Starving

Before he reached the bottom, he could hear the boy whimpering.

“Oh, god,” the boy said. “Please stop. Oh, god, yes. Oh, fuckin…. Please stop. Please let me. . . .Oh, god, it’s so amazing. So fuckin’ amazing.”

The girls had him pinned to the floor. One had his arms under her knees, giving him a good view up the strip of leather that served as a skirt. The other sat on his legs. She had already removed his shoes and did what she wanted with his feet. Strips of blackened frost bite marked the places where her mouth had been. His fingers were black too, from touching god knows which one god knows where. And now her cold hands massaged the length of his jeans, coming together at the crux.

Randall reached into the holsters hidden in each boot. A hawthorn branch in one, sharpened, polished, and well used. A knife in the other, its curved blade newly whetted, so sharp it seemed to sing. But before he could say anything, before he could step out of the shadows, someone else came first.

“Marla,” Ignatius said, emerging from a stack of boxes on the far wall. “Marla, Marla, Marla.”

The girl perched on the legs looked up at him and hissed.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)