Yes (5 page)

Immediately,
she took to her feet and scampered to the kitchen. She opened drawers in search
of knives, but she only found forks, spoons, butter knives and chop sticks. She
slammed the drawers closed and ran down the hallway, checking door after door
to find every one locked. Finally, she put her hand around a door knob and gave
it a successful turn. The door opened to reveal a closet packed with heavy
coats and a stack of cardboard boxes. 

She
looked over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, then she tore one of
the boxes open and put a hand over her mouth. Inside, there were pictures of
women, their lifeless bodies sprawled awkwardly upon cement floors, wrists tied
together, knife wounds decorating their skin, their vacant eyes staring off
into nowhere, mouths agape.

She
heard the soft thwack of the front door unsealing and lost hold of the box, the
photos flittering in the air and drifting in all directions. As the soles of
his shoes clapped the tile entryway, she fell to her knees and grabbed the
pictures in bunches, pushing them into the box and closing it shut.

She
jumped to her feet, but the shifting weight inside the box threw it off
balance, and it slipped through her hands and crashed to the floor. His
footsteps grew louder, thumping the tile with a growing urgency, like big
wooden hammers pounding a hollow drum.

In
a panic, she bent over and gathered it all up, pushed it awkwardly into the
closet and closed the door just as his tall, broad silhouette filled the space
at the end of the dark hall.

"I
need to use the bathroom," she said, her eyes darting softly between his
shadowed face and the carpeted floor.

He
approached her without speaking and took her arm with an unforgiving hand.

"This
way," he said, as he led her back up the hallway and into the living room.
He released her and pointed to a door in the far corner of the room; then he
sat on the couch and lifted his glass of scotch. "Fix your makeup while
you're in there."

She
hurried to the bathroom, opened the door and closed herself inside. Instinctually,
she opened every drawer to no avail: all of them empty, save for cotton swabs,
linens and decorative soaps. She closed the last one and looked in the mirror,
the woman before her looking shaken and ragged, her tears polluted with mascara,
streaming down and branching around her cheek bones, like tiny streams of
liquid onyx.

Soon
she was sobbing, her hands on the countertop, body shaking. A fist smashed
against the door several times, and she flinched at its force.

"Don't
take all night," he said from outside.

"I'll
be right out," she said with a quivering voice not her own.

As
his footsteps faded, she straightened her face until the girl in the mirror
looked more like the one from a few hours before. Finally, she put her makeup
bag back inside her purse and opened the bathroom door.

Outside,
he sat on the couch with his back to her, a fresh cigarette dangling from his
hand.

"Come
join me," he said.

She
moved slowly toward him, taking a seat on the other side of the couch.

"Now,
now," he said, as he patted the space immediately next to him. "Slide
closer."

She
swallowed hard and slid over, his left arm engulfing her slight body, his hand
over the top of her head, pressing her face against his chest. He smelled of
cigarettes and too much cologne, and the stink of it nearly gagged her.

He
began massaging her scalp, and as he did, she could easily see his growing
arousal through his slacks. Soon, he was pressing her face downward, his
fingers gathering up bunches of her hair and twisting it into a firm handle.

"Unbutton
me," he hissed, as he exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.

She
brought her trembling fingers upward and opened his pants. She hesitated for a
moment before he snatched one of her hands by the wrist and placed it against
his erection. The contact inspired it to take on size, and soon, she could see
the head pushing up and out the waistband of his briefs. With great force, he
drove her head downward until she felt the hot tip of it pressing against her
cheek.

"Take
it," he demanded. "Take it all."

"No,"
she said, as she turned her head away.

In
a rage, he yanked her upward, nearly tearing the skin from her skull. She let
out a shrill cry and tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

"You
don't ever tell me no," he whispered into her ear. "Do you
understand?"

When
she didn't respond, he leaned in and took her earlobe between his teeth. She
shrieked as he clamped his teeth down and drew blood. Without mercy, he chewed
the flesh until she thought she might pass out from the pain. Then he finally
released and spit blood onto the lap of her dress.

"Do
you understand now?" He bellowed into her ear.

"Yes,"
she whimpered.

With
that, he re-gripped her hair and forced her back down toward his aching
manhood, which had seemed to double in size over the violent display.

"Wait,"
she begged. "Please, just let me have a drink first. Just one drink."

He
paused for a moment, and then released her.

"Make
it quick."

She
got to her feet and turned to go, but before she'd made even a single step, he
had her wrist again.

"Get
me another too."

He
drank his glass empty and then pushed it into her hand. She took it and made
her way toward the bar.

While
he checked messages on his phone, she poured herself a straight shot of gin and
drank it without thinking. As she struggled to hold the fiery liquid down, she
saw a glittering sparkle of refracting light glint off something metal just to
her right. She turned to see a corkscrew sitting all alone atop the marble top.
She turned to check Dominic, but he was busy tapping the little buttons on his
phone with his index finger.

Without
hesitation, she took the corkscrew and slipped it under her skirt, twining the
coiled metal tip in the string of her underwear where it crossed over the top
of her left leg. Then, she filled his glass with scotch and returned to the
couch.

She
handed him the glass, and he took it without looking, his attention fixed upon
some triviality on his phone, a wry little wrinkled smirk on his face. With a
measured haste, she sat next to him, pulling her skirt upward to make bunches
of space to hide the bulging corkscrew handle. He punched his finger against
the phone and sent a message to someone somewhere; then he set the phone on the
table and downed his entire drink in three large swallows.

Chills
climbed her spine as she watched him drink, his throat bulging grotesquely as
it consumed the rust colored liquor. When he'd drained the glass dry, he set it
on the table and wiped the slick from his mouth with the back of his left hand.
He turned and smiled, his bold eyes hungry and showing obvious signs of
intoxication.

"Where
were we?" He said, as he palmed the back of her head and gathered up a
bunch of her hair once more.

He
forced her down again, and this time she offered no resistance, her cheek
landing flush against the firmness inside his pants, the warmth of it obvious
even through his clothing. She opened his pants and pulled them down, and he
wiggled his hips to oblige. Without hesitation, she slipped her hand inside his
underwear and took his member by the shaft. He lolled his head back as she
stroked it, his grip firming, her scalp stinging, as if the hair might yank
free at any moment. Finally, he took it from her with his other hand and tried
to force it between her lips, the head pushing its way through, despite the
strength of her will.

Without
thinking, she lowered her hand and took his testicles, bringing a carnal moan
from his gaping mouth. With this, he began thrusting his hips, jamming his dick
deeper inside her mouth. She felt his body tighten as he prepared to release,
but before he could reach his climax, she collapsed her hand around his balls
and squeezed them together with all her strength.

Wails
of agony escaped his throat, and he released her hair to try to pry her hand
free from the screaming pain between his legs. But, as he lunged forward, she withdrew
the corkscrew from her panties using her off hand and plunged it into the side
of his neck, the shiny metal sinking effortlessly into the fleshy tissue, a
string of dark purple blood bowing upward and splashing against the white tile
floor.

He
put both hands to his throat to stop up the bleeding, but it boiled out between
his fingers and washed out over his arms. Hannah scrambled to her feet and
froze, the corkscrew still dangling from her hand, the coils congested with
gore. Dominic staggered to his feet and stumbled toward her, his eyes flaring
wildly, face painted with a medley of fear, blood and rage.

He
came at her full bore and put his fingers around her neck, but the moment his
hands left the wound, an oozing, dark red waterfall escaped, and he dropped to
the ground, his handsome face pallid and lifeless, his bold eyes cloudy and
vacant.

Hannah
looked down at his lifeless body, half expecting him to spring back up to his
feet. She kicked at him, the toe of her high heel shoe digging into his ribs
without conjuring any sort of response. When she was finally convinced, she
turned her attention toward the door, approaching it cautiously, her body
trembling and heaving with great exasperated breaths.

In
the corner, a security monitor showed the goings on in the exterior hallway
lobby. She watched the one guard pacing around outside, his hand in his pocket,
a drowsy look on his face. Without hesitation, she turned the locks on the door
and opened it. The guard turned abruptly, his body straightening to prepare for
the sight of his boss; but, instead, he saw only a beautiful, petite woman, her
dress and skin saturated in blood.

"Please,"
she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "There's been an accident."

The
guard hurried forward and looked inside the apartment, his face taking on shock
at the sight of Dominic's lifeless body. He reached into his jacket to remove
his pistol, but before he could grasp the butt of the gun, Hannah drove the
corkscrew into the back of his neck. This time, her aim was especially
auspicious, and the guard collapsed to the ground, as if his soul had been
plucked free instantaneously, the corkscrew handle sticking out the back of his
spine, making him look like a giant wind-up toy.

Hannah
removed her shoes and scampered to the elevator. She pressed the button and
waited, her heart thumping against her chest, like something that wanted out.
Within seconds the door opened, and the bearded elevator operator greeted her
with a look of great worry.

"Please,"
she said, her palms turned upward. "Dominic needs your help."

Without
thinking, the operator fled the elevator and sprinted for the apartment. As he
did, Hannah took his place and furiously tapped the ground floor button. As if
beckoned by some noiseless tone, the operator stopped and turned.

"Hey!"
he said, the depth of his voice rugged and frightening. "What the fuck are
you doing?"

Hannah
frantically pressed the button several times more, as the thud of his boot
heels grew louder and louder.

"Get
out of there you fucking bitch!"

At
last the doors flashed out of their hiding places and raced toward one another;
but before they met, the burly operator thrust his hand between. The doors met
his arm and relented, the entryway opening enough for him to squeeze between,
his big body swelling before her, eyes red with rage.

A
rush of fear washed over her, as the furious man moved forward and took her by
the arms, his massive hands enveloping them whole, so his fingers touched on
the other side. Without thinking, she let out a soft little cry and brought her
knee upward in a sharp forward angle, the hard bony kneecap striking true
enough to draw a slobbering cry that filled the elevator and hurt her ears.

As
if all the oxygen had disappeared from the room, the operator collapsed onto
the ground and clutched at his genitals, his face contorted, tears welling in
the corners of his eyes. The elevator doors flared out again, this time
stopping around the man's legs and withdrawing once more. In a panic, Hannah
stomped her heel into his shins, until he finally pulled them toward his chest
and made room for the doors.

Immediately,
she pressed the button to summon the doors back again, but they remained in
their hiding place, while the operator crawled to his knees.

"You
fucking bitch," he gasped. "I’ll kill you!"

Finally,
the doors appeared again, and when the operator saw this, he staggered to his
feet and limped forward, one hand stretched out, fingers clutching the air.

Hannah
held her hands to her mouth as the man encroached, his image growing slender
between the closing elevator doors. Convinced he would interrupt them once
more, she positioned herself to offer whatever best defense she could muster,
but just before his hand could slip between, the elevator sealed itself shut
and began its descent.