By Nick Ransom
His eyes rolled back, almost far enough to meet mine. He tried to scream and a strangled, mewling noise gurgled out of his throat. He was shaking again-either that, or I was shaking him with my laughing.
His face was covered in cuts, gouges, sprays and crusts of his own blood. In one spot I could almost see his cheekbone poking out, bleach-white against the warmth of his skin. I uncovered his mouth and let him scream, grabbed double fistfuls of his hair and wrenched it back. He screamed until his voice cracked, screamed until I expect him to spit blood, screamed until I forced his face back into the cement.
And then the little shit screamed some more.
Why I did it doesn’t matter, neither does why he deserved it. All that matters now is that this lovely boy is slowly falling to beautiful little pieces in my hands, practically coming apart at invisible seams under my knives and scalpels and razor wire. The longer I work at him, me more I understand the red, beautiful puzzle in my hands.
He fought back at first, fought back like there was a point to it. Kicking, screaming, flailing and spitting empty threats in my face. I took him down, though; I bore into him slow and heavy, savoring every cringe and flail and “fuck you”. I wrenched his thin arms behind him and threw him to the ground, pretty little face bruising across the heavy concrete. With one boot on his back I cut through the backside of his shirt, pulled it off and tossed it away. Entranced, in love with him, I dropped to my knees in near-worship. I ran my fingers over the muscles and bones of his back, marveling at how clean and unscathed he was for the time being. He tried to say something and I shifted my weight on his hips to pin him tighter.
Finally, I was the one holding him down. I was the one in control. I was the one smiling.
With a nearly-uncomfortable amount of pressure in my pants I ripped his down, whispering threats of unimaginable violence to him if he decided to be stupid. Which, unsurprisingly, he did. He tried fighting me first, which didn’t bode well for him. I curled one hand around his thin neck and threw him into the nearest wall. He squirmed, he tried to scream, and eventually he tried clawing at my hand. I held him tight, meeting his honey-eyed glare and smiling back at him serenely. I promised him that it didn’t matter if he fought back or gave up now. It didn’t matter if he crawled to his knees and licked my boots clean, nor if he screamed and clawed the whole way down. He would die, slowly, miserably, and messily. Nothing would stop it, nothing would speed it up, and now nothing could take him away from me.
My fingers curled around his, forcing his hands into fists and continuing to squeeze until I felt bones straining in his hands. He squirmed, anger dissipating enough to let fear seep through. He pleaded, his voice and eyes both desperately trying to find some soft spot left in me to latch onto. I clenched my fingers harder until his gave with a snap I felt more than heard. He shook and screamed out in pain before I caught his throat with both hands this time, clamping my thumbs down tightly. He wheezed; an incredibly beautiful, hopeless little sound. His long eyelashes fluttered, he gritted his perfect teeth and mouthed “Please” over and over. Again, I squeezed tighter. I pushed myself up against him. I felt his body contracting and shuddering against me and nearly lost myself then and then. I let go of him and he dropped, crumpling to the floor like a stringless marionette. He shook on the floor, apparently unsure whether to give up completely or continue trying to fight back. When he looked up at me to say something I lashed out and kicked him square in the jaw, sending him sprawling. He began crawling, or rather trying to, towards the stairs I’d dragged him down. I followed him leisurely and kicked him again, this time in the side of the head. He yelped out, pleaded for a reason as to why.
‘Because you’re lovely’, I told him. ‘Because boys like you are so much better when they’re dead’, I whispered to him, loving him now more than ever. To see him helpless, hopeless, falling to pieces was godlike. It was spiritual. It was all mine.
I dragged him away from the stairs and held him down with one foot while I took a hammer from the wall. I straddled his bony hips and turned the hammer over in my hands, looking down at him in the purest affection I’d ever felt. He shook his head, pleading again, his eyes huge and childish. I leaned in, brushed the hair out of his face and kissed him. He never stopped begging, even after the hammer fell. I swung, blindly, hitting arms and legs and his abdomen. After a while he stopped pleading and just made noise, something between a moan and a sob, going on and on with each strike. I stopped hearing the snap and crunch of bones, replaced by a wet, slush sound. He was a mess, my little angel. His eyes were nearly all whites, bleeding from every wound and gash and pore. “Fucking kill me!” He screamed, his mangled hands fluttering near my legs. I drew a utility blade from my pocket and traced a long, slow, shallow line down his chest.
Tears streamed down his face, a continuous river of self-pity and the purest misery imaginable. He was shaking incessantly, his broken little hands twitching and jittering. The line down his middle opened up into a thin ribbon of vivid, beautiful red. He moaned, his throat working against his sobs, head lolling on the concrete. I leaned in and slid my tongue up the little river in his abdomen, raking my nails down his sides. I let my mouth wander across him, tasting blood and sweat and grit from the ground. I bit down on his skinny hipbones and let him buck weakly against me. I slid back up and bit down on the soft spot beneath his jaw and let him shriek wetly in my ear. My dick felt like it would explode if I didn’t do something directly with it soon. I didn’t want to stop, though. I felt like I couldn’t. There’d never be another chance like this, I could kill a thousand more men, each even more beautiful than him and it still wouldn’t touch this wonderful feeling.
So I grabbed a fistful of his hair, forced his head up and shoved myself into his wet bruised mouth. He stared up at me with red eyes, sobbing and choking the whole while, his half-toothless mouth gliding against me. I wanted to lean back and close my eyes, but I didn’t want to miss anything. Instead I dropped his head against the concrete and fucked his face against it. His mouth worked around me, past the point now of fighting back, his soft wet mouth working around me. I went at him harder, grinding his head harder against the ground, grabbing hold of his hair while I fucked him. His eyes clenched shut as another sob tried to choke its way out of his chest and I slapped him hard. I wanted to see, I wanted to see everything. I wanted to watch his little mind break along with his beautiful body. I forced myself to pull out of his mouth, not really wanting to but wanting to fuck him even more. I wanted to hurt him as much as possible, to feel him as much as possible. I pulled his legs apart and he fought weakly. I almost had to admire it, futile as it was at this point. I took hold of the hammer once again and bashed him twice in both knees. I wrenched his legs up over his head and shoved myself into his ass.
It seemed to wake him up, at least. Eyes wide in pain, ability to scream like a girl apparently renewed, he wriggled as much as he could while I fucked him hard, my nails biting into his abused skin. I fucked him deeper, knowing my knees would be scraped raw from the concrete. I clawed his stomach and chest, slapped his lovely face, gnawed on his neck until he bled. All the while he screamed, sobbed, shrieked wordless sounds of unfathomable agony. I pounded him deeper, harder, faster than ever. I fucked him until it hurt, until I felt like I’d explode, and then I let go. My nails dug into him so hard that I tore out bits of his skin. I bit my lip so hard it bled, and everything in him recoiled in visible disgust. I pulled out of him still coming and spread it across his face. He tried to turn away and I swung the hammer at that beautiful face, unraveling all those heartbreaking features. The bits of his perfect teeth that were left fell away, pulverized into tiny bits of calcium. I swung the hammer again and those model’s cheekbones sunk away into a mess of blood and muscle. One long, low sound of agony came out of him now. Screaming was beyond him, too sane and human to come from him at this point.
I brought the hammer down dozens of times, taking out those gorgeous topaz eyes of his, waging war on those torturous little lips of his. His broken hands still twitched, his pale blood-streaked chest rising and falling haphazardly. That long, keening sound of pain came and went now. His face was a mess, not even a fucking face anymore. So I started swinging the hammer at the rest of him, breaking apart his ribs one by one, the rest of his chest and his smooth stomach. When I ran out of bones to break I clawed him, stabbed him, ripped chunks of his flesh out with my teeth. I could feel him dying in my mouth, in my hands. I stopped abusing him and sat back to watch. I had no idea if he was alive anymore, I had barely any idea what was going on. I watched him though, watched him until my cock got hard again. I cut a narrow slit in his stomach and pushed myself in, feeling his organs melt around me. I barely had time to fuck him this time around, the combination of everything was entirely too much for me. I didn’t realize I’d been screaming until I pulled out of his stomach and saw gleaming white inside the mess of organs and blood.
A lovely mess on the floor, ground into the very stone of the place. I’d never forget this, any of it. I’d never outlive it; never find something half as wonderful as this. It didn’t matter what happened after this.