10. Elijah

M y vision has tunneled.

“Elijah, man, calm down.”

He’s a Pawn and he thinks he has the right to tell me what to do?

Gripping his shoulder, I squeeze it hard. I can feel the sharp claw piercing through his shirt, then his thin lining of skin. Pressing even harder, the claws push through his thick shoulder muscle. Slowly, I move my hand while still firmly penetrating him from the back of his shoulder to the front. All while listening to the beautiful tears my claw is making. My ears hyperfocus on it. With each small movement, hearing the metal slicing through him. Fuck. My mouth waters.

As I reach the collarbone, the curved blades get caught. Warm, dark red blood coats my hand and trickles down my arm. The Pawn’s shirt is completely doused in it.

Euphoric.

As the motherfucker tries to move, I pin him against the building's exterior brick wall with my bat under his chin. As his back slams against it, his mouth opens, releasing screams of terror.

Looking up, the bitch is crying. Drool is glistening down his face as it drips off his chin and onto my hand.

Seeing the look in my eyes, the Pawn panics, “No, no, no.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Removing my hand from his collarbone, the blades are no longer silver. They are beautifully stained. I am going to devour him.

His arm hangs freely, along with the muscles, and I’m sure important ligaments have also been severed.

Smiling at the sight of my beautiful destruction, I shove my hand in his mouth, the warmth of his breath reminding me of the power I have. These past couple months, it felt like I had lost it, but it was never missing. It was waiting for me. For this moment. The buildup, the anticipation. Tonight, everything will be worth the wait.

My fingers hit the back of his throat, and his tonsils contract as he gags. “Throw up or bite me, I will make this last hours longer,” my voice rasps with hopes he will give in to my cravings.

Pawn’s chest convulses, tears flowing freely. Sick of his antics, I apply pressure and destroy the inside of his mouth. Rotating my hand from side to side, I begin my assault on his tonsils which have been trying to keep me from moving. One swift movement in either direction, I slice clean through them.

My fingers follow behind, and blood continues to coat me as it flows down his throat.

The sharp edges then embed themselves into his tongue. Vibrations fluidly flow over my hand.

This is art. A symphony.

The vocal cords are telling me a story, singing me a song.

That they, too, would like him to die.

Reaching the tip of the tongue, what’s left of it has begun to swell. But most of it is torn to shreds. And now, instead of drool, it’s my favorite shade of red coating me.

Before removing my hand from his warm mouth, I flip my hand over and drag the blades across the roof of his mouth. The skin is incredibly thin. I can feel the tips grinding against the bone. This entire feeling is so fucking satisfying. Knowing how sensitive the area is brings me satisfaction. His nerves are on fire.

The smell of fear and the taste of their pain are the greatest hits of dopamine a man could ask for.

Gripping the Pawn’s teeth, I make sure to get a couple of punctures into the gums. Another incredibly sensitive area. Each incision is like death by a thousand cuts.

Screams turn into muffled, incoherent cries.

Pathetic.

I don’t respond.

As I take my hand out of his mouth, or what’s left of it, you can’t see an inch of my skin or the claw. I slap his cheek hard. The crack of his skin echoes in the bare streets. As I pull back, blood pours through the pierced areas of his skin that I just added.

Taking my work in, his eyes have become droopy as a snot bubble pops.

As I step back, removing my bat and forearm from under his chin, he falls, crumbling to the ground and curling into himself like an infant.

Having played long enough, I drop my wooden bat next to him, which is also covered in his sweet crimson. Bending at the waist, I get close enough so only he can hear me. “Roll the fuck over and bite it.” The words come out, seething with rage.

The Pawn doesn’t move. And I don’t have time to wait.

Standing tall, I kick him hard in the ribs. Several cracks are heard immediately and I can only hope one punctured his lung, so he can choke on his blood while desperately gasping for air he can’t get. At the same time that his ribs are cracking, he aggressively coughs up more blood, spitting it out in front of him.

Pussy.

“Now!”

Whimpers and cries begging me to stop are a moot point. When will he realize that I don’t fucking care?

With unsteady hands, he attempts to push himself up but fails. His shoulder muscle on the left side is completely destroyed, rendering him useless. Continuing to try would be futile.

Using his good side, the Pawn adjusts his body—head down, ass up—lips wrapped around the barrel. His arm begins to shake. The body is going into shock.

This motherfucker is going to be awake for this.

Positioning myself over him, one foot on either side of his torso, I lift my boot and push the sole of it against the crown of his head. Screams follow.

Stop playing, and just do it.

Her voice echoes in my head. My depraved goddess always gets what she asks for.

“Okay, little bat. As you wish.”

Raising my foot, using all my power behind it, I stomp swiftly, forcing his jaw to crack and then break around my bat. Blood puddles around us as I go in once more. This time using my heel, I stomp once, twice, three times. I feel my boot get deeper and deeper into his head. Curb stomping the shit out of him. Skull fragments break off, and tiny pieces fall to the ground, soaking in the puddle.

He’s gone.

Placing my foot back down, I don’t move, my eyes still focused on the body before me.

My voice is deep as words come out slowly. “You are in so much fucking trouble.”