art’s hands move with purpose underneath your shirt. He twists your nipples between his fingers, and you buck your hips at the electric current of his touch. Art smiles at your readiness. He continues to kiss you fiercely, pressing you into the soft earth. The smell of dirt and rain flood your senses.

You try not to think about what lies beneath you, the terrible reality of it all. You want to forget the series of events that brought you here and exist only in this moment. In this moment where you are contained beneath the body of a monster, who doesn't seem so much like a monster anymore as he traces the curve of your hip bone and breathes against your neck. There’s a gentleness that lives alongside the fierce desire running through him.

You can feel it in the way he’s slowly unbuttoning your jeans and carefully, silently watching your face. You feel held and seen by him in a way that you never have before. It’s almost like you exist just for him, and just for him you meet his hands where they pull at the waistband of your jeans, helping him lower them out of the way. Just for him, you open your legs and let him touch you the way a lover would.

Art pulls off his dirty gloves before he reaches down to touch you, and you say a silent thanks for this. When his hand slides beneath your underwear and connects with the slick heat between your thighs, you can’t help but spread your legs even wider for him. You hold onto his shoulder and press a palm flat against his chest, watching the desire that burns in his eyes as he touches you. You can’t imagine what it must be doing for him to have you pinned and spread like this on top of his freshly buried victims. It’s sick.

As much as you tried to banish the thought of where you are and exactly what you’re doing, it persistently returned to you, a nagging morality. You push it down again, smothering it under the waves of pleasure that travel through your body as Art spreads you with two fingers.Your morality, your decency, a buried secret like the bodies beneath you.

Art pushes a finger inside you, and then another, enjoying the way you stretch for him. A moan escapes your throat, and you pull him down by the neck to kiss him again. Two long fingers slide in and out of your wet pussy with ease. You can’t believe how wet he makes you. It’s obscene. You moan again into his mouth when his thumb rubs against your throbbing clit.

He pulls away and pushes you back against the ground, holding you by the throat while his other hand works you to the point of desperation. The fingers thrusting and curling deep inside you and the sweet burning friction back and forth across your clit have you tense and holding your breath. Pleasure and tension build in your body, searching for release.

You want more. More of him. You want his mouth, tasting you. You want his thick cock pushing into you, stretching and bruising and filling you beyond what you thought you could take. You need it again, right now. You need proof that the reality of Art taking you for his is as good as your memory makes it out to be. The memory of the way he fucked you in the camper plays in your mind as he pleasures you expertly with his hand.

Art holds you by the throat and watches as pleasure contorts your face. He almost seems detached now, like he’s watching you with bland amusement. Something has shifted, and he’s not desperate for you like he was moments ago. Now, it seems your roles have switched. You have to tell him how badly you need him.

“Art,” you manage to whimper out past the hand gripping your throat. He looks at you with genuine surprise, but he doesn’t stop his movements. If anything he puts more force behind them now. The heat building inside you is so intense you can barely speak. You can tell he has you on the edge, but you want more. You want all of him.

“Art, I -,” you try again, but that’s all you can get out before your coming undone under his hand. A glorious wave of pleasure floods your entire body and you clench around the fingers he keeps firmly inside you. He works you through your orgasm with attentive movements, and then continues to stroke you and tease you until you’re twitching with over stimulation.

Your head is spinning as you come down from your high. You struggle to catch your breath, not caring that you’re covered in dirt. You have to laugh, that’s how good it was. Art is watching you come back to yourself. He still has a faraway look in his eyes, but there’s warmth there, you can tell. To see such a soft expression on his face is unexpectedly jarring. He’s watching you with fondness, and you feel more vulnerable than you did a moment ago when he had you pinned in the dirt.

You dress yourself quickly and get to your feet, feeling unsteady. To your surprise, Art is by your side helping you stand. He walks you back over to the truck and helps you inside. He gets in on the other side, and then he’s sitting in the driver’s seat just looking at you. An odd moment of silence passes, the two of you watching each other, unsure what happens next.

You can still feel Art’s hand between your legs, and you can’t look at him without blushing. The way he’s watching you with calmness and soft affection isn’t helping either. You’re supposed to be trying to run from this guy, not hoping he decides to fuck you in the backseat of this stolen truck. You’re so confused by what you feel. The lust is undeniable, but when you examine it closer, you realize there’s more beneath it. Whatever these feelings are, they’re complicated and slippery and you’re scared to hold them too close.

By the way Art has been looking at you, you can’t help but wonder if he has less control of his desire for you than it initially seemed. Is he a coldblooded predator? Or is he being guided by something else? Something he doesn’t fully understand. It seems like he wants to do something, make some kind of gesture or tell you something, but he’s holding back.

Instead, he reaches across the space between you, blindfolds you again, and starts the truck.

 

***

After you’ve driven a decent distance, Art removes your blindfold. You’re on the highway, speeding along with the rest of the afternoon traffic. You’re thankful to feel less disoriented. The blindfold was making you sick. It seems like you’ve driven further this time. He’s probably going out of the way and complicating the route, though you already have no idea where you are.

You look over at Art driving the truck, he doesn’t look back. Again you feel a mild shock, watching him doing something so normal. You blend in with all the other cars on the road right now. No one would expect that a murder and his accomplice are merging lanes beside them.

Is that right? Are you an accomplice? You suppose you are now. That’s how it would look from the outside if someone were to pull you over right now. You’re not bound and gagged, and there’s not a scratch on you. Any story you have to tell for yourself is going to have some holes in it at this point. You can’t admit to the things that have happened between the two of you. Whatever this is, you know it’s going with you to the grave.

Art exits the highway at a town you don’t recognize. Somewhere you’ve never been before. At the stoplight, he looks over at you, acknowledging you for the first time. He rubs a hand over his stomach and looks at you inquisitively, asking if you’re hungry. You nod back.

He pulls into the lot of some burger place just off the exit, and for a moment you worry he’s going to take you through the damn drive thru just for a laugh. But Art parks the truck and looks at you like, okay go get your food.

“I don’t have any money on me,” you say. Art leans over and grabs his garbage bag, sifting through it until he produces a wallet and hands it to you. You’re sure it’s the wallet of the dead man, but there’s a lot of cash inside. A grim feeling of guilt settles over you.

Art’s still looking at you, ready for you to hop out of the truck and go get a burger. You realize how much of a mess you are though, that someone may call 911 after taking one look at you, covered in dirt and dried blood.

“I can’t go in there like this,” you exclaim, “I look like I crawled out of a grave.” Art laughs at your black humor. Then he turns to dig around the back seat of the truck some more. Miraculously he finds an oversized flannel jacket and some shop towels, handing both over to you with a look of self satisfaction.

You wipe as much dried blood and grime from your face as you can, looking in the rearview mirror, and wrap yourself in the flannel coat. You’re swimming in it. When you hop out of the truck you see it falls past your knees, covering the majority of your ruined clothing. You suppose this is the least alarming you’re going to look, so you head inside.

Turning over your shoulder, you see Art watching you from the truck like a dog left in the car. You smirk at this and make your way up to the counter to spend the dead man’s money.

Upon your return, you offer Art a burger and fries, but he waves you off. He makes a gesture, running his hands down his sides, like he’s trying to watch his figure. You have to laugh at this, and he seems satisfied. Apparently you’re building a rapport with this murderous clown now, great. You chew a mouthful of burger and worry that you’re going to start bantering with him and doing bits if he keeps you around.

With your feet up on the dash and a paper bag of warm, greasy food in your lap, you feel almost like you’re on a road trip. It concerns you that the gravity of this situation is currently eluding you. But you pop another fry in your mouth and watch the mile markers pass by, chewing away your worries and swallowing them down like cheap fast food.

Eventually you reach what you assume is the same house where Art was keeping you, only now he’s letting you see it for some reason. It’s an old farmhouse on a dirt road, nothing else around within the square mile. Construction equipment still stands abandoned outside, and you wonder how long it will be before anyone returns to this place.

Art parks the truck in the back where he found it, and gets out. You’re really not sure what’s going to happen next. Though you were able to numb your worries with fried food, you feel them beginning to resurface. Art comes around to your side and grabs onto your wrist, pulling you out of the truck and leading you up to the house.

To your stark disappointment, he leads you back down to the basement. The stench of death still lingers in the damp air. He leaves you for a moment to retrieve something, and you stand still, weighing your seemingly non-existent options. Art returns to your side before you can half-bake a plan and clamps something heavy and metal around your neck. It’s a thick, heavy collar made of rusted metal with an equally thick and rust coated length of chain attached.

He leads you to the center of the room where the support beam stands, and reaches above his head to secure the chain to something hanging from the ceiling. Then he leaves without addressing you at all, like you’re an inanimate object. You feel anger rise up in you as he climbs the stairs, and you want to yell after him.

The door shuts, and panic sets in now that you’re alone. How long will he leave you down here? How desperate will he let you become?

You sit down and lean against the beam. There’s barely enough slack on the chain for this, and the collar cuts into the underside of your chin. Bloodstains remain on the floor where you sit, the ghosts of the two people who were here before you. The thought makes your skin crawl.

Left alone, you survey the space more closely, searching for anything that may help you out of this situation. All of the weapons and tools at the workbench are hopelessly out of reach. You can only venture about two feet from the center of the room. You walk dizzy circles across the floor, pacing like a caged animal. Surely there’s something, anything, that’s within your reach.

You sit down again, momentarily giving up. That’s when something catches your eye. There seems to be broken glass scattered across the far corner of the room. It reflects the sunlight filtering in through the small window back at you, giving you hope. It’s out of reach though. You strain against the collar around your neck, using your foot to reach as far as you can across the room.

Reaching and pulling until you’re nearly choking yourself out, your foot finally connects with one of the glass shards. You drag it towards you, relief flooding your body. It’s a good piece, triangle shaped with a hooked edge. You could keep the flattest side against your palm and use it like a dagger.

A new determination fills your body. You lie in wait, clutching the shard of glass close, holding onto it tightly like salvation.

Notes:

Will hopefully have the next chapter up soon, thanks for reading!

Chapter 9

Summary:

You try to escape from Art, but things grow more complicated.

Notes:

Conflict! Tension! So much smut! Romantic gestures! Emotions! More tension!

The room is impossibly dark and impossibly quiet. You’re making your way down a seemingly endless corridor with a torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. The further you walk, the longer the corridor becomes. You’re sure that you’re dreaming. Still your hands tremble as you advance into the darkness. You see a tall figure ahead of you. You’re poised and ready to strike. Holding your breath, not making a sound, you edge closer until you’re upon him. He turns to face you suddenly, and you plunge the dagger into his stomach, twisting as you do it. Now his face is illuminated by your torch as he doubles over, and you see that it’s Detective Ward, blood dripping from his mouth, anguish in his eyes.

You jolt awake and hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Still disoriented, you scramble to make sure you’re clutching your precious shard of glass. Art rounds the corner and smiles when he sees you. Attempting to hide your nervousness, you find yourself smiling back. Then you worry that’s more suspicious, but he seems not to take notice.

“C-can I use the bathroom?” you ask, straightening against the support beam. The glass shard rests in your sweaty palm, pressed against your thigh. Art nods and looks mildly annoyed, but goes to retrieve the key to your restraints. You watch him intently.

He approaches you with the key, and your whole body tenses. You struggle to appear relaxed while your heart jackhammers in your chest. He kneels down to turn the key inside the lock on your collar restraint. As soon as he’s freed you, you lunge and dig the glass shard into his thigh, pulling down. Completely taken by surprise, Art falls backwards onto the floor.

You jump up to run, but he grabs you by the ankle, taking you to the floor with him. Your fist clenches tightly around the glass, slicing into your palm. Immediately you turn and swing at him again. You catch the back of his forearm as he tries to grab at you. Art gets to his feet and attempts to overpower you, but you roll away from him and leap back to standing.

Now, Art stands between you and the exit, and you run at him full force, brandishing the glass in your bleeding hand. You take aim at his face, but he catches your arm. The glass shard, too slick with blood, falls from your grasp. Art has you by the arm now, and he twists it forcefully behind your back. You grunt with pain and try to kick at him, but he marches you towards the center of the room.

He’s able to grab a hold of the chain hanging from the ceiling and wrap it around your throat. He pulls it tight. Its links pinch your skin and crush your windpipe completely. Instinctively, you grab at your neck, but he’s able to keep your arms at bay with his elbows. You try to kick him, but he leans his upper body away and then walks you forward, pressing your face against the wall.

Darkness creeps into the corners of your vision, and you know with certainty that he’ll choke you unconscious, so you stop fighting. You allow your body to go limp, and Art lessens the force of his grip, but doesn’t release you. He’s clearly weighing his options. He turns you around to face him, boxing you in with his arms. Your plan didn’t carry you anywhere near as far as you’d hoped.

Art pouts at you. He seems to be genuinely upset about having to deal with you like this. He shakes his head no, scolding you, and denouncing the entire situation. Then he picks up your injured hand, turning it over in his palm. He looks at the bleeding gash with even deeper dismay and pulls you into his arms.

He hugs you tightly, even though just a moment ago he’d been attacking you with everything he had. You’re at a loss. You don’t know what to do besides lean your head against his chest and let him hug you. Your mind is still crafting and scheming as he holds you in his arms. Being close to him, winning his trust, is probably your best bet. You’ll catch him with his guard down at some point, won’t you?

Art rubs your back and looks down at your hand again. It’s bleeding a lot. He takes you by the wrist and turns to lead you upstairs. But before he reaches the staircase, he stops and points to the collar on the floor, giving you a threatening look. He wags a finger at you and points to the collar again. Better not try anything else. You get the idea.

You decide to play good captive and follow him up the stairs to the bathroom. Once inside, Art has you run your hand under the faucet. You hiss and groan at the sting of the tap water in your wound. Art starts looking around the bathroom for something to wrap your hand with. The sanitary standards of his medical care seem dubious at best, and you pray you don’t die of a blood infection from whatever he comes up with.

To your complete surprise and relief, Art finds a roll of gauze inside the linen closet. He looks just as excited about it as you are, brandishing it like an award.

“That’s perfect,” you tell him, and he grins ear to ear. Then, taking a moment to consider the filthy state that you’re in, you add, “I think I need to shower.”

Art nods and hands you a moth-eaten towel from the closet behind him. You motion for him to leave the room, and he does without complaining. You can see that he’s sitting immediately on the other side of the door, his full weight pressed against it, no doubt. You’re simply thankful for the privacy and the warm running water.

The shower takes a minute to start, the pipes gurgling and chugging, and the water runs orange at first - god, you hope you don’t get a blood infection. Once it warms up and steam begins to fill the room, you step inside and it still feels like heaven. There aren’t any shower products inside though, so you grab the crusted bar of soap from the sink and make use of that. You’ll take anything at this point. It feels incredible to remove days of grime, sweat, dirt and dried blood from your body.

You stay under the spray of the water for as long as you can. You feel safe, contained inside the shower. It’s a reprieve from the real world that has to end too soon. Art hears you shut off the water and comes back into the bathroom. You snag your towel off the sink and dry off still on the other side of the curtain from him.

“How long are we gonna hang out here, anyway?” you ask him. You have no idea what his angle is anymore. “I need some clean clothes.”

You step out of the shower and notice for the first time that Art has cleaned himself up. He must have found time while you were locked in the basement to wash his costume. Not fair.

“Hey,” you tell him as much, “you cleaned your clothes, that’s not fair. I want clean clothes.” Art shrugs, conceding that you have a point. He probably didn’t expect you to be such a high maintenance captive. Though, he has been going along with all of your requests so far, making him a much more generous captor than you would have expected.

Your sliced palm is still bleeding, staining the towel where you clutch it to your chest. Art steps forward and takes your hand again, carefully wrapping it in gauze for you. Yeah, things could be a lot worse. He even makes a big show out of holding your hand, rubbing it gently against his cheek and kissing the back of it while looking up at you with puppy dog eyes.

You feel that familiar warmth stir in your chest, brought on by Art being so sweet to you, and you try to push it away. These are those slippery, slithery feelings that you fear could choke you if you let them too close.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, and he bats his lashes at you. You roll your eyes and turn away, and just then your cell phone rings. You’re surprised it still has a charge. You retrieve it from the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and are even more surprised to see that it’s Aunt Margaret. You answer the phone.

“Hi sweetie,” her voice comes through tinny on the other end. “How’s camping?”

“Oh, it’s been really good,” you tell her cheerfully. You look over and Art has his ear nearly pressed against the other side of the phone. You try to shoo him away. “I’m really glad I decided to come out here,” you continue, trying to sound casual, “I parked up at the same place I stayed last summer. It’s been great.”

“Well good, hon, you deserve a break,” your aunt says. Art is still buzzing around you like a fly, trying to hear the conversation. “I was just thinking about you. I was hoping you were getting what you needed spending some time up there.”

“Yeah, it’s been nice,” you assure her. Your breath hitches when you feel Art’s palm pressed against your inner thigh. You lock eyes with him in the mirror and see the most devious look on his face. You let your sentence end there, trailing off into silence.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replies. Art starts rubbing circles with his fingers, slowly working his way up your thigh. “I just worry about you being all alone up there. You’re so brave.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you manage as Art grips a handful of your ass in his other hand and exhales a hot breath on your neck. His fingers have made it to the crease of your inner thigh and he rubs them slowly back and forth.

“Really, you are sweetie. I couldn’t do what you’re doing.” Art ghosts his open mouth along your neck, threatening to bite down. His breath makes the hairs there stand on end, and he continues squeezing your ass roughly.

“I, um-” Art bites down. Hard. “Thanks,” you manage, working to keep your voice even. He continues to clamp down on your neck like a vice, and you crumple forward against the sink. As your body lowers, his fingers find the slick heat between your thighs. Slowly he rubs your arousal across your folds, letting go with his teeth now to watch your face in the mirror.

“I can let you go, honey. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to check in,” your aunt says, clearly picking up on your short answers. Art keeps touching you.

“Yeah, sorry I uh,” Art slides two fingers inside you fast and harsh, nearly doubling over in laughter when the sensation of it steals your voice from you. “I uh,” you clear your throat. “I have a fire going and I need to put it out.” You could kill him.

“Okay, sweetie,” your aunt sounds a little concerned. Art is slowly sliding his fingers between your folds now, curling them and pressing all the spots he knows you like.

“Thanks for calling.” You’re so fucking soaked for him.

“Of course, dear,” your aunt says as Art continues to finger you and breathe heavily onto your neck. “I love you.”

“Love you too, bye.” You can’t get off the phone fast enough. As soon as you hang up, Art takes his hands off you. He covers his mouth to point and laugh at you. Then he pretends to faint and fans himself, mocking you further.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” you rage at him angrily, pounding his chest with your fists. You can’t hit him that hard though because you’re still trying to hold up your towel. Art grabs your wrists, stopping your fists in midair and looks down at you.

The look he gives you says nothing and everything. A wordless moment passes, and then his mouth is on yours and you’re rushing up to meet him halfway. You’ve never kissed him like this before, like you truly can’t get enough of him. You grab at his neck, his shoulder, the side of his face, and he lifts you up onto the sink.

“Seriously,” you breathe between kisses, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Only this time it comes out with much less hostility. Art pulls away and smiles, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t have an answer, but whatever it is, you’re clearly into it, so maybe you’re the one with the problem.

You throw your legs around his hips and pull him close while he leans in to kiss and bite his way down your neck. You keep your hands on his shoulders as he pulls the towel from your body and continues to kiss your neck and chest. His teeth scrape your collarbone and his hands cup your tits. You arch your back as Art moves lower to suck your hardened nipple into his mouth. He moves from one to the other, giving them both attention, slicking them with his spit and rolling them between his fingers.

You gasp when he bites down hard. He moves his mouth over your breasts, biting down and sucking your flesh between his teeth, leaving you covered in deep purple bruises. The pain electrifies your nerves and sends a pulsing heat through your abdomen. He keeps biting you like this, down your side, making you flinch as his teeth meet your ribs. He holds you in place with two hands firmly on your waist while you writhe under his mouth.

His teeth press into your hip bone and the pain is white and searing. You stifle a cry and squirm involuntarily. Art holds you right where he wants you, and just when the pain is getting to be too much, his tongue is there instead. The soft warmth of his mouth over the indents left by his teeth soothes your nerves and makes you melt. Your blood runs hot beneath your skin and you press him closer.

Then he moves again, lowering onto his knees to bite your inner thigh. The new sensation startles you, and you jerk your legs together. Art braces his elbows between your knees, spreading your legs apart and settles his hands against the curves of your hips. His fingers press firmly into your skin, and he bites down again. He twists his head like he wants to pull off a chunk of your flesh and you grit your teeth to keep from crying out. Then he releases you and moves his mouth over the viscous bite, licking and kissing so softly, so sweetly. He does this several more times, punishing the tender flesh of your inner thigh with a vice grip bite, nearly breaking the skin, only to pull away and gift you with the gentle, intoxicating warmth of his soft mouth against your throbbing flesh. The intensity of it sends thrills of pleasure through your body each time.

Soon you can’t take it anymore, it’s simply too much sensation for you to handle. You put your hands on the sides of his face before he can bite down again. Art looks up at you, almost as if he’s waiting for you to direct him. You pull him back to standing and wrap yourself around him. Standing at his full height, you can barely lean your head on his shoulder. With your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands pulling needily at the fabric covering his chest, you lean up to kiss his neck. Art stands rigidly, his hands still on your hips, letting you be the aggressor now. He leans ever so slightly into your kiss.

You kiss his neck and up along his jaw. You’re not used to him staying so still for you. You realize you could likely have whatever you wanted from him in this moment. You pull away and run your hands down his sides, feeling his slim form. It’s like there’s nothing to him, but you know how much strength his body possesses. Art is watching the way you touch him, noticing the desire on your face, waiting to see what you’ll do next. You notice how tented the lower half of his outfit is and you blush a little. Leaning up to kiss him again, you press your palm against his length. Art kisses you back and leans into your touch, sighing against your mouth. You dig your nails into his neck, and feel the ghost of a groan escape his throat. He keeps leaning into you, melting for you.

You get a heady rush as you realize how much you can affect him like this, that you can make him desperate too. It’s a new power to you, and you’re not sure what to do with it yet. All you know is that you want him. It’s the same feeling you had when you were out in the woods, only this time you’re sure you can really, really have him.

“Is there a bedroom?” you ask, your voice thick with want. In an instant, Art has picked you up and is taking you there.

The bedroom is as dimly lit as the rest of the house, dulled light filtering in through another set of dusty lace curtains. There’s not much left in the room, just a dresser and a bed, which Art throws you on top of. And then he’s on you, kissing his way down your body, fast and hungry, before he buries his face between your legs.

He throws your legs over his shoulders and puts his hands underneath your ass, lifting you up to his mouth. His tongue licks slow, delicious stripes up each one of your folds, testing you, tasting all of you. He sucks your clit and you moan for him. He doesn’t stop. He adds more pressure, adds his teeth again, and you’re crying out louder. Then, just like before, his tongue is on you, soothing away the sharpness of the pain. You’re practically a puddle underneath him and he’s only just started.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, and he doesn’t. His tongue is inside you, swirling and reaching deeper than you thought possible. His thumb rubs light circles over your clit, just teasing you. You buck your hips up against his hand, and you feel him smile against you. A shiver of pleasure runs down your spine. Then his fingers are inside you and his tongue is on your clit, pressing down harder, pushing in deeper.

“Like that,” you moan, “Just like that,” as his fingers find your g spot. Art keeps his fingers angled exactly right, and gradually his movements get faster. His tongue stays on your clit and you look down to see him watching your face. You can’t keep his gaze, it’s too much. You close your eyes and focus on the immense pleasure he’s bringing you. Heat rises in your body, tension builds in your muscles, and you know Art can feel it because he finds a new rhythm with his hand, working you faster now.

He flicks his tongue and curls his fingers, and you can feel that you’re close to the edge. You’re so wet. Art doesn’t care at all, he’s making an absolute mess of you. He adds a third finger, stretching you and filling you, keeping his hand moving fast. He gives your pussy sloppy, open mouthed kisses, giving plenty of attention to your throbbing clit. You pant and gasp and roll your hips against his mouth.

The wave of pleasure building within you breaks and you're coming around his hand now, clenching and gushing. He pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt and replaces them with his tongue, still licking up into you as your body spasms. Art keeps his mouth on you, licking you up as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. Your body becomes oversensitive quickly, and soon every movement of his tongue has your legs twitching uncontrollably. You’re half laughing, half crying, begging him to stop. He doesn’t right away though, and you wonder how much of this you can truly take as tears pool in your vision.

“Please,” you’re completely breathless, “Please, stop,” you beg him for the tenth time. Finally he relents. He pulls away and places gentle kisses on top of the swollen bite marks he left on your thigh. His mouth trails along your skin lazily, tasting all of you, and you have to admit you love how it feels.

Then he crawls his way back up to the head of the bed, and you pull him in to kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. You kiss each other slowly, gently, for a long time. It’s hard for you to make sense of what’s happening. It takes you by surprise that Art isn’t pressing you for more, though you’re sure he’d love for you to touch him. You want to touch him. There’s just something about the tenderness of this moment that you don’t want to disrupt, and you can tell he feels it too. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders, and your fingers find the zipper on the back of his costume and begin pulling down.

Art pauses, and you wonder if he’ll stop you, but he doesn’t. He just kisses you deeper, holding you by the back of your neck, so you pull down on the zipper, stopping at the middle of his back. You smooth your hands over his bare skin, cold and surprisingly soft. Next, your hands find the edge of the hood over his head, and he lets you pull it off. You slide the costume off over his shoulders, and he pulls his arms from the sleeves, exposing his chest. You see that he’s covered in scars. You ghost your fingertips over one of the scars on his chest, and Art watches your movements with a serious expression.

He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to hide, he just watches you. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You don’t pull away either, you don’t hide. You just see him. Carefully, you trace the long scar that runs diagonally from his collar bone to sternum. Then the scar on his left shoulder blade. His back is covered, almost too many to count. On his arm you see the slash you gave him this morning, already healed over. You press a kiss there. You’re not sure what it means.

Art takes a hold of your chin and tilts your face up to look at him. He’s searching your eyes for something. You’re not sure if you understand him better now, or less than you ever have. Seeing him like this feels complicated somehow. Who exists underneath this costume? Or is the costume all he is? What is he looking for? What does he need? You’re afraid to know. You think Art can probably see this fear in your eyes, but you still don’t turn away.

Right now, you feel sorry for trying to run from him. You want to apologize, but you don’t have the words, so you kiss the scar on his arm again and hope he understands. Art cups the side of your face and rubs your cheek with his thumb. Something unspoken passes between you when you look up at him. You’re afraid to name it trust, but that’s what it feels like.

You keep kissing the scars that cover his body and undress him the rest of the way. Art allows you to explore the gruesome atlas of his skin. Your mouth travels over his shoulders, his chest, his back - down lower, it looks like he was stabbed in the gut at one point. Gently, you kiss him there and you feel his muscles tense. Inches from your mouth, his stiff length is curved upwards, wanting for your attention.

Desire roils in your belly once again. A mischievous smile pulls at your lips as you kiss his skin again, moving just a centimeter lower. Again and again, you place tiny kisses, moving lower, dragging it out as much as possible until Art’s gripping the bed sheets. You almost want to laugh at this the way he’s laughed at you so many times. The power you have spreads warmly through your chest and goes right to your head. You get to tease him now.

Your trail of kisses ends right next to the base of his cock. You kiss him there, lingering on it, and you feel him twitch and tense beneath you. Then you ghost your lips over the length of it, not making contact, but letting your breath warm him. As always, he’s watching you when you look up at him. He could easily force himself down your throat, but he doesn’t. He likes your game.

You move down to show his balls some attention, kissing them, cupping your hand around them. Art lifts his hips at this, and you flatten your tongue, coating them in saliva. Then, finally, after drawing it out as much as you could, you lick a wide stripe up his shaft from base to tip. You follow it with another just like it up the side. Then you lick the palm of your hand and start stroking him while you take the head of his cock into your mouth.

You begin sucking and stroking him, and Art moves his hips with you, but he doesn’t touch you. He’s still holding onto the sheets, and you wonder what’s going through his mind right now. You want to make sure you’re all he can think about. You push yourself down further until he’s touching the back of your throat, and start bobbing your head and sliding your tongue, drooling around his cock.

Art grabs either side of your face in his hands. He holds you gently, letting you suck him off at your own pace, brushing your hair out of your face and stroking your cheek. It feels like praise, and it turns you on majorly. You look up at him and meet his eyes. His face tells you everything you need to know about what a good job you’re doing.

You come up for air, tonguing circles over his slit. Then you relax your throat and slide back down, taking all of him. He holds your head there, a hand resting at the base of your skull, and his back arches, hips thrusting up into your throat. You relax completely and let him fuck your throat for as long as you can take it, before pulling off to catch your breath. An obscene string of spit connects your mouth to the head of his cock.

The sight of this must send him over the edge, because Art reaches up and grabs you by the throat, pulling you on top of him. Quickly, he positions himself beneath you and slides inside you easily. The initial stretch has you moaning and biting your bottom lip. He thrusts up beneath you and you move your body with his, letting him fill you completely.

After a moment, you settle into a rhythm. Sitting back on your hips, you brace your hands on his chest and begin riding his dick. You look down at Art while he watches you move - your lips parting in a sigh, your tits bouncing in front of him, how good you must look sliding up and down his length. He hits every spot inside you perfectly, making you feel like you could come again in a matter of seconds, but you hold back, letting it build.

You change your rhythm a bit, rolling your hips more slowly, letting your clit grind against his pubic bone. You lean back, and you can feel his tip buried against your cervix. It’s so much stimulation in all the right places. You roll your hips against him lazily, reveling in it.

“Fuck,” is all you can manage to whine out. Art lets you ride him, clearly enjoying it himself. He looks damn good underneath you, holding onto your thighs, looking up at you adoringly. You find yourself thinking you’d have this every day if you could. You lean forward to kiss him.

As your mouths meet, Art rolls you over onto your back and starts fucking you harder. You welcome this, wrapping your legs around him. However, Art breaks away from the kiss and pulls out of you, leaving you wantingly empty for a moment. He guides you to your hands and knees so he can take you from behind. Pushing back inside you, he establishes a steady, relentless rhythm, his skin slapping against yours.

With his hands on your hips and your fingers digging into the mattress, you realize that this is nearly exactly the dream you had of Art after the second time he visited you. You feel dizzy for a moment, trying to process the blurring lines between reality and dreams. Being in bed with Art like this and wanting it all so badly is exactly what you’d dreamt, and now it’s happening. You aren’t waiting for it to be over; you never want it to end. You couldn’t be more different from the person appalled by that dream just weeks ago.

You arch your back and lean into Art’s thrusting, feeling every inch of him. He grabs your hair and pulls your head back, and you watch with desperate eyes as he does exactly what he wants. He smiles back at you. You’re filled with a momentary rush of shame, the question of whether this is wrong enters your mind. It’s like Art knows what you’re thinking because in that instant he pushes you forward, holding you down and burying your face in the mattress.

He drives into you with renewed force, and you’re left with no thoughts in your head, only pleasure flooding your body. Drool and tears run onto the mattress and you give yourself over to him completely, spreading your legs, arching your back, letting him press you relentlessly into the bed. He fills you with bruising force, and you can’t hold on any longer. Sparks ignite in the core of your body, rushing through you like an overwhelming fire. Your orgasm rushes up through you like a wave and takes you under with a broken cry escaping your lips.

Art feels you coming undone around him and he responds with a frantic pace, panting and straining above you. The feeling of him still thrusting deep inside you as you ride out your high is absolutely delicious. You’re swimming in pleasure. Then you feel his hips stutter and his body tense. The warmth that fills you is complete and comforting. You never want to think another thought, this sedated, melting euphoria is all you ever want to feel.

Art removes his body from on top of yours and lies on his back next to you, totally spent and catching his breath. You watch him, and you wish he would look at you, but he stares at the ceiling. Again, you wonder what he’s thinking. You want to reach out and touch him, but something stops you. You feel so close to him, strangely safe and comforted, but you fear these feelings are deceptive ice on a pond and you hesitate to test their strength.

You don’t know how long you lay like this, neither of you moving. Eventually, Art does look at you, but you can’t read his face. He gets up and dresses himself, not making any move to touch you. You hate how badly you’re craving his affection now. He looks back at you from where he sits on the edge of the bed. You sit up and cross your arms, covering yourself.

“Okay,” you look at him. “I’m seriously gonna need some clothes now.”

 

***

 

Art brings you back to the camper in the stolen work truck. Sitting in the passenger seat, wrapped in the oversized flannel coat, you try to remember the route he takes, but you have a feeling you’ll never see that abandoned house again. You don’t say anything on the drive, and Art acts relatively disinterested the entire time. You have a hard time reconciling the way he’s behaving now with what happened in the bedroom of that house.

He parks near your campsite, and you figure he’s just going to drop you off, but he gets out of the truck with you.

“Oh,” you say, “You’re not leaving?” Art simply shakes his head with a small smile. Apparently, he does want to hang around. The vast majority of the time you’ve spent around him has involved some kind of violence or sex, so you’re at a loss for how to approach this situation.

“Well, I’m gonna get dressed,” you tell him, “But you can wait here, if you want.” Art nods and watches you head to your camper.

Once inside, you have to ask yourself what the fuck you think you’re doing. You pull on clean clothes and stare at yourself in the tiny bathroom mirror. You can’t make sense of why you feel so drawn to Art now. Is it simple hormonal attraction? Why does he want to hang around all of a sudden? You could probably tell him to fuck off, but you don’t want to.

You exit the bathroom and pick up the framed picture of your mom. Attempting to ask her for help feels laughable. You’re so far beyond what any sane person could understand at this point. Still, you give the photo a kiss and step back outside.

Art’s still waiting for you, and he turns and grins widely when he sees you. You approach him, still not sure what to say. It’s a gorgeous day. The early afternoon sun is doing its best to warm the earth, the sky is clear, and birds are chirping all around you.

“Do you want to take a walk?” you ask him. Art shrugs and nods happily. “Okay…” you hesitate. “Um, come with me.”

You lead Art with you down a trail you’ve walked probably a hundred times before, but now, it all feels totally new. The trees stand nearly-bare and tall, lining the path you walk. Dead leaves crunch beneath your feet with every step and the air feels crisp and clean. It’s a perfect, middle of autumn day, and it makes you want to drink apple cider and sit in front of a bonfire.

As you continue, you find yourself drifting closer to Art’s side. You’ve been watching him look around at everything, and you’re surprised by the way he seems to be taking in the scenery. You’ve always found comfort being in nature like this, but you wouldn’t have guessed you’d see that same comfort reflected back to you by someone like him. It warms your heart. The moment is too perfect, and you reach out to take hold of his hand.

Art looks at you with confusion, and you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He lets you lace your fingers with his, and you walk shoulder to shoulder together down the trail.

Eventually, you come across a huge, gnarled oak tree at a bend in the path. In the summer it’s a gorgeous shade tree, perfect for taking a break under. It has always been your favorite tree. You approach it and rest your hand against the rough surface of its bark. Art copies you.

“I love this tree,” you tell him. “It’s so old and so beautiful. It’s like it has a thousand stories to tell.”

Art considers your words and studies the tree. He lets go of your hand and walks around it. You follow him and notice he comes to a stop on the other side of the tree. When you catch up to him you see that he’s found where people have carved their initials into its surface. There’s about a dozen different names carved in a space where the bark has peeled away - Tim + Lisa, Jay was here - things like that. Art runs his fingers over the names.

“I guess those are some of the stories,” you say. Art looks at you like he’s asking a question and traces a heart with his fingers.

“Yeah, people in love,” you explain. “People want their feelings to be remembered, I guess. So they carve their names in the tree.” Art nods like he understands. Then he bends down and pulls a knife out of his boot. His trash bag of bullshit is in the truck, but of course he still has weapons on him. You aren’t surprised. You think he’s going to carve something into the tree, but instead he pushes you up against it.

“Hey, what are you doing?” you laugh. Part of you feels nervous, but you don’t want to show it. Art smiles and pulls up your sweatshirt, exposing your bare stomach. He touches the knife to your skin just to the side of your belly button. He’s smiling wide, but also waiting for your reaction. You hold your breath and look up at him.

He presses the blade into your skin, and looks into your eyes still searching for permission. You don’t stop him. The blade breaks your skin, and pain blooms in your abdomen. Alongside it, a dark thrill runs through you. He drags the blade once, twice, three times, each slice delivering a decadent sting. You watch his face as he continues to carve into you. His mouth is set in a straight line of focus, his eyes alight as blood drips down your stomach, staining the hem of your jeans. You’re glad they’re at least dark wash.

You count the strokes of his knife - eight in all - and then he’s finished. You let out the breath you’d been holding and look down to see that Art has carved his name into your flesh in jagged capital letters. You let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. Blood drips from the fresh cuts, and instead of wiping it away, Art kneels down and presses his mouth to your skin.

The sting of his tongue connecting with your weeping wounds is sweet. He moves his mouth tenderly against your skin, licking up all the blood. There’s an intensity behind his movements, and you get the feeling he’s holding back. You think he could probably bite into you and tear you to pieces, that a very real part of him wants to do just that.

Once you’ve stopped bleeding, Art stands back up and looks down at you with affection. You can’t stop yourself from smiling up at him. He steps towards you, leaning down to kiss you, but you playfully duck out of his reach. He’s amused by this and crouches down with his arms outstretched, creeping towards you with a smile. You back away slowly, playing into the cat and mouse game. You reach the opposite side of the tree and take off running down the trail.

Art chases you, letting you stay several paces ahead of him. You periodically stop and hide behind trees, looking back at him, and he acts as though he doesn’t know where to find you, only for you to take off running again.

You’re laughing as you jog up to the campsite, letting Art catch up to you. He runs up behind you and lifts you off the ground. You shriek and pretend to struggle, and he puts you back down and wraps you in his arms. You lean up to kiss him. He runs his hands down your back, holding onto your hips and pulling you close. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean up on your tiptoes, putting all your weight against him.

You’re standing just a few yards away from the camper under one of the larger trees near the fire pit, basically right where Art abducted you, though that’s far from your mind. You’re totally consumed by Art’s kiss, too enrapt to notice the sound of approaching footsteps. You laugh against his neck, and he catches your smiling mouth in another kiss.

“Hon?” you hear a voice calling, and you freeze. Art doesn’t move his hands from you. You turn and see your aunt standing at the campsite. She cries your name in shock, clearly not believing what she’s seeing. You’re frozen, mute, paralyzed. Aunt Margaret looks absolutely horrified. Before you can do anything to stop him, Art is walking towards her.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! As always, I love and appreciate comments <3

Chapter 10

Summary:

After your aunt's discovery, things grow more complicated for you.

Art continues towards your aunt, who stands frozen in fear.

“No,” you cry, “No, stop!” Art doesn’t look back, he continues walking with even, intentional strides towards your terrified aunt. She says your name again, looking at you with pleading eyes.

“Art, stop!” your voice is straining, but he doesn’t listen. He reaches Aunt Margaret, who lets out a frightened scream when he grabs a hold of her.

“No! Art, stop!” your voice comes out a ruined sob and you fall to your hands and knees. You know what she saw, there’s no justifying it, and you know what he’s going to do about it. “Stop, please!” you’re frantic, but you can’t move. Everything is happening in slow motion.

The knife is in his hand again. The context in which he wields it now has changed completely. Your aunt’s eyes are wide with fear, locked on you. Art braces her body firmly to his chest and moves the blade to her throat.

“No, Art, Please!” you’re begging. He doesn’t have a smile on his face like he normally would, which makes it worse somehow, as he draws the blade across her throat. A deep, vicious slice parts her neck in two, and blood pours from the wound immediately. You scream. You scream so loud, you’re sure someone must hear you. Someone will have to come.

Art drops her body, and your aunt falls to the ground, trying to catch herself, but failing. In a matter of minutes her body is still, blood forming a lake around her head and shoulders. Art watches her bleed out at his feet. You kneel on the ground, sobbing so hard you aren’t making any sound.

In a near catatonic state, you watch him walk to the truck and retrieve a tarp, which he then uses to wrap your aunt’s lifeless body. He carries her over his shoulder to the truck and tosses her body in the bed with an upsetting thud. You watch him get back in the truck and drive away.

You’re left kneeling in the dirt, and he’s gone.

 

***

 

You remain crumpled on the ground for a long time. You watch the sun sink lower in the sky, the shadows elongating. Birds, squirrels and rabbits come and go, paying you no mind. You watch the pool of blood in the dirt conceal and turn nearly black. Flies start to land in it, buzzing morbidly.

It gets dark and you go inside. You shower because you don’t know what else to do. You can’t stand the sight of yourself, Art’s name carved into your flesh, bruises on your breasts, hips and thighs all from him. The bite marks look especially gruesome. You want to tear off your skin.

How could you have trusted him? How could you see him as anything other than a monster? You wish that you could disappear. You wish that none of this had ever happened. You want your friends back, you want your normal life back. You sit on the floor of the shower and sob.

 

***

 

More time passes. You aren’t sure how much, when you hear a truck pull up to your camper. It’s probably the middle of the night, you think, but you check the time and it’s only 8:00. You’ve just been laying in bed staring at the wall for hours. You think it must be Art outside, but you don’t have the energy to tell him off. Then you hear a knock on your door. Art doesn’t knock.

You get up and see Detective Ward at the door.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says as a way of greeting. “How are you?”

“Um, good, fine,” you say, doing what you can to straighten your appearance.

“Okay, well, good,” he begins. “I had come by your aunt’s house earlier today, just to check in on you, but she told me you’d gone camping. She sounded a little worried about you, so I told her I’d pay you a visit and make sure things were okay.”

“Oh, thanks,” you say.

“Yeah, like I said, sorry to bother you. I know it’s late. I lost track of time before I was able to make it up here.”

“It’s okay,” you really aren’t sure what else to say. The moment doesn’t feel real. You feel like you’re floating above your body, watching yourself talk to the detective.

“I, um, wanted to let you know too,” says the detective, rubbing the back of his neck, “We’ve got two more missing people that we think may be connected to the clown. We’re uh, doing everything we can to get this solved. I would just rather you hear it from me than on the news.”

“Oh, okay.” Their faces flash through your mind. The sounds of their final moments echo in your ears.

“I don’t want you to worry,” Detective Ward assures you. “We’re gonna get this guy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” you force a small smile at the detective.

“Well, I’ll let your aunt know that you’re alright -”

“It’s okay,” you cut in, “I can call her.”

“Okay that’s good,” he says, “I need to get home anyway, and I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear from you.” He heads towards his truck. “Sorry again for the trouble. Have a good evening!” He gives you a wave and hops in his truck.

“Thanks!” you call after him and shut the door behind you. Then you collapse against it, tears streaming down your face.

 

***

 

Once Detective Ward is long gone, you venture back outside. How he didn’t see the pool of blood on the ground, you have no idea. You suppose it’s dark out, it’s on the other side of the fire pit, and he wasn't looking for anything amiss. Apparently some luck is on your side today. You walk up to it now and kick at it with your shoe, trying to disrupt the earth and cover it.

You should probably burn something over it, you think. It feels a little risky, but leaving the bloodstain is definitely the worse option. Gathering some branches and making use of your last firestarter, you start an uncontained burn over the dried pool of blood. You’re not even sure if it will work, but it’s the only thing you can think to do.

Hiding evidence for Art. It occurs to you that you’re helping him before you’ve even considered why. You feel too attached. You feel somehow responsible. Responsible for Aunt Margaret, obviously, but even Kyle, even the other two whose names you never learned. Maybe Jen and Sarah weren’t your fault, but you feel guilty for surviving. Why did all these people need to have their lives cut short, and you still get to stand here breathing?

You look up at the stars and feel a pit of guilt and shame in your stomach. The fire flickers before you, and it feels like a burning testament to your sins. Art’s name carved into your flesh burns red hot beneath your clothes. You had thought it was funny at the time, almost sweet. Now you just feel sick.

In the camper you have a six pack of hard ciders, and you go and get them. You crack one open, feeling the first sip run down your throat, straight to your stomach. The sensation reminds you that you haven’t eaten today. You’re too grief-stricken and sick to keep anything down now. Taking another sip, you decide you like the burn of the alcohol on your empty stomach. It warms you and numbs you while you watch the fire burn.

For hours you sit and drink, staring at the fire until it burns out. Once it’s nothing but smoldering embers you grind your feet into the dirt, putting it out and melting the soles of your shoes. You’re on the last cider of the six pack. You stumble up to the camper and swallow down another mouthful of sour, apple flavored alcohol. You realize you’re very drunk.

Just as you get inside, you see headlights and hear an engine outside. Confused, you go to the door and see Art’s stolen truck outside. Rage lights inside your chest, and you run out the door towards it. You meet Art just as he’s stepping out of the truck and start flailing your fists wildly.

“Why did you do that?” you cry, “Why did you have to do that?” Over and over you hit him and sob, asking why. He lets you unload your grief, not knowing what else to do but accept your torrent of tears and blows. At one point you lose your footing and fall against his chest. He catches you.

“Why?” you’re sobbing against him. “Why? Why? Why? Why?” You can’t stop crying. You can’t regain control of your body. You’re crying so hard you make yourself wretch. Leaning over and bracing your arm against the side of the truck, you vomit onto the ground.

Art tries to comfort you, to hold your hair, but you push him away. You get everything up, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, but now you’re too dizzy to walk straight. Art helps you to the camper, strong arms on either side of you.

“Get out of here!” you yell, once you’re inside. “Go! I don’t want to see you!” You try to push him out the door.

But Art doesn’t leave, he sits down on your bed.

“I don’t want you here!” you scream at him in complete hysterics. You search wildly for something to throw at him. You’re ready to destroy the place. Art looks like he doesn’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do either. You just cry. All you can do is cry.

You’re drunk and exhausted, and you collapse against him on the bed and cry. He holds you, and you yell at him some more, calling him terrible things. None of it could be argued untrue.

Eventually you can’t cry anymore, so you just whimper and whine. Art pulls you fully onto the bed, leaning you against his chest laying down.

“Don’t touch me,” your voice is hoarse. “Don’t touch me.” It comes out a tired mumble, and you bury your face in his shoulder. The truth is, you don’t want him to let you go. You wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

“I hate you,” you whisper, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

He holds onto you, and you lay your head on his chest. You listen for a heartbeat, though you never hear one.

 

***

 

You wake up in the same position you fell asleep in, still laying on Art’s chest. Adrenaline surges through you, and you sit up. Your head is pounding. You lay back down with a groan, burying your face in the pillow beside him. You hope that if you just go back to sleep, Art will leave.

You have no such luck when you wake up a few hours later to find him right next to you, looking at you with a wide grin and waving his hands as though to say “ta-da”. Still fucking here. You cover your head with the pillow. You can’t deal with this. You have no idea how to even begin to deal with this.

Art nudges you, and you tell him to fuck off. He gets off the bed, and you hear the door to the camper open and close, so you think maybe he’s actually listened. Of course, you’re mistaken because the next thing you know, you hear the door again, and you’re being dragged out of bed and bound with rope. You don’t even fight. You just walk with him to the truck.

“I’m fucking tired of this,” you tell him once you’re sitting in the truck. Your upper arms are still bound to your sides. “I’m tired.”

Art just looks at you.

“I’m so fucking tired,” you’re yelling now, apparently you haven’t gotten it all out of your system. “I’m tired of all of this! I want my life back!”

Art wags his finger at you and taps his finger on your forearm - the arm on which he’d written his original message to you. Anything. Anything. Anything. The word comes back to haunt you.

“I know what I said,” you look down at your lap, “But I didn’t mean it! You can just kill me! Just kill me!” You’re staring him down with ferocity in your eyes now.

Art’s cool demeanor doesn’t change. He simply wags his finger in your face again and gently boops you on the nose, before starting the truck and smirking to himself as he drives off.

 

***

 

He brings you to a donut shop, unties you and lets you out to get coffee and something to eat. You have the dead man’s wallet again, so you buy extra breakfast sandwiches to save for later. You have no idea how long Art plans to hold you hostage.

The coffee perks you up a bit, but it doesn’t do anything to blunt the grief you feel. You’ll need something stronger for that. You’re not sure what it would take to quell the roiling confusion and depression simmering within you. You feel entirely destitute, reliant on this brazen, costumed murderer. What’s left for you? You feel like there’s no future for you, save for the one that Art decides.

You’re silent while he drives. Cold shoulder, you won’t even look in his direction. You eat your breakfast sandwich and your body thanks you for it, though your emotions keep your stomach from settling. You sip more coffee in an attempt to feel something else. You watch the town you know pass by out the window. Art drives until you don’t recognize anything anymore, and keeps driving after that.

The sun is already low in the sky when you reach the abandoned warehouse surrounded by farmland. Art ties you up again before he lets you out of the truck. The warehouse is huge inside, and looks like it’s been occupied by several iterations of squatters. You feel bad for whoever happened to be here when Art found this place.

Art walks you over to a pretty destroyed-looking couch and gives you a careless toss in the general direction of it. The couch skids with you along the floor when you land on it. Art kneels down and takes your face in his hands. You strain against his grip, but he forces you to lock eyes with him. He stares at you intensely, sternly - a don’t-you-even-think-about-fucking-around type stare. Then he grips your hair roughly and throws you back against the couch. He heads for the exit without looking back.

You wait a few moments after he’s left to stand up. Your arms are still bound tightly to your sides but you’re free to walk around. Cautiously, you begin exploring the warehouse. You’re sitting in what seems to be a living area. There are two worn-out couches, a low coffee table, a television set, and a mattress on the floor. All kinds of trash and debris cover every surface. You’re sure there are rats and roaches living amongst the filth.

A large portion of the warehouse has what looks to be large tanks for water treatment. Beyond that, you find a plethora of weaponry tucked into a closet-like alcove - knives, saws, and what you can only assume are surgical instruments. You look through the morbid stockpile, straining awkwardly against your bonds, but don’t find any guns. That’s the only way you’d stand any kind of chance, you think, and Art must know it. Although, he did apparently shoot himself in the head and survive, so you aren’t sure how great your odds are in any case.

Disappointed, you continue along the perimeter of the warehouse, past the large loading dock doors and the exit that Art used. You see another workbench area with tools that you remember passing on the way in. Continuing further back, you find sheets of plastic hanging from the ceiling. You definitely don’t like the looks of that, but still, you continue forwards. As you duck under the plastic, you think you hear a muffled voice.

You look around for the source, but see no one. The floor is covered in bloodstains. There’s still another wall of plastic to pass through, so you step forward, bracing yourself for the worst. Once you’ve crawled under the plastic you find a girl about your age you think bound entirely with thick layers of duct tape to a chair in the center of the room.

She cries when she sees you, a look of frantic hope crossing her face. The duct tape that holds her to the chair has to be five layers thick, completely covering her torso and legs. More tape covers her mouth, wrapping around her entire head several times to do so. Her arms are bound flat to the arms of the chair with the same tape, and you notice her ring and pinky fingers are missing from one hand. It doesn’t look fresh.

“Fuck,” you murmur, taking in the scene. Of course, your own arms are bound stupidly to your sides. You aren’t sure how to get her out of the tape without hurting her.

“Hey,” you say softly, approaching her slowly like she’s a wounded animal, “I’m gonna help you, okay?” Tears of relief fall down her face and she nods.

“I’m gonna find something to get that tape off you,” you tell her, and then go back the way you came in search of something to free her. At the workbench you find a utility knife that seems perfect. It’s small enough to not be unwieldy, and you should be able to cut through the tape without too much trouble. You return with the knife, showing her what you have.

“Okay,” you come to her side, “I’m gonna get this tape off your face the best that I can, okay? Don’t move.” You position yourself next to her, facing the same direction as her, so you can reach her with the knife. You strain upwards on your toes to connect the blade with the tape around her face while your arms remain tied to your side. You’re able to bend at the elbow a bit for some leverage, but getting a good angle on the tape is difficult. After several tries you make a decent slice in it.

Dropping the knife, you grab onto the torn edge of tape and try to pull from your awkward angle next to her.

“Sorry for this,” you apologize as you yank at the tape. You’re able to uncover her mouth, and you hear her taking in gasping breaths of relief.

“Thank you,” she says hoarsely. You still have a lot of work to do if you’re going to cut her free, and you have no idea how long Art will be gone. Nonetheless, you feel determined.

“How long have you been here?” you ask her, squatting down to retrieve the knife.

“At least a few days,” she says. “I don’t know anymore.”

You work the knife under the tape on her arms with great effort. It’s much thicker than the tape around her face was. She watches you intently, duct tape still matted to her hair.

“He’s gone?” she asks you.

“Yeah for now,” you tell her. “I’m not sure for how long.” You keep prying at the tape. “What’s your name?”

“Julia,” she answers.

“What did,” you hesitate, “What did he do to you?”

“Mostly he’s just kept me here,” she says, and then, “He cut off my fingers right away. I thought I would bleed to death just from that. I’d never seen so much blood.” She pauses and swallows. “He hasn’t given me any food or water. It’s probably been almost two days since I’ve seen him at all.”

You wonder to yourself what Art’s plan is. Did he want you to find Julia here? He didn’t make much of an effort to stop you. This feels like some kind of test. You don’t care what Art wants from you. If you’re able to save even one person, after all the death you’ve seen, you’re going to.

“I’m glad he didn’t hurt you too badly,” you say, trying not to sound insensitive. “I’ve seen him do worse.”

“How long have you been here?” Julia asks, “Have you been here the whole time?”

“No,” you explain, “but he’s been following me for a long time. It doesn’t matter though, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Finally you’re making progress on the tape. The muscles in your arms burn from the effort you're expending, and the impossible angle you have to hold the knife at is cramping your hand. You slide the knife upward one final time, nearly losing it in the process. Julia hisses and you see that you’ve cut into her flesh.

“Sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” she tells you. You begin pulling at the tape, and Julia leans her body away from the chair, loosening the tape further. Soon it’s loose enough that she can pull herself free. Now you cut the tape securing her forearm to the arm of the chair. From there Julia is easily able to free herself. You give her the knife, and she cuts herself loose from the rest of the tape. You wince at the angry, pink duct tape burns on her skin. Julia stands.

“Okay,” she says, “Now let me untie you.” She moves to your side and begins pulling at the rope around your arms.

“No, no,” you stop her, though you’re not sure why. “I know he’ll find me again. We have to find a way to get you out of here.”

Just then, you hear the door of the warehouse open.

“Shit,” you whisper, “You have to hide.”

“What is he going to do to you?” Julia asks, panicking.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say and you nudge her further back into the room. She hides in the corner behind a large heating duct that runs floor to ceiling. You think it’s a pretty obvious place to hide, but there’s not enough time to do anything about it.

You exit the plastic walled rooms and see Art standing there waiting for you, as if he knew this is where he would find you.

“You have to let her go,” you say, your voice trembling. Art tilts his head as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

“I’m serious,” you repeat, “Let her go.”

Art pushes past you through the hanging plastic, back to where Julia was tied up. You follow behind him. When he finds the chair empty, he turns and glares at you. Art stalks around the room searching for his missing captive.

“Art, you have to let her go,” you plead, “Don’t hurt her.”

He continues to move about the room. Eventually he comes to a stop next to the heating duct and holds a finger up as though he has an idea. You know he knows this is where Julia is hiding. He creeps backwards slowly, keeping his eyes on you with a wicked grin, then he lunges behind the duct. Julia lets out a terrified scream as Art grabs her by the hair and pulls her out of her hiding place. She thrashes against him, but it’s no use.

“Art,” your voice is cold steel, “Don’t hurt her.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, seriously, sticks his tongue out like a child would at your demand. He throws Julia back in the chair, and she stays there, shivering in fear. Then he leaves the room, presumably to retrieve a weapon of some kind. You and Julia remain frozen in the room together. You feel as though you’ve failed her. Art returns with a large meat cleaver, and Julia begins to sob.

You step in front of Julia, blocking her with your body. The smile remains on Art’s face and he simply shakes his head at you. Slowly he walks around you, pacing the room, coming to a stop behind the chair. Julia continues to shake and sob as Art places a hand on her shoulder. He poises the cleaver over the two remaining fingers on her hand.

“Don’t,” you say through gritted teeth. He raises his eyebrows giving you a challenging look as if to say, and why the hell not?

You place your hand over Julia’s. The blade touches your skin.

“You’ll have to cut my fingers off first,” you tell him. A boldness rises up in you that had been absent yesterday at the campsite. All you can do is hold onto it and let it lead you. You step closer, toe to toe with Julia and inches from Art’s face.

“You won’t do it,” you say. Art side eyes you. You can tell he’s really thinking about what he’s going to do here. You step around the side of the chair, keeping your hand under the knife, but getting into Art’s personal space.

“I know you won’t do it,” you say, looking up at him. And you know you’re taking a big risk, because really, he might. You don’t know that he won’t, but you have a feeling you can get under his skin.

“I know you won’t do it,” you repeat with a smug smile, “Because I know you like all my fingers attached to my hand,” you breathe against his neck. Art looks down at you with malice, but he doesn’t challenge you.

“Do it,” you urge him. “Do it, or let her go.” You lean your forehead against his chin, then look up, leaning in as though you’re going to kiss him. Art stays still. With your mouth not even an inch from his you whisper again, “Let her go.”

Art has his eyes locked on you, and you meet his gaze with equal intensity, not backing down. After a moment he caves, sighing and rolling his eyes. He walks back in front of Julia and motions for her to get up. As she’s standing, he lunges at her with the cleaver, but stops shy of actually making contact. Julia flinches terribly, and of course Art points and laughs. Then he grabs her by the wrist and leads her out of the room. You go to follow, but Art pushes you into the chair.

The two of them leave, and after a moment you hear the door once, and then again after a beat of silence. For all you know he could have executed Julia right outside, but you have to believe otherwise. Art returns with a serious look on his face. He stands in front of you, glowering.

“Thank you,” you say, “For letting her go.” Art continues to stare at you, though you almost feel that he’s looking through you. You begin to stand up, but he pushes you back down into the chair by your shoulders. The meat cleaver is in his hand again, and he takes hold of your left wrist, placing your palm flat on the arm of the chair. He holds the cleaver over your pinky finger, still with the same serious expression.

Your heart hammers in your chest. He’s really going to do it. He stares at you. He raises the knife, and you squeeze your eyes shut. A moment passes. Nothing happens. You look up, and he’s still staring down at you. He can’t make up his mind, you realize. The moment hangs suspended, will he, or won’t he?

Then, Art moves his hand to the ropes that still bind your upper arms, gathering them in his hand and hacking through them with the cleaver. You feel breathless with relief. You know that wasn’t just a bluff. You know he was really about to do it, but something stopped him. You try to study his face, but he turns and leaves the room.

You follow Art across the warehouse and find that he’s turned on the television. The news is playing coverage of him, and he stands there watching it.

“I don’t want to see that,” you say. Art looks over to you. Taking a seat on the couch, you repeat yourself again, “I don’t want to watch that crap. Turn on something else.” Art gives you a quizzical look and scoffs to himself before changing the channel.

“Give it to me,” you say, holding your hand out for the ancient remote control. Art actually hands it to you. He sits down next to you and watches you flip through the channels. Of course, you stop on an old game show, feeling a pang of sadness for your aunt. You look over at Art, and it’s a knife through your chest.

The two of you sit awkwardly side by side and watch the game show for a while. You don’t know why he doesn’t go find something else to do. You still want to be giving him the cold shoulder. You find your bag from the coffee shop and eat a leftover breakfast sandwich, pretending he’s not in the room with you. The show continues, and eventually you start to grow tired.

Art notices you’re starting to nod off. He grabs a pillow from somewhere and hands it to you. You examine it for stains and weird smells. It passes inspection well enough, so you get comfortable, laying down at the far end of the couch while Art sits by your feet. You really are starting to fall asleep to your surprise.

You stir awake when you feel Art brush his hand against yours. He takes hold of your hand and gently pinches your thumb between his forefingers and thumb. Then he does the same to your index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers, pinching them each one at a time. You know what he’s telling you. He does like all your fingers on your hand, and you bite back a smile. He lets go of your hand, and you tuck it under yourself, drifting back to sleep.

***

 

At some point in the night you wake again. Art is gone, but the TV is still on. It’s showing the news again. On the screen you see coverage of your aunt reported missing and you flinch. The newscasters show her picture and give her name and details of where she was last seen. You wonder when the police will be out to search the campground. The coverage goes on, showing pictures of Art and his other victims. You’re not really listening anymore. You start falling back to sleep, but you're jolted awake by another missing person’s report. You look in disbelief at your own face staring back at you on the television screen.

Notes:

Keeping this story moving, but hoping the wheels don't fall off. Working on the next chapter...

Chapter 11

Summary:

You begin getting used to life with Art, only to be met with an unexpected surprise.

Notes:

Some silliness, sincerity, and surprises in this chapter!

You spend the next day and a half staying out of Art’s way. In fact, you barely see him. You eat your remaining breakfast sandwiches, watch TV, and explore the farmland around the warehouse. It’s extremely deserted. The roads are unpaved dirt, and you have no idea how far the nearest town is. The only vehicle you found was a rusty combine which is unfortunately not at all helpful to you.

When Art is around, he keeps his distance, and you appreciate it. You’re going to have to ask him for clothes or a shower soon though. You stink, and there’s only so much you can do about it. The warehouse does have a small bathroom, and you’ve attempted to wash yourself in the sink, but the tap water and paper towels just don’t cut it.

Living like this is hard. You wish you had your sketchbook or your journal. You miss all your books and wish you had more to do to pass the time. All you have is time to think. Now that you’re officially a missing person, you wonder what Art’s plan is. You’re starting to feel like he’s just going to keep you like a pet, and the thought makes you incredibly uneasy. You haven’t totally given up hope on the possibility of escaping. You’re doubtful that Art will let you return to your regular life voluntarily.

You’re walking the perimeter of an empty cornfield, thinking about all of this. The sky above you is dark grey and bloated with impending rain. Your shoes sink into the grass. It rained all night, only letting up in the late morning. The sound of the rainfall pattering on the metal roof of the warehouse did help you sleep. Ironically, you were anxious because Art was gone. You’d think his presence would be the last thing you’d want, but being alone in the warehouse was worse.

He still hasn’t been back, and you have no idea where he could be. You can’t believe how truly stranded you are. How completely dependent on him you’ve become. The fact that you’re awaiting his return with something close to eagerness upsets you. You continue to walk. To your back is a hill dense with trees that you haven’t dared explore yet. You’ve only traversed the perimeter of all the fields and looked inside the outbuildings. The most interesting discovery you made was a nest of baby raccoons.

Your cellphone has been dead since Art brought you here. Charging it that night at the camper had been the last thing on your mind, and now you’re completely cut off from the outside world save for what you see on the television. Apparently you’re being searched for. Somehow this doesn’t comfort you like you wish it would. You feel beyond saving.

Rain begins to fall, and you make your way back to the warehouse. Your clothes cling to your skin as you’re bathed in the rain, and you're grateful that it’s maybe washing some of the filth from your body. Days of grease and grime have built up on your skin, and it’s absolutely infuriating. You need a shower badly.

Making it back to the warehouse, you take in the scene. Art’s still gone. Despite the size of the space, the air is stuffy. Blue grey light filters in through the high narrow windows on the south wall. You make your way across the space, over to the couch. The torn up, light brown sofa has become your home base over the few days you’ve been here. It’s where you sleep, where you watch the TV, and where you do most of your thinking and waiting.

You make yourself comfortable and contemplate turning on the television. It’s between that or considering the dire state of your existence. You opt for the TV. As you flip through the channels, you hear the warehouse door open, and your heart leaps in your chest. As much as you hate the feeling, you’re glad Art is back.

He walks over to you, not doing much to acknowledge your presence. He looks clean, just a little soaked from the rain. You want to ask him where he was, but you know he’ll never tell you.

“Hey, I need a shower,” you break the silence. Art blinks at you. “Please,” you continue, slightly exasperated, “I don’t know how long you plan on keeping me here, but I need to shower. I’m disgusting.”

Art sits down on the couch across from you and puts on a listening face.

“And food,” you continue, “I’m out of food. I know you don’t seem to need it, but I do.” You pause and then add, “And there’s nothing to fucking do around here. What do you expect me to do all day?”

Art considers all of this. It’s the most words you’ve spoken to him since the incident with Julia. As usual, he seems to concede that you have a point and nods in agreement with your complaints. He shrugs as though that stuff never crossed his mind.

“It sucks here,” you say, and Art crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m serious,” you say - you’re always so serious, “What am I supposed to do here? Why do you have me here?”

Art comes over to sit next to you on the couch. You lean away from him, but he takes your hand in his. You want to pull away, but you also want to understand. He holds your right hand between both of his and looks at you with something like penitence in his eyes.

“What, you’re sorry?” you ask with flat sarcasm. Art shrugs and nods. “I can have a shower, and clothes, and something to do?” you continue. He nods and smiles at you. You roll your eyes and sigh, pulling your hand away and slumping back into the couch.

“Well, good,” you tell the ceiling. Art does a happy little shimmy, gets up and walks away, leaving you with the Spanish broadcast of a soccer game on TV.

You stare at the screen and listen to the faraway sounds of clanging metal echoing across the warehouse as Art works on some kind of evil project. You pick at your cuticles. What the fuck is your life?

You’re not going to be able to go back to the camper, or your apartment because they’re likely considered crime scenes. You wonder what the police will find there. You wonder if Art had been back to hide things, though you’re not sure what evidence would need to be hidden. Somehow, he’s a step ahead of everything and it confounds you.

After an hour or so passes, Art returns to you and takes you by the hand, leading you outside. The truck he’d taken from the work site is gone. Now he has a large white van, presumably stolen from the demolition company named on the side.

“Wow, sweet ride,” you say. Art winks and holds up an “ok” with his fingers. You get in the passenger seat and let him drive you away.

 

***

 

You arrive at an unfamiliar truck stop, the promise of a hot shower irresistibly close. As soon as Art puts the van in park, you jump out and head straight for the entrance. An icy blast of air hits you as you push through the doors. Fluorescent lights, colorful bottled drinks and blinking slot machines fight for your attention, but immediately you’re drawn to the lobby in the back where you can get soap and towels for $1.50.

The attendant gives you a towel and mini bottled soap, and you buy a pair of cheap flip flops too. The shower stalls are spacious, lined with bright white tile. They’re easily the cleanest thing you’ve been in contact with over the last several days. Your showing is blazing hot and wonderful, but also unfortunately timed to just 15 minutes.

When your time is up, you put your dirty clothes back on and try not to let it bother you. You’ll have to get Art to take you shopping. An image of the two of you wandering around the local mall conjures in your head, and you can’t help but laugh to yourself.

You meet Art back outside at the van and find that he did some shopping while you were showering. How he didn’t raise any alarm bells for anyone going in there in broad daylight, you have no idea. Art excitedly shows you what he bought for you once you get settled back in the passenger seat. It’s mostly snack food and energy drinks, and you curl up your lip.

“I need real food,” you tell him. Art holds up a bag of cheese puffs and points to the phrase “real cheese” printed on the package. You roll your eyes.

“And clothes,” you add, “What about clothes?” Art smiles and holds up a finger, like ‘you’re not gonna believe this, just wait’. He produces from another bag a large, tie dyed t shirt with a wolf on it, holding it up with a genuine grin. He raises his eyebrows, eager for your reaction, and thrusts the shirt at you. You see he’s bought several.

“Oh my god,” you say, shaking your head. “What am I supposed to do? Run around in these oversize shirts with no pants?” Art sticks out his bottom lip and shrugs like that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“No!” you’re frustrated now, “I need pants, Art. And underwear. I need underwear. I need real clothes and real food, and you’re going to take me to get it.”

Now Art’s exasperated. He throws his hands up and shakes his head, not knowing where to obtain these mysterious items you demand.

“Take me to the department store,” you insist. “I know there has to be one close. Just drive until you find it.” Not knowing what else to do but listen to you, Art starts driving.

Just as you suspected you find a department store pretty quickly, and Art pulls into the parking lot. You go to open the door, but Art stops you. Instead he fishes a notepad and paper out of the center console and hands it to you.

“What’s this?” you ask incredulously. Art takes the notepad from you, writes something and hands it back. ‘Shopping List’ is scrawled across the top of the page, and you feel your annoyance grow. He’s not going to let you leave the van. It makes sense, he must have seen that your face is on the news now.

You’re momentarily saddened that your ridiculous shopping spree vision with Art will not become a reality. You begin writing your list and are then mortified when you realize he’s going to have to pick out underwear for you. Heat rises to your cheeks. You bite your lip as you scribble it down anyway.

Once you’ve completed your list - and it was a long list: deodorant, toothpaste and toothbrush, soap, jeans socks and underwear in your size, maybe a shirt that doesn’t have a tie dyed wolf on it, staple foods, water, and so on - you send Art into the store to do your bidding. You kick your feet up on the dash and wait.

You catch yourself thinking about your old life. The one that’s not so far away, but feels impossible to return to now. Your academic sabbatical has become a permanent respite. You’ll probably never see the inside of your apartment again. You had no idea that would be the case the last time you were there, and the thought haunts you. How long before they stop looking for you? How long before Art gets tired of keeping you around and decides to chop you into pieces?

You scan the parking lot, contemplating flagging someone down and getting them to call for help. Art has parked far away though, and no one comes near the van. You crack open one of the energy drinks that Art bought and keep waiting. Maybe you can convince him to keep you holed up in a luxury hotel instead, that would be something. You’re glad that things will at least be a bit more hygienic moving forwards.

Art returns pushing a shopping cart, and you chuckle at the sight. He puts everything in the back of the van, and immediately you’re pawing through it like it’s Christmas morning. Art gets in the van and watches you with a pleased expression. He did pretty well. You find everything you put on your list, down to the right brand of moisturizer. You grimace and blush when you find the underwear, all lacy red and pink - he even had the audacity to get a few thongs.

“Seriously?” You hold up a thong. Art just looks at you and does a wolf whistle. You fling it at him. “You wear it,” you tell him angrily. So, Art does just that, putting it on his head and posing for you. “Okay, I’m ignoring you,” you mutter and continue going through the bags.

You’re pleased to find some plain t shirts. You stop when you find something you didn’t put on the list. A notebook and a set of pens sit at the bottom of one of the bags. You notice he got you a couple novels too. You hold the books and pens in your lap, genuinely touched.

“Thanks,” you tell Art, who is thankfully no longer wearing your underwear on his head. He smiles, and you lean across the cab to hug him without thinking. The thoughtfulness of the gesture has left you speechless. You feel happiness in your chest for the first time in a long time.

Art starts the long drive back to the warehouse, and you pull out your notebook and begin writing in it. It seems like a good idea to keep a diary; you could sell it for millions if you make it out of this alive. You start to get that giddy road trip feeling again as you drive, watching the scenery pass by out the window.

“Can we get burgers again?” you ask, out of the blue. Art nods, why not, and pulls off at the first exit he sees. You would think he’d be more careful about who sees you, but you’re not about to question his reasoning. He lets you go inside and buy them like last time. He doesn’t even need to threaten you first, you’re getting good at this.

Returning with the burgers and fries, you settle back into the passenger seat. Nothing remarkable happened inside the restaurant. The woman behind the register was too glassy eyed to notice you’d been on the 9 'o'clock news the night before. You offer a burger to Art, and this time he actually takes it. To your shock, he bites into it and eats it like a normal person, nodding and giving you a thumbs up to tell you it’s good.

Art gets you back on the road. You feel lighter somehow. Satisfied with your clean skin, your warm food, and your fresh supplies, you sip your energy drink and stare out the window. It’s truly the best you’ve felt in weeks, and you have to fight back the urge to thank Art again because he’s also the reason you’re in this mess at all.

The sun is low, streaking everything with pinks and oranges. Rain clouds from earlier in the day are now piled on the distant horizon, silhouetted starkly against the vivid sky. You have your knees bent, feet up on the dash, taking in the view, and you startle when Art puts his hand on your knee. He just rests it there, doesn’t try anything, just holds onto your knee gently, his fingers wrapping around your thigh. The weight of his hand is solid on your leg, but there’s no tension behind it. You know he’s trying to be sweet, trying to be sorry, and you let him keep his hand there as you watch the sun go down through the windshield.

 

***

 

Once you get back to the warehouse, you excitedly unload your new stock of creature comforts. It feels good to add a little domesticity to the decrepit space. You asked Art to get you a nice pillow and blanket, and you lay them out on the couch. You change into some clean clothes, fresh, lacy pink underwear (you make sure to select the least salacious pair, thanks Art), a clean t shirt, a not-destroyed bra, and new jeans. You feel great.

Art has been pretty up in your personal space, following you around since you’ve been back. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’s behaved the last couple days. After you’ve put everything away, Art’s still trailing behind you like a lost puppy. You’re not sure what he wants from you. It seems like he just wants to spend time with you, but doesn’t know how to express it.

“Do you wanna watch TV?” you ask him. He agrees to this, and you find yourself sitting next to him on the couch. It takes you a while to decide on something to watch. You forgo the 80’s slasher (too real) in favor of the bland romantic comedy, but Art flips the channel again and you end up watching some cop drama.

As you sit there, you notice that Art is somehow getting closer to you, and you decide to ignore him. Eventually he’s pressed up next to you shoulder to shoulder. You look over at him, studying his face, but he’s still just looking at the TV. You aren’t used to being close to him, not without everything else that comes with it, and it takes you a while to relax.

Time passes and you find yourself leaning on his arm. Then Art takes a hold of your hand, gently turning it over and rubbing circles on your palm with his thumb. You hold your breath. His hand travels up your wrist to stroke your inner arm. You aren’t sure what to do but just sit there. You still have a hard time admitting to yourself that you like the way he touches you.

He kisses your shoulder, and you continue looking ahead at the TV. It’s clear he’s trying to get your attention, wanting to get some kind of response from you. He twines your fingers together, and rubs your inner arm softly with his other hand, still looking at you, leaning his chin on your shoulder. After a moment of this you turn to face him. His eyes are soft, and you find a question in them. A question that takes you aback: will you have me?

He’s asking you, waiting for you. You get to decide. The way he’s looking at you lights a fire in your heart that you know shouldn’t be there. Still, you lean forward and kiss him softly. Your lips part, making space for his tongue, and it’s warmer and sweeter than you ever remember it being before. You kiss slowly, gently at first, Art still keeping a hold of your hand, but it quickly turns into something deeper. That dark undertow pulls you down again, and you feel helpless within his kiss, letting him pull you closer with a hand on the back of your head. Art bites your bottom lip, pulling away with it still caught between his teeth. Playfully, he shakes his head and snarls like he’ll bite it off. You can’t help but laugh, and the corner of your mouth quirks up in a lopsided grin. Art pulls you in for another fierce, wanting kiss. You come away breathless, looking back in his eyes with your answer to his question. Yes.

Without waiting any longer, Art pulls you into his lap with your back to him. His hands cup your breasts and his breath is heavy on your neck. Immediately warmth rushes through you from the inside out. He kisses your neck and slips his hands underneath your shirt. You sit still, letting him touch you.

Over your bra he circles your nipples with his thumb and forefingers, playing with you over your clothes. Then he reaches back and unhooks your bra, gently this time. You’re honestly surprised he’s capable of such an act. You slip your arms out of the straps and slide it off without thinking. Art continues to play with your tits over your shirt, letting your nipples get hard through the fabric. He pinches and twists, and the friction of the fabric adds a sensation that makes you want to sink into him.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, exposing your extended neck and arching your back. Instantly, Art takes this as an invitation to grab greedy handfuls of your tits and place hungry open mouth kisses on the side of your neck. You sigh when his teeth scrape your skin.

He keeps kissing your neck and moves his hands to your hips, shifting your body against his. You feel how hard he is as he pulls your ass down into his lap and rubs against it. The feeling always takes your breath. You forget how badly you want him until the moment you feel him against you like this, and then it’s all you can think about. Your body lights up, electric anticipation in your nerves. You grind against him yourself now and he keeps his hands on your hips, still leaving needy kisses on your neck. He licks and bites and sighs against your skin, and you revel in the feeling of how badly he wants you in this moment.

His hands go to your jeans. Again, you’re surprised he has patience for the buttons and the zipper. You have to stand to get out of them, and you decide to make a show of it, sticking your ass out and sliding them down slowly. You sway your hips as you pull down your jeans and expose your pink panties. Art grabs you by the hips and bites you on the ass. It sends a shock through your body, and you let out a cry of surprise. He bites down again, and this time a moan escapes your throat.

He slides his fingers under the edges of the fabric, playing with you. His feather light touch raises goosebumps on your skin. Gently, he snaps the elastic of the fabric. Then without warning, he smacks you on the ass, and you cry out again. You like the sting of it, so you brace your hands on the coffee table and arch your back, legs spread, ass up, so he can hit you again. You don’t need to say anything. His hand connects with your tender flesh in another delicious slap. Again, and again he spanks you, each stinging blow making you more wet than the last.

Once you’ve had enough, he kisses your reddened flesh gently. He licks along the lines of your panties. You feel like you’ve soaked through them completely at this point. As though he’s testing this, Art licks your puffy folds through the fabric. If they weren’t soaked before, they sure are now. He pulls your panties to the side and starts eating you out from behind.

You arch up into the feeling of his mouth on you and spread your legs further. The way he’s licking you becomes the only thing you’ve ever needed. His tongue teasing and tasting you awakens your desire fully, and you swivel your hips for him. Art moves with you, keeping a hand on you to push your underwear to the side while he slowly fucks you with his tongue. You arch deeper, urging him wordlessly to lavish your needy clit, but it seems he’s taunting you by withholding contact no matter how you strain and contort yourself. He teases the soft folds of your labia, pressing inside and tasting all of you, but doesn’t venture further, leaving you wanting.

Breathless and frustrated, you look over your shoulder and see that he already has his cock out and is lazily pleasuring himself with his other hand. Your frustration grows, but so does your arousal. Art leans back and catches you looking at him. He continues to stroke himself, now more for your benefit. He watches you watching him, and is absolutely delighted that you can’t seem to look away. He raises his eyebrows, inviting you over to the couch.

You turn around, ready to climb on top of him, but Art puts a hand on your shoulder, guiding you to your knees instead. The floor is cold on your bare knees, and you try not to think about the filth that surrounds you. You look up at Art, so ready for you, still stroking himself, and you do begin to forget that a rat could run across your legs at any moment. There are butterflies in your stomach as you reach out to wrap your hand around his length, replacing his hand with yours. Just to feel it in your hand is already a lot, you catch yourself feeling nervous, wanting to please.

You work your hand up and down his shaft just for a moment before adding your mouth. You can feel Art’s eyes on you. He gathers your hair, wrapping it around his hand and holding slight tension at the base of your neck while you take his cock down your throat. You bob your head a few times, taking as much of his length as you can without gagging. Then you relax your throat and slide down the rest of the way. Art holds you there and begins thrusting up into your wanting mouth. He fills your throat, completely cutting off your airway. Your jaw strains around him as he presses you down.

Panic begins to sing in your chest the longer you go without air, but Art doesn’t seem to be concerned. He’s more than content to be fucking your face and splitting your jaw as unconsciousness threatens to overtake you. Just as you feel your vision darkening, he lets you up, and you draw in a desperate gasping breath. Art doesn’t laugh at you, instead he pets you on the cheek appreciatively. You look up at him with watery eyes, and he pulls you back into his lap again, this time facing him.

He brushes his fingers against your cheek again and taps you on the nose affectionately, looking up at you with a smile. Then he kisses your neck, pulling your hair to the side and slides a hand under your panties. Finally, he rubs small circles over your clit, and you can’t help but start needily humping his hand. Art lets you grind on his hand, embarrassingly desperate, and goes back to touching himself with his other hand. You’re so wet, and you feel like just this would be enough to get you off, but you want more.

You decide to take charge, situating yourself back on Art’s lap, taking his cock in your hand, pushing your panties to the side and positioning him at your entrance. Art is surprised by your eagerness and breaks into a wide grin as you throw yourself at him. You slide down his length slowly, letting him stretch your walls. Both of you draw in a sharp breath as he fills you completely. Sitting in the pleasure of the feeling, you look down at him.

This is a moment you’ve come to love, as much as you’d never admit it to another living soul. The way Art looks up at you, the way he feels inside you before anything else has happened, the fullness, the anticipation, the relaxed look on his face, it’s all a delicious gift to be unwrapped layer by layer. You rock your hips forward, and Art leans his head back and sighs. You touch his face, the palm of your hand on his cheek, and he turns towards it, rubbing against your touch as you move your hips on top of him. You like it when he lets you start things slowly like this.

He allows you to move your hips slowly, lazily, just watching you with half lidded eyes. His hands graze your hips and run up your sides, touching you without guiding you. You can tell he likes this too, letting you set the pace. Your movements become quicker and more focused as you find just the right angle. Art sitting back, letting you work yourself over for him, watching you move with a lustful gaze.

“I like this,” you tell him with a coy smile. You continue to rhythmically grind your hips on him, and as you're coming down, Art raises his hips to meet you, pushing deeper. He raises his eyebrows in question, ‘did you like that?’, and you nod, picking up your pace and letting him move with you now. With Art’s movements beneath you, hot pressure begins to build inside you. You feel your face grow warm, and you continue your rhythm over his thrusting.

“Yeah, I like that,” you look down at him and put your hands on his chest. Art grips your ass and moves you more forcefully now, watching your face, waiting for further praise. You let out a moan as he continuously hits the burning sweet spot deep inside you. “Yeah,” you moan again, with less control of your voice now. Art likes this, and he ghosts his thumb over your open mouth. Your tongue moves from between your parted lips to meet his touch. You hold his gaze with intensity and you swirl your tongue over the pad of his thumb and grind your hips insistently against him.

Desire darkens his eyes. Art holds onto you tightly and moves you onto your back on the couch, getting on top of you and thrusting into you without breaking his rhythm. You let out another moan. Now you're able to give yourself over completely to his thrusts, allowing him to stretch you and fill you and push you to your limit. His pace is always faster and more bruising than any that you can keep, and you surrender to him as he drives into you relentlessly.

You hold his shoulders and kiss his neck, panting while he fucks you. Being on the couch like this makes you feel like a teenager doing something you shouldn’t be doing. It’s dirty and debauched. You dig your nails into Art’s back and he fucks you harder. You know you won’t be able to hang on for much longer. You moan into his ear, gripping onto him tightly. He doesn’t let up, picking up on your frantic shallow breaths and the tension in your grip on him. You want to take him there too.

“Will you cum for me?” It doesn’t take much to paint your voice with perfect pornstar filth, and Art responds to it just as you hoped he would. Desperate sloppy thrusts that have you finding your own release in a matter of seconds. You clench around his length and feel him follow right behind you, warmth spreading through your body as he finishes inside you. His body collapses on top of you, and you hold onto him, wanting him to sink into you entirely.

Both of you take a moment to catch your breath. Just breathing like this with Art, feeling the way you’ve spent and exhausted his body is almost as exhilarating as the sex itself. It’s truly a vulnerable way to see him, and it fascinates you. You wish you could just keep him like this, a specimen in a jar, the way he keeps you, but you know the moment is bound to pass.

Art gets up and goes to the bathroom. When he returns you see that his suit isn’t ripped. You think he must have put a zipper there, though you can’t see it, and the thought cracks you up. He sees you smiling and looks at you, wanting to be let in on the joke.

“Did you put a zipper there?” you ask, motioning towards his crotch. Art shrugs at you, sitting back down on the couch. “You did,” you exclaim, amusement in your voice. Art looks at you like he doesn’t get what’s so funny about that, and it only makes you laugh more. You crawl over to him across the couch.

“That’s how bad you want me, huh?” you tease playfully, tracing a finger along his shoulder. Art rolls his eyes, but you continue teasing him, running your fingers over his shoulder. “You can admit it,” you tell him with a grin. Art pulls you into his lap and bites you again and again, pretending to attack you. You laugh and push him away. You really do feel like a teenager.

“I didn’t want to say so before,” you admit, “But I like being with you. Maybe not here, exactly.” You look around the room. “I think you could find a nicer place to stay,” you tell him honestly, “But I like how you make me feel.”

Art wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck like he’s been waiting this whole time for you to say those words. You catch the side of his face and look up at him, meeting his eyes with honesty.

“But you scare me,” you say. “And you hurt me. What you’ve done hurts me, and I know you understand that.” You look away. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to hold both these feelings at once. I know you’re going to do whatever you want, but just know that it hurts me.” You have no idea if these words will have an effect on him, or why you’re telling him any of this at all. Art continues to study your face with concern.

“I don’t know how to trust you,” you tell him, meeting his eyes again. Art’s face is blank. It doesn’t seem to concern him whether you trust him or not.

“I want to trust you,” you say, and you can’t believe your own words, though you know they’re true. “You’ve taken my whole life. I want to be able to trust you, if you’re all I have left.” Art’s expression softens. It’s as though he’s never considered your perspective, that he really is all you have at this point. That seems to resonate, and he takes hold of your hands in his.

“Can I trust you? Do you want me to?” You can’t keep the desperate edge out of your voice.

Art lifts your hands and kisses your knuckles. He looks at you, searching your face for any hint of doubt, anything you may be holding back. You look back at him plainly, open and sincere. Art matches your sincerity, and leans forward to kiss you. You allow his lips to meet yours softly, closing your eyes and breathing in deeply. This gesture is likely the closest to an admission of loyalty you’ll get from him, and you appreciate it for all it’s worth. He pulls away first and embraces you, holding onto you for a moment. All you can hear is your own heartbeat against his chest.

The moment dissipates, and Art gets up to leave. You try not to feel like you're sinking in quicksand as he moves across the room towards his workbench. He picks up his trash bag, and you know he’s going to leave.

“Will you come back tonight?” you ask from across the room. You feel ridiculous, but you can’t stop yourself. Art pauses and gives you a genuine nod.

“Okay, good,” you smile. Art smiles back and heads for the door. The smile won’t fade from your face even after he’s gone, and you find yourself feeling warmed from the inside out. You feel buoyant, almost love struck, and you try to bring yourself back down to earth.

Getting up from the couch, you collect your clothes and dress yourself. You grab a granola bar from your new stash of nonperishable food, and pick up your journal. You write for a bit, but find yourself feeling too much like a lovesick schoolgirl to continue. Then you switch over to sketching. You study the space, attempting to render thumbnail sketches of what you can see like you remember doing in the one drawing class you ever took.

New details jump out at you. You capture the TV with its wonky antennae, and all the chips and scratches on the surface of the coffee table. The landscape of garbage across the floor is as texturally interesting as it is disgusting. You notice what looks like a shoe box underneath the couch across from you, and it makes you curious.

Setting your sketchbook down to get up and retrieve the box, you notice the surface is worn and dusty. Brushing away the dust, you remove the lid, and the world falls out from under you.

Countless photos of you from over the last year fill the box. You look in horror at photos of yourself going to class, getting out of your car, photos taken through the windows of your apartment. You watch your hair grow out and the seasons change over the surface of the glossy prints. He's been watching. There are photos of Jen and Sarah too, though not as many. Of course, the three of you are pictured together, caught getting coffee, in several shots. But you're always the one in focus.

Your breath catches in your chest when you come across a particular photo. It’s a picture of you visiting your mother’s grave. You recognize it as being from a year ago, almost to the day, you remember suddenly. You went to the cemetery alone that day, dressed in your usual school day attire of sweatpants and hoodie. Looking at the photo, you feel you could recall every detail of that day, right down to the contents of the bag you’re carrying. To know you’ve been being watched for so long is a haunting realization. You turn the photo over and see the words ‘keep her?’ written across the back in red ink. A chill runs through your blood. A genuine question. Has he found his answer yet?

Tucking the photo between the pages of your sketchbook, you feel it again, that undeniable, dark pull towards something despicable. Something despicable and irresistible. You realize now that everything must meet its end, and that this is likely yours. With an unexpected sense of power, you find that you can lean into the abyss and let it take you with open arms. Fall into the darkness. Let him catch you. He’s shown you that he will.

The world is a never ending circle of life and death, and you've never recognized your place in it more clearly. You are meant to walk with death hand and hand, to know him well before he takes you too. He is the apex predator, and you're the prey with whom he's chosen to lie. But you can choose him back. You don't have to run. You realize that running was never really in the cards for you. You're fated to something else.

After all, how hard did you ever really try to run? How easily have you been convinced? Corrupted. All he had to do was touch you, and you feared you'd never be able to let him go. You don't want your old life back. Change has taken root inside you. From the moment you spoke those words to him, Art could see your potential. He led the way, but you allowed yourself to be led. You see it now.

Maybe you aren't so different from him, or maybe it's the difference that draws you to him. Either way, he's been a shadow following you, marking your days, for longer than you had ever known. The box of photographs spells out clearly that you never had a chance to escape. And you have nothing to return to now. You swallow down your fear and feel something else settle in your chest. Acceptance. Rapture. It’s a stoic peace, but also an electric thrill beneath your skin.

You tuck the box of photographs back beneath the couch and welcome your fate.

 

***

 

A few hours pass, and you wonder when Art will return. You’re tired, but you want to wait up for him. You want to confront him about the shoe box. You need to see his reaction. Part of you is angry, but still, your heart has softened for him in a way you can’t explain. You just want him to come back. You have more questions for him.

As you pace the warehouse trying to keep yourself awake, you hear an engine idle outside and your heart lifts. Nearly running to the door, you freeze once you open it and see red and blue police lights in the near distance, reflecting off the surrounding trees. You take a few crouched steps forward and see who you can only assume is Detective Ward, moving towards the warehouse with a flashlight.

You race back inside the building, heart hammering, and try to think of a plan. You know what Art would do if he were here. But what will you do? You scan the room in a panic, thinking of places to hide. Then you see something that has to be the most miraculous accident. Sitting on the workbench, out in plain view like it was waiting for you, Art’s handgun.

Notes:

Next chapter in the works! Stay tuned!

Chapter 12

Summary:

You make a decision you can't go back on.

Notes:

This is the final chapter of Breaking You... I hope I've been able to create a satisfying end to this story. I'm sad to say goodbye to it, but it had to end somewhere. Thank you to everyone who's been reading!

With shaking hands, you pick up the gun. You know you have to act fast. Your grip is unsure, and your palms sweat as you check to make sure the firearm is loaded. There’s a pit in your stomach as you sense every second slipping away while you fumble with the gun. You have to make a decision now. With the safety off, ready to take aim, you run back to the door and edge it open.

You can see the beam of Detective Ward’s flashlight cutting through the darkness. Red and blue lights flash a warning that peaks your anxiety. You feel as though you’ve been dropped into ice cold water as you creep along the side of the warehouse. Every nerve in your body is alight with adrenaline.

You walk a course perpendicular to the flashlight’s trajectory, then dash to duck behind a boxcar left sinking into the earth. From here you should be able to jump out and ambush the detective as he approaches. Your entire being is driven into fight. You’re fighting to protect the only thing you have left. You’ve only just begun to discover him, and you’re not going to lose him now. You had wished that Detective Ward would save you, with his self assuredness and warm chestnut eyes, but now you understand that there is no saving you.

Detective Ward nears your hiding place, and you tense, drawing in a breath to bolster yourself. When you’re sure he’s close enough, at least you hope he’s close enough, you angle your body around the corner of the freight car and pull the trigger. The recoil is stronger than you were prepared for and you stumble back onto the ground, hearing Detective Ward cry out in pain.

The detective has dropped his flashlight and lays wounded on the ground. You scramble forward and see him struggling to stand, reaching for his own weapon. You think you shot him in the hip. You have to take a risk and get closer. You can’t leave this half finished.

Summoning all the boldness within yourself, you stride forward, weapon drawn and take aim at the detective once again. In the same instant, Detective Ward points his pistol at you from where he lays on the ground. You beat him to the trigger by half a second and catch him squarely in the chest. He fires off a shot as well, and you feel a blazing pain sear through your right shoulder. You drop the gun and sink to your knees.

You cry out and curse yourself for not acting faster. Endorphins flood your senses and everything slows down. You frantically pick up the gun, preparing to fire again if you have to, but you see the detective lying motionless on his back. His eyes open and unseeing, looking towards the stars above in the pitch black night. You breathe a sigh of relief, only for the pain in your shoulder to reignite.

The wound is bleeding a lot, and you can feel that the bullet is lodged deep in your bone. Every movement is agony. With great effort, you approach the police cruiser. For whatever reason, and to your immense fortune, the detective had come alone. Maybe a wild hunch led him out here with no backup. Still, someone will be trying to get him on the radio. Doing what you can to think on your feet, you shoot out the radio and the laptop mounted inside the car, hoping that will buy some time before he’s tracked down. While you’re at it you shoot out the lights on top of the car too.

Another wave of pain overtakes you, and you nearly fall to your knees. Gripping your shoulder, you grit your teeth and walk back towards the warehouse. As you pull your body forwards, you see headlights coming up the dirt road and turning into the warehouse lot. You can only hope that it’s Art and not another cop. You sprint back to hide behind the boxcar again as the vehicle approaches.

You’re so happy you could cry when you see Art’s van pull to a stop across from the police cruiser. He jumps out of the van while it’s still running, immediately concerned at the sight of the cop car. You run up to him in the same instant still holding the gun and clutching your bleeding shoulder. Art looks at you with confusion. You’ve never seen him truly caught off guard before.

“The detective,” you pant breathlessly, “He showed up while you were gone. I shot him.” You motion to his body. Art follows your gaze, concern and confusion still a mask on his face. “I got hit too.”

The hand that covers your wound is completely red and slick with blood. It pours freely down your arm, soaking through your shirt as inky black as the sky above you. Again, Art looks completely taken aback as he pulls your hand away to look at your injury. He grimaces and hovers a hand tentatively over your shoulder as though wishing he could heal the wound himself.

“It hurts,” you tell him. Your adrenaline is fading, and the pain is setting in for real. “What do we - I don’t know what to do.” You look at the detective’s body again, and the gravity of the situation cements you in place. You’ve killed someone. All you can do now is look to the expert. You’re in his hands.

Art seems to understand this as you look up at him with wide eyes. He meets your gaze with reassurance. Swiftly, he springs into action. Opening the van’s sliding side door. A towel covers the backseat and Art grabs it, tearing it into strips with his teeth and wrapping it expertly around your shoulder. You wince and cry out, but allow him to tend to your wound. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he turns his attention to the body of the detective.

With certainty and forcefulness, he lifts Detective Ward’s body and walks him over to the cruiser, throwing him in the passenger’s seat. You follow behind him on shaky legs.

“I shot out the radio,” you offer, hoping to be helpful. Art looks surprised and pleased by this, giving you a rare, genuine smile. He motions for you to get in the back seat of the car. You do, and Art shuts the door on you and heads to the warehouse. You watch him leave, not wanting to think about the body in the seat in front of you.

The detective sits slumped and lifeless in the passenger seat. Already his limbs have begun to go rigid. You’ve taken his life. No one else can answer for this action but you. Alongside the blinding pain in your shoulder, a wave of nausea ripples through you. Choking back bile and tears, you breathe deeply and wait for Art to return. Soon, you see him emerge with a gas can and, of course, his ever-present trash bag. Relief runs through your blood again like cool water when you see him. If anyone can fix this, it’s him.

Art gets in the still running cruiser and drives it through the empty field, up towards the hill you’ve never explored. It’s a bumpy ride, and you grit your teeth against the searing pain in your shoulder, staring out the window to avoid seeing the detective’s body jostle sickeningly in the passenger’s seat. Art makes it up the hill, driving a treacherous path through the grass. He parks the car at the top of the hill, where you’re completely surrounded by trees.

He gets out and motions for you to follow. As soon as you’re out of the car, Art is dousing it in gasoline. He pours a river onto Detective Ward’s body and throughout the rest of the car. You think that next he’ll surely light it on fire, but Art bends down to retrieve something from his trash bag. A pair of pliers glint in his gloved hand, and he gets to work pulling the detective’s teeth. At this, you do get sick, vomiting behind the car. You look up, and Art motions for you to stay away while he pries the detective’s molars from their sockets.

It takes him a while. You count the teeth in your own mouth while he works and feel a sickening chill. Everything reeks of gas, it’s cold outside, and your shoulder is absolutely agonizing. You begin to regret everything. Doubt clouds your heart for a moment, and you turn to look back at Art again. He’s covered in blood, collecting a pile of human teeth in his hand, a truly grisly sight, but you told him you’d trust him. You walk over to him and stand by his side, not looking away as he finishes the nasty business of making sure Detective Ward is unidentifiable.

Next, Art throws some more drenched rags over the body, and sticks a rag in the fuel intake before setting it ablaze with a gas torch. Instantly, the car lights up in a brilliant fireball, and Art shields you from the blaze with his body. The two of you stand there for a moment, watching the car burn. The smell and sounds of sizzling flesh get to be too much for you, and you have to turn away. Art looks to you with concern, motioning towards your shoulder. You know you’re going to have to get the bullet out, and the dread that comes with that fact sits as heavy in your body as the lead itself.

Art shifts all of his attention over to you and your injury. He picks you up, even though you’re able to walk, and carries you back to the warehouse. In his arms you feel strangely safe and calm.

Once inside, Art takes you into the cramped, fluorescent lit bathroom, removes your bandage, and pulls your sweatshirt off over your head. You sit shivering in your bra, still bleeding freely from your shoulder. Lightheadedness threatens to take you as you worry about the amount of blood you’re seeing. With another fresh towel, Art tightly tourniquets your shoulder. The pain is so immense you want to pull away, but you fight the urge. You know that what’s coming next is going to be worse.

With more towels, bandages, isopropyl alcohol and a pair of needle nose pliers, Art sits with you on the bathroom floor. You sit sideways between his legs, your back against his knee. He’s watching you with careful sympathy, handling you with a gentle seriousness. Where did this side of him come from, you wonder through the pain. He looks at you apologetically, and then dumps alcohol on your wound. You scream out in pain, burying your face in his neck.

He sanitizes the pliers as well. Then he gives you a towel to bite down on and rubs your back reassuringly, looking you in the eyes again. Tears and sweat and grime streak your face, and you nod in return, giving him permission to do what he has to do. Holding you steady, Art pushes the pliers into your battered shoulder in search of the bullet lodged deep beneath your flesh.

You clamp down on the towel and cry out in agony. Guttural sounds you didn’t know you could make escape your body as you shake and tremble while Art digs through the torn viscera. Each movement is excruciating, and you press your body against his as though you can transfer the pain to him. You feel the pliers connect with the metal buried in your shoulder. As Art works the pliers around either side of the bullet, you dig your teeth into the towel and scream. The pain is so intense that you nearly blackout.

Relief comes when he pulls the slug from your shoulder, showing it to you with a grin that you don’t have the strength to match. He pours more alcohol into the gouge in your shoulder. More searing pain follows. Then come bandages and a gentle touch. After that, kisses over the already blood soaked gauze. Art kisses your shoulder, then your cheeks, wiping away your tears and smoothing back your hair. You just cry and let him hold you, allowing him to comfort you and tell you that you did a good job.

You sit like that on the floor for a moment, but you know you don’t have much time. The burning cop car is going to draw some attention, and you’re sure the next step in Art’s plan is to get the fuck out of here. Carefully, he helps you stand. He embraces you again and you kiss him softly.

“Thank you,” you finally rasp out. Art smiles down at you fondly, and then steps away, moving quickly to gather his things. You follow suit, taking another empty trash bag and piling your belongings inside. You pause when you come across the shoebox. Taking in a breath, you decide to say something.

“I found these today,” you say, coming up behind Art, surprising him a bit. He turns to look at you, holding an armful of weapons. When he sees what you’re holding he sets them down. He studies you cautiously, keeping his expression neutral and waiting for you to say more.

From your journal you pull out the photo of yourself at your mother’s grave.You turn the back of the photo towards Art, showing him the question he’s written. You try not to feel ridiculous as you stand before him. The violation you felt seeing these photographs pales in comparison to the situation you’re in now, but still you hold your ground, putting him on trial.

“Have you found your answer yet?” you ask accusingly.

He steps forward and takes you in his arms, kisses the top of your head, the side of your face. You know that each kiss is him telling you yes. Yes, I’ve decided. Yes, you’re staying with me. You look up at him in disbelief.

“You were going to kill me” you say it aloud for the first time, an edge in your voice. You shouldn’t feel offended when Art backs up and wobbles his hand in a so-so motion, but you do. You shouldn’t be surprised, and maybe you aren’t, but it still hurts.

“Well what about now?” You ask, your voice trembling with tears that threaten to fall. “I’ve killed someone for you, so what about now?”

Art looks a little hurt by your question. With sincerity on his face he shakes his head no. He holds you tightly, staying mindful of your shoulder. He kisses your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. No, no, no, not you, never you, not now. You believe him. There’s something in the way he holds onto you, the way he just cared for you, that makes you believe him.

“Okay,” you look up at him, “I trust you.” You kiss him with all the vulnerability and honesty that you have, wrapping your good arm around his neck and pulling him down to meet you. He matches you, not pushing or urging, simply taking you in with the gracious presence of his mouth against yours.

You breathe deeply, not wanting the kiss to end. When you pull away, the look on Art’s face says everything you need to know. A smile touches his eyes softly in a way you’ve never seen before, and you know he appreciates your trust. Through this single look he conveys that he trusts you too. You can feel it, but there’s not time right now to sit in the warmth of it.

“What do we have to do now?” you ask him.

 

***

 

Art takes you back to the burning car to retrieve the trash bag he left behind to carry you. The flames have died down significantly. The interior of the car is now just a smoldering frame. Detective Ward’s charred skeleton sits in the passenger seat. Bits of tissue and fat cling to the bone, his melted eyeballs drip from their empty sockets. He looks like a grisly Halloween decoration.

You brace yourself against the chill of the air, still cold underneath your hoodie and jacket. Art is surveying his work, making sure enough of the evidence has been destroyed. You stand facing away from him, looking over the edge of the steep ravine that drops off several feet in front of the car, trying to keep your teeth from chattering. You think you see something down there, and you peer over, struggling to make it out.

Then, without warning, Art pushes you back against the hood of the burned out car. Your back hits the cold metal and Art’s on top of you in an instant. It’s like a switch flipped and out of nowhere he’s all hands and teeth and hungry desire. He presses against your shoulder, and you have to let out a whine, reminding him that it hurts. He pulls away, but doesn’t change his pace at all, immediately working to get you out of your jeans.

You think you know what this is about. The depravity of ravaging you right here, on top of this demolished police cruiser with a body inside, is what Art needs more than anything right now. It’s pretty hot, how frantic he is all of a sudden, how desperate, and you try to catch up to his speed. Your jeans are around your ankles, and you cry out in surprise when Art slides two fingers inside you forcefully.

He’s on you like an animal, and you give yourself over to him. His hand works a steady rhythm, making you wet before you even have time to think about it. He’s all hands, fast movement, and impatient utility. Just as your mind is catching up to your body, he’s pressing his full length into you. You bite your lip at the burning sensation and stifle a moan. Art thrusts into you, setting a fast pace immediately. Your hurt arm stays down at your side, but your good arm braces you against him, gripping the fabric of his costume between your fingers. Art cages you with his arms, bearing down on you with intensity as he presses himself deeper with each thrust of his cock.

Instinctively, you lift up you legs, and Art changes his angle slightly to grip onto your ass while he fucks into relentlessly. At this point you’re fully aroused, but clenched firmly around him, his slicked cock continually sliding in and out of your tight folds. You look at Art’s face and it’s pure animalistic desire, an intense fire alight behind his eyes. Then you look up at the stars and fingernail-crescent moon above you, and completely surrender yourself to the pleasure he’s bringing you. Even like this, fast and messy and rough, you feel like you were made for him.

The way your ass feels against the palms of his hands, and the cold metal pressing rhythmically into your lower back are the foundation of the avalanche of sensation you're experiencing. Your cunt is wet, needy and pulsing, being filled absolutely perfectly to the point of near strain. The tension in your spine builds as you arch for him. Your head rests against the cool glass, moving with the rhythm of your bodies, and your eyes glaze over as you feel nothing but absolute pleasure. Even your gunshot wound feels something akin to the absence of pain as it pulses with each beat of your heart.

Your eyes roll back and you kick your legs higher, letting out an obscene moan. Art doubles his pace, his thrusts becoming sloppy, and you can tell he’s nearly there. Your left hand darts down to play with your clit, bringing the whirlpool of pleasure to a head. You come just as Art’s burying himself deep within you and shuddering against your body.You let out a few more porny moans because you can’t believe how incredible that just was.

Art stares down at you with intensity, coming back to himself. You meet his gaze. Caught in the thrill of the afterglow, you grab the back of his neck and pull him down into a slow, filthy kiss. He’s still inside you, and you move your hips suggestively, hinting at a round two. Art pulls away from the kiss first and looks down at you with a face that could only be saying, ‘how did I get so lucky?’. He gives you another small, punctuation mark of a kiss, as if to say, ‘if only we had the time’.

Then he’s pulled away, righting himself and helping you back into your jeans. It’s over as quickly as it started. Art’s picking up his trash bag and moving towards the van. You linger for a beat, letting the moment live in your body a little longer. Then you step towards the ravine, remembering what you thought you had seen.

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you think you can make out a body about 20 feet down, partially obstructed by branches that hang in your way. You feel strangely detached from your discovery, but still you look closer. You think you recognize the striped pattern of Julia’s shirt from that day you found her in the warehouse. Expecting to feel grief or horror, you’re surprised when no strong emotions surface. You suppose this is what you thought had happened all along, now you’re just getting confirmation. There was no saving her. There is no saving anyone.

Without another glance, you turn and follow Art to the van.

 

***

 

You drive for a long time. You fall asleep, and when you wake up you’re still driving. You’re sure you’ve had to have crossed state lines. How many, though, you don’t know. Nothing is recognizable, but that doesn’t concern you. Pre-dawn hints at the sky as you blink the sleep from your eyes. You wince at the pain in your shoulder as you sit up. Everything is grey and hazy. Fog hangs low in the air, illuminated by the approaching first light of the sun.

You look at Art, who stares ahead out the windshield, and feel a strange fondness for him. To wake up and be in his company doesn’t upset you like it would have just a week ago. Something has changed. He makes you feel safe now, comfortable. You know you’re going to make it out of this mess because of him.

Art notices you looking at him and returns your gaze. He mocks your sleepy yawns and rubs his eyes like he can’t stay awake. You just smile back at him. He reaches over and rubs your leg affectionately.

“Coffee, please?” you ask through another yawn. Without hesitation, Art pulls off the highway for you and finds a place to procure your necessary caffeine.

You do your usual routine. Walk into the place as inconspicuous as possible. Order at the register, no eye contact. Spend some dead person’s money, and busy yourself at the condiment station, hoping to go unnoticed.

While you wait for your order to be ready, you head to the bathroom. In the mirror you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look like hell. Pale, gaunt, dark circles under your eyes, you barely recognize yourself. There’s not another soul around this early, so you pause for a moment, really looking at yourself. You splash water on your face and swish some around in your mouth, wishing you had thought to grab your toothbrush. Taking care not to disturb your shoulder, you use the restroom and then emerge to retrieve your food and large coffee.

You settle back into the van with a smile, ready to continue your journey. Art starts driving again, and you stare out the window at the elongated shadows cutting through the blazing golden light of the early morning sun. The coffee sits warm in your hands and sings happily through your bloodstream, lighting you up from the inside.

“Where are we going?” you ask Art. He looks at you and shakes his head with a smile. “You’re right,” you say, “I don’t wanna spoil the surprise.” A moment of silence passes, and you laugh silently to yourself. Why are you treating this like a vacation? What new life is in store for you? There’s something exciting about it, but then again, with Art there’s always reason for concern.

“It’s nicer than the other places, right?” you ask, with a bit of anxiety. Art shakes his head vigorously and swats away your hopeful question with his hand, as though you're being ridiculous. You smack him on the arm. “It better be, or I might have to run again,” you tease. Art clasps his hands in a begging motion and frowns at you pathetically. You’re having fun.

“Okay, okay,” you smile, “I’ll give it a chance.” Art claps joyfully then places his hands back on the wheel. It has always surprised you what a good driver he is. Though, everything with him is more careful and calculated than it seems. You wonder if you’re an exception, if he planned to make it to this point with you.

“Did it surprise you,” you ask, “That I killed the detective?” Art looks at you a moment, considering your question. Then he nods.

“It felt like what I had to do,” you continue. “I really didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want him to find me.” Art nods at this as well, digesting your explanation. He keeps his eyes on the road.

“I just - ” you feel as though you're explaining this to yourself as much as you are to him, “I wanted to stay with you…”

Art continues to look ahead, but he has a satisfied expression on his face. He reaches his hand out for you to take, and you do. You feel steadied by the feeling of your hand in his, and you try to forget about Detective Ward. The memory of his lifeless face still sticks to you like char on bone. Art makes it all feel easier. He’s a barrier between you and the things you don’t want to remember, don’t want to be responsible for. Despite it all, you got what you wanted; you’re staying with him.

 

***

 

You arrive at a cabin that looks long abandoned, far from any towns or main roads. Wondering to yourself how Art finds these places, you get out of the van and let him show you around. The cabin is an adorable lincoln log style thing that looks like a miniature brought to life. It has a covered front porch, and it’s shrouded in overgrown ivy on all sides. Cobwebs littered with dead flies hang in the dirty windows.

The property is rather large, you notice with appreciation. Art leads you around to the back of the cabin, and you see an empty garden plot. Beyond that is a small grove of apple trees you can’t help but marvel at. You follow the dirt path, overgrown with weeds, now leading Art as you explore the rest of the property. Apples lie rotting on the ground, overripe and past their season. Even further back there’s a rushing shallow stream. You take your shoes off, despite the chill in the air, and stand in the shallow water.

“This place is beautiful,” you tell him honestly, letting the icy water rush over your feet. Goosebumps raise on your skin, and you tilt your head towards the clear sky above you. Art looks happy enough as he watches you step out of the stream and kick your feet dry. He motions for you to follow him back to the cabin.

At the door, Art produces a key from his bag and lets you inside. The interior of the cabin is small and dark, and you realize there’s no electricity. A wood stove stands in one corner near the sparse kitchenette. The floor plan is open aside from the bedroom, and the cabin is mostly unfurnished. Inside the bedroom, you find a bed (thankfully) and a small, bare bookshelf. Also, to your relief, is an attached bathroom. Though it’s nothing fancy, you’re grateful to see a shower, sink and toilet. At least there’s running water in this place.

 

Art seems to be waiting to hear more feedback from you. Following you around intently as you take everything in. You step back into the empty main room, tracing circles in the thick dust on the floor with the toe of your shoe.

“This is really cute,” you admit. “I like it, I really do.” A quiet moment passes between the two of you as sunlight falls through the window catching all the dancing dust motes in the air. Then Art steps towards you and wraps you in a hug. You lean into him and allow yourself to feel at ease, at home. You know that’s what this is: your new home.

 

“We’ll have to do a lot of fixing this place up, though,” you say, still leaning your head on his chest. The thought kind of excites you, having somewhere to really call your own. Playing house with Art will probably be interesting to say the least, but you don’t hate the idea at all.

“You’ll have to buy me furniture, and clean out the cobwebs, and make sure there’s no wild animals living in here,” you smile up at him. Art leans down and kisses you sweetly, as if to say it’s a done deal.

The next thing you know, he’s already starting the work of cleaning things up, moving to the kitchenette and checking out all the cabinets for unwanted guests. He goes out to the van, finding some more rags to start wiping things down, and you just watch him for a minute. You know he’s doing all of this for your benefit. Art most likely couldn’t care less about how clean the place is, and to see him making such an effort for you brings a smile to your face. After a moment, he teasingly throws a rag at you, telling you to get to work.

The two of you spend the afternoon cleaning up the cabin, and by the time you’re finished, it really has started to feel like home. You’re surprised how quickly you’ve warmed up to the idea. Though you must admit that a place like this, way far out in nature, is exactly where you’ve always pictured yourself ending up. Though, this is not how you thought you’d get there.

Once you’ve reached your stopping point for the day, you sit on the front porch with Art, side by side on the step, watching the sun go down. A comfortable silence spans between you, and you find yourself lost in your own thoughts, until you decide to voice one aloud.

“So was this always your plan?” you ask Art. He looks at you and shakes his head, answering honestly.

“When did you decide,” you venture, “That you weren’t going to kill me?” He counts on his fingers, looking up and away, trying to remember back.

“The first time you came to my camper?” you supply. Art considers this and slowly nods in agreement. “You pointed that gun at me,” you recount, “But I could tell you didn’t want to use it.” Art looks back at you, remembering.

“You still didn’t trust me though, did you?” He shakes his head, meeting your gaze. “You thought you might still have to kill me, even though you didn’t want to.” Art nods and takes a hold of your hand.

“You watched me for a long time,” you say. “That still doesn’t make sense to me… Why me?” You wish he could just tell you. You want to understand. Art gets up and finds the shoebox of photos of you. He pulls out the photo of you at your mother’s grave, and another of you Jen and Sarah. You look at their faces, trying to piece together what he could mean by this.

“Because it would be easy?” you ask. Art nods slightly and it stings to see him admit it. “Because I barely had anyone,” you continue. “You could count on one hand, the people who would miss me, and all you had to do was get rid of them.” Your voice is dark and you feel chilled to the bone. You had never considered that your life was so precarious, so tenuously held together. Art had seen it immediately, and it made you the perfect prey.

Tears build in your vision and you look away. Art doesn’t know what to do but watch you look into the distance as you hold back tears and bite down on your trembling lower lip.

“I still miss them all,” you tell him coldly. Then you get up and go inside. Leaving Art behind, you go to the bedroom, falling into the bed as tears run down your face. You feel pathetic and utterly alone. You draw the curtains, strip off your jeans, and bury yourself under the covers. You’re glad he doesn’t follow you.

 

***

 

Maybe an hour later, you’ve begun to fall asleep, and you hear the bedroom door crack open. Art comes into the room silent like a shadow, and you pretend to sleep. He takes off his shoes and gets into bed with you, wrapping himself around you. You let him do this. He holds you tightly, like he’s trying to piece you back together.

You lay still, a million thoughts running through your head. Like always, the feeling of his body against yours is a comfort, but your mind is far away. How have you come to feel so at home with a monster? That’s what he is, a monster. What do you do when your tormentor is also the salve to your wounds? You feel held in place, not only by his arms around you, but by the weight of these questions.

Art brushes your hair out of your face and kisses you on the cheek. He places another kiss just below it, and then one on the edge of your jaw. He moves down your neck with slow, gentle, undemanding kisses. He reaches your hurt shoulder and carefully turns you towards him slightly so he can reach it. He kisses you softly over your bandage, tracing his fingers along the edges of the gauze, slowly, deliberately. Then he simply rests his forehead there, thanking you for taking a bullet for him. You know in your heart it’s more than he’s ever done for you, and you feel sick with sorrow. You feel ridiculous and stupid. You want to push him away, but you can’t bring yourself to.

Instead you drink in his appreciation like it’s the one thing that will sustain you. You place a hand on the back of his head, holding him close. After all, what else do you have? Another, darker, question surfaces. What else do you need? Everything you had before is gone, and the life that’s replaced it feels strangely okay. You want to resent that fact, but instead you feel yourself grasp onto it desperately like a life raft.

You turn Art’s face towards you and kiss him back, touching your lips to his with caution. You feel him soften against you, not pressing you for more. You cling to him, kissing his neck, his shoulder, holding onto him fiercely, while he remains above you. It almost feels as though he’s keeping his distance, afraid that to draw any nearer will mean causing you harm.

You dig your nails into his back, wanting to hurt him, to see him flinch. Of course he doesn’t, and you break first, pulling him down into a bruising kiss and not caring about the pain in your shoulder. It mixes with the pleasure of the kiss, becoming something else entirely. In this moment you realize there is no being with Art without also being in pain. Maybe you’ve known this all along. Maybe you’ve been seeking it out. Regardless, now, you’re caught in the harsh reality of this fact as your head swims with endorphins.

Art kisses you back, but you’re the one kissing deeper, pressing for more. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and bite down until you taste blood. He sighs and lets you lick away the blood, the sweet copper mixing with salty tears you didn’t realize were running down your face. When Art pulls away, he studies your face with concern, and you can barely bring yourself to look at him. He wipes away your tears, and you surrender yourself over to him.

He runs his hands along the lines of your body, up and down, carefully. His touch feels so different from the impatient, burning desperation that guided him yesterday. Now he kisses you softly and holds you gently, and you allow him to offer this sweetness to you like a prayer.

Making your body his altar, he leaves kisses in your hair, on your temple, against your lips and along the curve of your neck. He presses his lips to each pulse point on your body with a tenderness you’ve never felt before. Your throat is marked with a whisper, your wrists a delicate imprint of teeth, tasting you tentatively. He moves down your body, and your blood rushes beneath your skin, a current directed by him, for his lips to follow. Down your side, he leaves a trail of soft seduction, teeth catching on your hip bone like muscle memory, and your body reacts with a sigh. Art spreads your legs, your inner thigh becoming something sacred as he moves his lips and tongue against your skin. He asks nothing of you with his movements, seeking to express a compassion for your grief in the only way he knows.

His kisses steal your breath as he moves upwards again, just hinting at the crease of your thigh, and continuing a slow steady path along your stomach. He pushes your shirt out of the way without requesting to remove it. None of this is self-serving; it’s all for you. He reaches your collarbone again. Then the hollow of your throat, pressing his mouth against the soft flesh as though he could meld himself to you. You welcome all of it, everything he has to give you.

Then he simply embraces you. You lie tangled in the sheet together, not wanting to be anywhere else. Art leans back and pulls you tightly against his chest. You burrow into his shoulder, holding back another sob. You allow him to keep you together with the solidness of his body against yours. It will be okay, no matter the sins you’ve committed. You don’t have to answer to anyone now, but sin himself. You lay together in the darkness until you fall asleep in his arms.

 

***

 

Winter comes, and you stay with Art in the cabin. He chops firewood for the stove when he’s not chopping people to pieces. You’ve asked to not be included in either matter, and he respects this. You’ve cut your hair and dyed it darker, but you’re still laying low.

Art brings you everything you need. The cabin has become homey in the couple months you’ve been there. You managed to find some nice furniture for the place through random online auctions, sending Art to retrieve it for you, much to the surprise of the unsuspecting auctioneer every time. And you’ve had plenty of time to decorate. You spend your time painting and knitting and reading, watching snow fall through the windows. Art brings you your favorite coffee beans, and you brew them fresh every morning. You write in your journal. You live slowly.

When Art’s not around, sometimes for weeks at a time, you keep yourself busy and enjoy your solitude. When he is around, you take walks and watch movies together. Sometimes he comes home hurt and you worry over him. He acts annoyed, but you can tell he secretly loves having someone to care for him even if he doesn’t need it. You marvel at how fast he heals each of his injuries.

Your own shoulder has healed up nicely, though you have a nasty scar. It’s a scar that Art always lingers on, along with his name carved into your flesh. They’re the pieces of you that are devoted completely to him.

You’re trying to reclaim a life that revolves around something other than him, to scavenge the scraps of your identity. Art has told you that he’ll help you find a part time job in the spring, under a false identity, of course. You’re excited to become a new person once again, and to get some social interaction outside of your murderous devotee. You appreciate what you have, though. You aren’t unhappy in the slightest. When Art comes home and wraps you in his arms, though there may be some irony in it, it’s the most alive you ever feel.

Sometimes you still think about the life you used to have. You catch yourself wondering what your life would be like if none of this had ever happened, but those thoughts never last for long. Of course you still think of your mom, your aunt, your dead friends, and you light candles for them - even the detective. But the truth is you feel more at home here with Art than you ever have anywhere else. It’s like there was nothing real before this. He’s the realest thing you’ve ever known. To hold death in your hands and have him love you back is a thrill unparalleled that you never grow tired of.

Your life with him was built in a wake of destruction, and you pay your respects to its victims as often as you can. Your loved ones live as echoes in your actions. Like now, you busy yourself in the kitchen making your mom’s soup recipe, the one you’ve always loved so much. You feel her presence with you as you work, and you look forward to being able to grow all of the ingredients you need in your own garden in the spring.

Art comes home, bursting through the door with a smile bloodied as usual. Still you let him embrace you, leaning up to meet him with a kiss. Then he turns and heads for the shower, shirking off his bloody clothes while you finish cooking. It’s an oddly domestic ritual that you’ve come to enjoy. The soup bubbles in the pot, and you see a flurry of snow beginning to fall outside the window. Your heart feels as warm as the fire roaring in the stove beside you.

You sit down on the couch with a bowl of your soup, and Art emerges from the bathroom in a black bathrobe. He sits down next to you like always and tries to steal a bite from your bowl. You tell him that he can get his own, but you know he’d rather pester you, so you let him have some. Satisfied, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and you snuggle into his side.

You flip through the channels and stop on a movie you’ve seen a thousand times before. It was always a favorite of Jen’s so you can’t pass it up. You sit next to Art, cozy as can be, and watch it with him, going for a thousand and one.

Notes:

Am considering an epilogue if there's any interest in that beyond the few paragraphs I've included here... Tried to give this story the bittersweet, mostly happy ending I felt it deserved, but maybe there's still more than can exist in this universe. I'm undecided. Again thanks to everyone for reading, it means a lot!!