Chapter Seven

Ty

Standing outside the small, isolated church, I feel the rain soaking through my clothes, the coldness biting at my skin. The rush of tonight is still pulsing in my veins, the adrenaline driving me into madness. The wound in my abs throbs with the reminder of her, the knife she pressed into me until I pressed it into pussy.

I fucking snapped, lost my sense of control, but it was worth seeing and hearing her come apart. It’s just a fucking shame it wasn’t on my dick.

I wasn’t the only one who lost my mind in that moment. The way she pushed back to take more of that handle. The way her come dripped down my glove. Kitten loved having that knife deep inside her tight cunt.

As I always thought, she digs the fucking danger that lurks around me. Her fear, her small, shaking body. It makes my insides churn, the mix of irritation and... something else. Maybe some fucked up deprivation. She shook from the terror and the pleasure, and a part of me—so much of me—wanted to take it further, to break her completely and force her to feel what I feel. But instead, I left her to think about how I violated her, and how she loved every fucking second of it. I’m sure her mind is as messed up as mine is right now.

I lift the glove to my face, pressing it against my nose, and inhale deeply, my eyes sliding shut. The scent of her sweet pussy is still there—clinging to me like it’s branded into my very fucking existence, a part of me now. I can’t think. I can’t fucking breathe. The smell of her, the feel of her, it’s burned into my brain, pumping through my veins like a drug I never wanted but can’t live without.

How the fuck am I supposed to function when she’s not beside me? When she’s not fucking mine? Every second away from her feels like sandpaper against my nerves, grating to the bone. I don’t want air if it’s not fucking laced with her. I don’t want life if it’s not created around her.

The freedom of my release—it’s doing things to me, ripping at parts of me I didn’t know was there. I’m so full of pent-up weird emotions I feel like I might explode, my wrath taking every fucking thing out with me.

I tilt my head back, letting the rain wash over me, the cold droplets mingling with the heat pulsing through my veins. The storm inside me mirrors the storm outside, and for a moment, I just take it all in, trying to find a way to calm the savage animal tearing inside me.

I need her. It’s suffocating. It’s like a beast desperate to be freed. I have to take her. She’s mine. She’s not taking it seriously yet, but she will. She’ll understand when I’m done with her, when she’s where she’s meant to be—beside me.

She doesn’t belong to anyone else. No one will have her. No one will ever fucking touch her like I do. No one will ever be obsessed with her like I am. I’ll carve my mark into her until she’s nothing but a willing, trembling little thing, begging for my hands to be on her. She doesn’t know how much she craves it—how much she needs it. But she will.

I chuckle softly to myself, the sound almost lost in the howling wind and pouring rain. I’m fucking insane . My grasp on reality sinks more each day. I know it. I can fucking feel it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. It's the only truth left in my fucked-up life.

Me and her together.

I lift my head, refocusing on the small church I know all too well. The candles flicker inside, creating distorted shadows against the stained-glass windows. I tilt my head to the side, eyes narrowing, before throwing my heavy backpack over my shoulder and tugging my ski mask over my nose. My fists clench, irritation wrapping itself tightly around me as I move toward the heavy oak doors, boots splashing in the flooded water beneath me.

When I reach the entrance, I lower my head and press the handle down. The door opens slowly, the rusty hinges creaking softly, and with it, the memories flood back—one by one, repulsive, and continuous. My jaw clenches as I close the door behind me. I glance around the dimly space briefly, slowly stepping forward, my soaked clothes leaving a wet trail behind me. The pews line the aisles, but my eyes lock on the large, wooden crucifix pinned high on the wall.

I reach the end of the church, my gaze fixed on Christ, and for a moment, everything goes quiet—too quiet. My palms begin to sweat in my leather gloves as I stand there, staring up at the figurine, knowing exactly why I'm here.

He knows why I’m here.

As soon as the priest walks in on my right, I don’t even spare him a glance. I keep my eyes locked on Jesus, his symbol fixed, taunting, and testing me.

“I’m sorry, child, we’re closed for the night,” the priest calls from a distance, his voice bouncing off the cold, empty walls.

I finally drag my eyes away from the cross, my dark gaze settling on him. I stare at him with dead eyes, devoid of anything that might make him suspect who I am. He’s aged obviously and he doesn’t recognize me, but it’s been over twenty years. And I’m masked now—there’s no reason he would. I’m not sure if that’s better or fucking worse. He should remember me.

He moves toward me, each step reverberating in the quietness, and I feel my body freeze instinctively, muscles knotting, tension rising like a slow burn.

“I need a confessional, Father,” I murmur, my words low—too low—but he hears. He stops in front of me, his gaze flicking over me, searching, calculating.

“Come back tomorrow, son,” he says. “It’s late.”

I shake my head, my gaze dropping to the floor for a moment, the stress of my past pressing down on me. “I need to confess my sins. It’s killing me.”

I can feel him eyeing me, yet I can’t bring myself to meet his stare, but I know what I need to do. I need him to hear me.

After a long pause, he exhales a sigh of surrender, and finally he walks toward the confessional, giving in far quicker than I expected. I lift my head, scanning him as he slips into one of the booths. I stride toward them, feeling the walls closing in on me as I get closer.

I get inside, close the door behind me, and settle onto the small wooden bench, dropping my bag between my legs. I can see his side profile through the small, grated window of the confessional, calm but with a touch of uncertainty as if he’s not really sure what to expect from his late-night visitor.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been sixteen years since my last confession.”

“Go ahead, my child. What brings you here tonight? What weighs on your soul?”

I lower my gaze to my gloved palms, watching the tremor that shakes through my fingers. It’s nothing compared to the hurricane inside me. I see nothing but blood—splattered crimson staining my skin beyond the fabric, seeping into my rotting heart. It never leaves. It never fucking fades, no matter how much I clean them. I can still hear the sound of the axe slashing through their flesh, bones splitting.

“I killed my parents when I was thirteen, Father.” The words feel alien, cold on my tongue like they shouldn’t be there, but they’re the truth. “I axed them to death.”

I take a deep inhale before continuing, “I was locked away, locked up like some animal... to become a better person, to regret what I had done. They thought they could fix me.” I chuckle quietly, but there’s no humour in it—just bitterness. “But it only made me worse. I don’t feel remorse. I never have. I don’t regret it. They deserved it.”

I don’t expect him to understand. How could he? The reality of what I did, the joy of it, never truly left me. It’s not something I can easily take back or apologize for. And the truth is, I never wanted to.

“I understand your pain, my child,” he finally responds, but there’s no empathy, just a strange serenity, like he’s heard this all before. “But you must understand that this confession, this burden you carry, is not something you should bear alone.”

I can feel his gaze sharp behind the grill. I can almost hear him mentally cataloguing my sins, trying to understand the depths of my crazy mind, trying to piece together who I am.

“You’ve taken a life,” he continues, his tone steady now. “But the Lord forgives those who seek redemption. Why do you seek confession, child? What do you wish for here, now, after all these years?”

I let the question roll around in my head, considering the truth. What the fuck am I looking for? The answer isn’t simple, nor does it matter. I’m here for my own reasons. To finish where it started. I open my mouth, but the words get stuck. Instead, I let the silence fill the distance between us again, just for a second longer.

“It all started when I was six years old. I was molested in a church.”

His body tautens visibly beside me, suddenly on the edge and I continue. “The day that priest took me in the back room during Sunday service and forced his fucking dick in my mouth was the day something broke inside me. Yet in time, it only warped into something much worse. Something I am today.”

He won’t engage anymore, and his silence screams louder than any words. I fix my gaze ahead, but the memory swirls in my mind—fuzzy, fractured—but it’s always there. Always.

“Do you know who let it happen?” I ask, but he says nothing, so I twist my neck, dark eyes cutting into him through the gaps between the shadows.

“The two people who should have saved me,” I growl with resentment, but he doesn’t flinch, he just stares straight ahead like I don’t exist. Like I’m not sitting here, bleeding words into the air. “And now—now—I’m the fucking insane one? The demon? The monster? The one who’s going to burn in hell for all of eternity? How the fuck does that work? What about those who hide behind Christ when they’re really the devil?”

“I’m sorry, son.” He says weakly—empty. He doesn't know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix this. My eyelids fall shut, my head resting back, but his apology is nothing more than noise—nothing can fill the black hole gaping inside me.

“Of course you are, Father.” The words slip from my lips like venom.

I stand, my body stiff as I grab my bag, then shove my way through the confessional door. I can’t fucking breathe in here. He’s too close. I head straight for the exit, his presence trailing after me, his footsteps desperate, too fucking desperate.

“We’re not done. I haven’t said a prayer. I haven’t…” he insists, and my jaw clenches, a wave of heat rising in my chest, my ideation flashing with hostility.

“Let’s be real, father,” I sneer, my words slashing through the air. “There’s no exorcising the demon that festers inside me. I was molded into the monster I am by other monsters. It’s in my blood, rushing through my veins. Nothing Christ can do will cure this. Nothing. Not you. Not him. Not fucking anyone.”

I freeze in the middle of the aisle, every nerve screaming and I feel him stop too, right behind me. My hand shakes violently as I grab the cold, hard handle in my bag before, slowly, I turn my head, eyes carving through him over my shoulder.

“Tell me, father,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with unshed tears, “have you ever sinned?”

His words stutter, like the importance of my question finally cracks through the armor of his denial. For a second, reality pours into his eyes, but then he shakes his head—once.

Lying motherfuck.

The look I give him is pure, unfiltered disgust. I can’t fucking hide it.

“Are you sure?” I ask, staring at him with a coldness that could freeze blood, a tear now dropping from the corner of my eye.

He hesitates, but the refusal is still there, thick, and stubborn, as if he can convince himself he’s earned his place in the Lord’s house. I raise a brow, daring him to keep up the charade. Slowly, I turn my face toward the door again, every muscle in me tense, ready to snap.

“I can feel your lies, Priest,” I say, my voice turning lethal, like I’m enjoying the taste of them. “And like me, you’re already damned. You’re going to fucking hell, just like the rest of us. No amount of holy water, no endless prayers, no saviour is going to wash away the dirt of what you did to me.”

Just as his lips part, as if to speak the words that might save him, I fucking crack. My fingers wrap tight around my axe handle as my heartbeat hammers in my chest.

I spin, the blade slicing through the air with a disturbing quickness. It sinks through his neck—like fucking butter. His flesh splits with a sickening, wet sound, and before he can even react, his head is falling from his shoulders. His eyes are still wide with shock as blood squirts from his open neck in hot, crimson waves, spraying and coating my clothes.

His head hits the floor with a dull thud first, rolling away, followed by the collapse of his body, heavy and lifeless. I can feel the rage surge like fire through my veins, burning hotter with every second. Pent up after years of horrifying memories and without a thought, I raise my axe again, my hold tightening, my vision clouding.

The first smash echoes like thunder through the silent church, the blade sinking deep into his body with a nauseating crunch. I don’t stop. I fucking can’t. I bring the axe down again, and again, harder each time, the weight of my wrath slashing through his flesh until it’s a heap of bloody tissue. The sounds of bones shattering, of blood pouring, of my own breath raggedy are wild—it’s all a symphony of my murderous rampage.

“FUCK!” The harsh, pained roar rips through me, echoing off the church walls as I raise the axe one final time.

With every last ounce of my strength, I hurl it across the room and the blade spins through the air before it finally crashes into the crucifix, splintering wood and sending fragments flying.

I collapse to my knees, the force of my defeat crashing down on me. He sticks to my body, to my clothes, a constant reminder of what I’ve done, what I’ve become. My soul, what little is left of it, throbs with an ache so deep it feels like it’s scorching from the inside. My head hangs low, and I can’t seem to stop the uneven weeps that wrack my body. Tears blur my vision—tears I didn’t think I had left.

I thought this—this first step—would give me some relief, some closure. But it’s only made it worse. The emptiness, the hurt, it’s deeper now, a wound that’s been torn wide open.

This isn’t over. No, it’s only the fucking beginning.

I wipe my running nose with the back of my gloved hand, my eyes finding the shattered crucifix, and I tilt up my head, trying to steady myself, trying to get air back into my lungs. Then my bloodied finger rises, trembling, and pointing accusingly.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” I growl, every word like it’s being ripped from the depths of my chest. “This is your fault. You let him in your house. You allowed this.”

I shake my head, sobs trying to scratch at my throat, desperate to break free. More tears flood down my cheeks, mingling with the blood, each drop a sharp reminder of how fucking broken I am.

“You continued to allow this…” I choke out, a rasping whisper of agony.

My eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the truth—the agonizing truth. I’m nothing but a fucking victim drenched in blood. I lower my head again, every part of me rattling, damaged. I don’t know if it’s the tears, the blood, or just the burden of everything that’s destroyed me, but I can’t breathe.

I’m fucking drowning in the pain.

After some time of letting it all out, a chuckle suddenly bubbles up from my chest, low at first, before it grows, twisting into something loud and unhinged. The kind of laugh that belongs to someone who’s already too far gone.

I throw my head back as the last remnants of it leave my throat and I steady myself, still grinning. I look down at the mess in front of me. His body lies in pieces, hacked apart like a fucking puzzle waiting to be solved. The sight should be horrifying, but instead, it’s almost...artful, to a deranged fuck like me.

After reaching into my bag not too far away, my hand closes around a bottle liquor, and I yank it free, twisting off the cap with a sharp crack. Without hesitation, I throw my head back and take a long, burning chug.

When I’m done, I turn back to the carnage and carefully begin to piece him back together, moving each severed part with a strange devotion. His arms, his legs, his torso—they slot into place, creating the outline of a cross. The irony isn’t lost on me, and a dark smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

Finally, I grab his dismembered head, his wide, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. I lift it by the gray hair, painted with red and drop it at the top. For a moment, I just stand there, admiring my work.

As soon as I’m ready to leave, I rise, slinging my bag over my shoulder and glance at the dismembered body one last time. I tip the bottle, letting the liquor spill freely. It pools across the floor, soaking into the wood, glistening as it seeps into the crevices. A dark trail snakes over his remains, clinging to the blood that’s already congealing around him.

The bottle slips from my hand, shattering against the ground, the sound sharp and final. My bloodied axe catches my eye, and I lean down to grab it while pulling out a gas lighter before flicking it open with a metallic snap. The tiny flame dances in the dark, fragile yet destructive. With one last look at the man and the church that helped shaped the demon I’ve become, I toss the lighter onto his remains.

The fire catches instantly, spreading like greedy tongues of flames that lick at his broken body, consuming it piece by piece. The stench of burning flesh fills the air as I back away slowly, my gaze fixed on the inferno as it devours everything—his body, the pews, the altar. The church that birthed me as much as it damned me.

…

Outside, the drizzling rain falls in light, misty sheets, but it’s no match for the fury of the fire. Flames roar, bursting through stained-glass windows, turning holy images into a picture of pure hell.

I stare expressionlessly before taking a long drag of my cigarette, watching the church collapse into itself, then I turn, entering deep into the dark woods. My boots crunch against the wet leaves as I disappear into the shadows, leaving behind the ruin I created, the embers of my vengeance still glowing in the night.