Sex and Murder Magazine

By Daniel W. Davis

He punched her in the face, just to the side of her jaw. She fell.

“Come on. I even pulled that one.”

She grunted in reply, pushing herself up off the ground, her backside already covered in mud and snow. She scooted away from him, backing into a tree.

“Watch where you're going. You could hurt yourself.”

She didn't say anything. She hadn't for hours.

He wore a black long-sleeve shirt with a turtleneck, a black stocking cap, blue jeans, work boots, and leather gloves. She wore nothing but whatever stuck to her flesh. Her clothes where in the bag attached to the back of the ATV.

“Are you going to come back here to me, or do I have to come get you?”

She stared at him. Her eyes had been green, bright and knowing. Her hair, before he had pulled most of it out, had been the color a raven's feathers. Her skin had been tanned and flawless. Now it was stained and discolored, unremarkable except in the appreciation of how little of it remained unmarred.

He sighed and walked towards her. She tried backing away, forgetting that she was against a tree; he saw her wince, as the bark dug into her frozen back. He reached out, took her arm; his fingers sank into her flesh, his fingernails drawing blood. She struggled, but he tugged, almost throwing her back near the vehicle that had carried them out here. She banged her head on the front tire, and he laughed.

“You're clumsy. Didn't you ever take dance lessons? I thought all girls took dance lessons.”

She pushed herself up onto all fours. He thought of kicking her legs out from under her. Her arms were trembling at the strength it took to hold herself up; just a day ago, those arms had flailed at him in the alley. He bore a bruise on his right cheek to prove how strong those arms had been.

She fell onto her chest with a gasp and a sob. She tried pushing herself up again, but only succeeded in turning over onto her back. Her face was covered in mud, but she made no move to wipe it away. Instead, she lay on the ground, writhing, making an obscene angel of mud and snow that he found strangely beautiful.

He walked towards her, kneeling beside her. He reached out a gloved hand and stroked her forehead. She cringed away at first; however, his glove offered the most warmth available, and after a couple seconds she was leaning into his touch.

He wiped the mud from beneath her eyes, from the corners of her mouth. He ran a finger across her chapped lower lip, down the curve of her cheek. She was shivering; he wondered how long it took a person to succumb to pneumonia. An hour? Half an hour?

He patted the top of her head and stood. He was gentle, but still she cringed.

He walked to the back of the ATV and pulled a can of kerosene from the bag. He kicked around the mud and snow until he had formed a circle three feet in diameter. He threw a bunch of sticks he collected into the center, then squirted the kerosene onto them. He put the kerosene back in the bag and pulled out a matchbook. He took a match out, put the rest in the bag, lit the match, and threw it onto the sticks.

She immediately began crawling to the warmth of the fire. She hadn't moved more than a few inches, however, before he kicked her in the left breast. She grunted, loudly.

“No. You don't deserve the heat.”

He kicked her again in the same spot. She whimpered and he kicked her again. A tear streamed down her cheek, carrying with it loose particles of dirt that he had failed to wipe away a few minutes before. Still she refused to move away from the flames. He kicked her over onto her back, then kicked her right breast, then began stomping on her, kicking her sides, her shoulders, her thighs, her calves, her arms. She didn't move; he had to roll her away from the fires, kicking her, shoving her with the sole of his boot. When she came to rest, a few feet from the ATV and several yards from the fire, she remained still, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

“Stay.”

He walked to the bag and took out her clothes, shoes, and purse. He threw the clothes and shoes onto the fire. He rummaged through the purse, searching for anything that would explode on him. He found nothing, and so took out her billfold and threw the purse and the rest of its contents into the flames. He pulled the cash from her billfold, stuck it the pocket of his jeans, then threw the billfold and the rest of its contents onto the fire.

“You had a lot of credit cards. Your parents are wealthy, I bet. Would've paid a rather nice ransom for you, hmm?”

He looked at her, waiting for a response, but received none. He went back to the bag, looking inside for anything he'd forgotten. Her watch was there; he shook his head, smiling to himself, and tossed the watch in with the rest of her things. He looked back through the bag, but nothing else in there belonged to her.

“That's it. Everything you were. Now all that's left is everything you are.”

She was looking at him, lying on her back, shivering, her eyes half open. At least she appeared to be looking at him; she was looking at something in his general direction. He cocked his head, trying to match her gaze. No, she wasn't looking at him. She was looking past him, at the fire. He turned back to it, held out his hands dramatically, warming them. He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled.

“When you deserve it, but not a moment before.”

Her mouth moved; he waited a few seconds until deciding it was only a muscle spasm.

He walked over to her, knelt beside her again. He wiped away some fresh blood with his hand, then wiped his hand on the ground. It wasn't good enough, but that was okay. He glanced down her body, shaking his head as he did so.

“Can't keep you clean, can I?”

He paused, then said: “I guess it's for the best.”
patted her cheek and stood, walking a circle around her, his eyes never leaving her body. She tried to follow him as best she could, but her neck could only turn so far, and her eyes couldn't open more than a couple centimeters. Her left arm, outstretched in the snow, twitched; her fist clenched as best it could. It was the most resistance she'd shown in a long while, and he smiled with approval.

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. There was a cough, and he thought that maybe it was supposed to be a word, maybe “stop,” maybe “please,” and he said: “I can't stop. We've gone too far to stop.”

Her mouth moved again, and there were no sounds, but he thought she was trying to say “why,” and he said: “What would we do if I stopped now? Take you home? Exchange Christmas cards? Do you really think that will happen?”

A sob, maybe “yes,” and he said: “It wouldn't. It can't. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

She turned her head away from him. He stood, staring at her, his head cocked to the side. He watched her bend her right leg, as if stretching. Her hands clenched repeatedly. He couldn't tell if she was trying to fend off the pain or the cold. Perhaps both.

He walked back to the fire and knelt before it. Her clothes had already burned; everything else would join it shortly, and what wouldn't burn away completely didn't really matter. He took a step closer towards the fire. The heat intensified. He took another step. It was almost too hot to bear, but he took another step, and now he felt as though his eyelashes would burn off, and still he took another step, and then an air pocket exploded, and sparks showered over him, and he fell backwards, laughing.

He pushed himself to his feet and turned around. She was looking at him again.

“You missed it,” he said, but wondered if she had after all. Perhaps she had been watching him when his back was turned.

He licked his lips, turned back to the fire briefly. It would burn for some time, longer than he needed it to, and that was alright. He walked over to her and stood over her, smiling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

Her eyes couldn't open any wider, but her mouth moved again, and this time he was pretty sure he heard syllables-“don't”?-and he shook his head sadly. Without saying anything-there was nothing he could think of to say-he kicked her in her side, and then again, and then again, and he rolled her over onto her stomach. She resisted but was too weak to stop him. He undid his belt and let his jeans and boxers drop to the ground. Stepping out of them, he began playing with himself until he was hard. It took a little longer, due to the cold, but not too long. When he was hard enough he opened the condom and rolled it on. Then he dropped to the ground behind her, spread her legs, and thrust himself inside her.

She moaned. He thrust again. Now she began to cry, and there was a sound, something like a groan or a muffled scream, and he thrust again. Now she just cried, she didn't groan, and he thanked her for it and thrust again, and again.

Ten thrusts and he was done. He stood up, slipping off the condom. He walked over to the fire, half naked, and threw the condom into the flames. Then he walked back and put on his jeans and boxers. He kicked her over onto her back again. Her eyes were closed, and he heard a new noise coming from her. He knelt beside her and realized she was humming. Once he recognized the tune he began to hum along and she stopped, opening her eyes.

“Hi,” he said.

She breathed, and it was ragged, and it sounded like “hello.”

“We've met before, you know.” He laughed.

A muscle twitched on her face. She was trying to smile but couldn't, and he nodded sympathetically.

“It's okay. Do what you can. I shouldn't make you laugh; I'm sure it hurts like hell.”

She looked at him, and he looked back at her, and he smiled, and maybe she tried to smile back.

He stroked her cheek. “You really are beautiful. Really.”

He stood and walked over to the bag on the back of the ATV. He reached inside and pulled out the knife. The sunlight caught on the blade, and it winked, and the girl wheezed, and he laughed.

“Oh, it's not that bad. Really, I'm sure you're so cold, you won't feel a thing.”

He walked towards her, and she began pushing herself away.

He stopped her by stomping down on her left hand. He felt and heard bones crack. This time she screamed, but the noise was strangled, her throat too bruised and swollen to get the full sound out. He laughed again and dropped to his knees beside her.

“Besides, soon, you'll be ready for the fire. That's good, right?”

With the knife he sliced into her left breast. Deep. Blood flowed instantly, and he frowned, for he had half-expected her body to be too frozen. He cut again, this time across her abdomen, not so deep, and more blood flowed, and then he began cutting her randomly, slicing as soon as a body part came to mind, and he did this for the better part of ten minutes, though he couldn't really tell, he was too lost in the moment, the slice of the knife, the peel of the flesh, the strangled scream, the red tide that grew dimmer and dimmer. By the time he was done, the blood was flowing sluggishly, and the knife blade had turned from polished silver to a deep crimson.

He stood up, staring down at her. What remained of her chest moved slowly, brief spasms indicating that she still had enough blood in her, and part of him was disappointed, but part of him wasn't, and he walked over to the fire and threw the knife in. It was no big loss, he had purchased it at a discount store a few weeks ago, there were millions like it out there, but still he felt a brief pang, a letting go of something important, something special, and he teared up as he watched the fire melt the plastic grip of the knife, watched the blade began to glow a soft brilliant orange.

He turned away and walked over to her. With the back of his hand he wiped away the tears before bending over and grabbing her right foot, the one that remained the most intact. He drug her over next to the fire, where it was hot, almost too hot, he felt the hair on the back of his neck singe as he bent over her, looking at her face, into what remained of her eyes, trying to find something in them, but there was nothing, just the empty shell of some creature that clung to life out of pure habit, and he shook his head sadly, grabbed her arms, and rolled her onto the fire.

He kicked her the rest of the way on, yelling as the fire licked out and burnt his leg, but he kicked her the rest of the way on, and he thought he heard something, not a scream but maybe a groan, and he turned away because of the smell, he hated that smell, and he brought his fingers up to his nose to pinch it off, but the smell was stubborn, it still got in, so he took off his gloves, threw them onto the fire, zipped up the bag on the back of the ATV, turned the vehicle on, and drove out of the forest the way he'd come in.




































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