I wake to Isabella screeching at the end of my bed. She’s still naked and pointing down at the angry red cut sewed shut with yellow thread. It’s a botched job, but I’m used to bathing in the glory of a kill when I slice into skin; this time I had to fucking heal her.
“What?” I spit.
“Look at the state of this shit!”
She’s going to wake everyone in the entire building if she gains any more volume. I’m tempted to pull her down on the bed, pick out the stitches with my teeth and force my tongue into the wound before ending her pathetic life, but I’ve come too far to let this stupid bitch’s death ruin everything.
“Well, I’m not a Doctor. What do you want from me?”
Her hands go to her hips and her eyes are going to pop from her skull if they get any larger. “How about a fucking bed to sleep in and for you to use black thread instead of this shit! It’s messy! I look like Frankenstein!”
Why the hell do I have to listen to this? The injury is only two inches long; she needs to stop whining.
“You look fine, stop being vain.”
She storms from the room and I hope she’s gone for good. My bladder demands relief after being woken up so rudely. The floor is freezing, reminding me I need to move as soon as possible. I need to have more words with Leighton about it.
My feet come to a halt when I’m faced with Isabella brandishing a knife from the kitchen.
“What the fuck are you doing with that?” I ask, and want to laugh at how tragic she looks standing there naked, stained in blood, her hair erect in all directions.
“How would you like it!” she threatens, pointing the knife at my stomach.
“Do it. An eye for an eye, so to speak. I’ll give you one stab,” I dare her.
Her eyes spring wide with nerves. She’s all talk and has no plans to use the sharp end of that blade on me. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up for me, though. I grab her wrist and pull it forward into my skin. The tip of the knife is quite blunt so I have to use my other hand to add more force. Her head shakes from side to side as she watches in horror the blade entering my skin so easily. She’s mortified and it’s delectable to watch.
Struggling to free her wrist, she manages to pull away, leaving me to pull the blade out. It hurts like a dull ache on the inside and an annoying burn on the outside.
“Now we’re even,” I tell her.
“You’re fucking crazy!”
I look around the place we’re in and cock a brow. “We’re all a little crazy. That’s why I’m stuck in this dump with you.”
“Screw you, Ryan.” She backs away and I follow, holding my hand over the weeping wound oozing blood. Grabbing her clothes that are littered on the floor beside the couch, she backs up to the door and pulls it open without taking her eyes from me. I want to groan in annoyance when I see Jodie standing at my door. She looks between Isabella and me and her bottom lip trembles. Tears are already raining from her eyes, so something upset her before she got here; this is just salt in her wound.
I push Isabella towards Jodie and shut the door on them both. I need to clean myself up.
I’M SICK OF COMING HERE to my appointments.
It smells musky, like the inside of a book unopened for a decade. The walls are white and void, like the walls of the cells they kept me in when I first arrived. A blank canvas, a bit like me.
The drab décor really needs some color; the pretty crimson of the receptionist’s blood sprayed up it would help. I don’t want to be here. It’s an insult to my intelligence considering I fooled this idiot into believing he fixed me. Men are just as easy as women to manipulate. We have one thing that gets us every time, ego. If you feed a man’s ego, he’ll eat anything you give him.
“Ryan, I’m sorry. You should have received a letter about your appointment today.”
I stare at a woman in her early thirties, blonde hair piled into a bun on top of her head. Black-framed glasses sit on the edge of her straight nose, and brown eyes with licks of caramel look deep into mine. She’s thickly built, not fat, but curvy at the hips with big tits. Her pencil skirt flatters her rounded ass. I bet she can take some sexual punishment before crying.
“I didn’t receive a letter,” I snap.
She swallows before answering. I make her uncomfortable and those little tells nourish me and make me want to dissect her psyche. She looks at the receptionist who shrugs and goes back to filing. She’s new and it’s only now I’ve noticed that Janet, the bland old hag that usually mans the reception desk, is absent today.
“Come into my office for a moment.”