The Yearning

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The Yearning
By Piper Sargasso

Rating: NC-17 (for graphic depictions of violence)

Spoilers: Orison, Irresistible

Archive: I’d be honored! Please drop me a line so I can visit and flaunt.
I will submit to Gossamer and Ephemeral.

Category: S

Disclaimer: Characters within belong to CC, Twentieth Century Fox and
Ten-Thirteen Productions. No infringement intended.

Summary: “Maybe he unleashed something that he couldn’t control.
Maybe he *thought* he was opening the door of perception, but then,
unwittingly, he opened the gates of Hell.”

Author’s Note: This story is a companion piece to “Donnie Pfaster – Profile of a Fetishist” and part of the Donnie Pfaster Series.


Sheep go to Heven, Goats go to Hell.

Profound words, coming from the dredges of humanity inhabiting that
place. Five years I’ve spent dreaming of her, of my redheaded
angel as I rotted away in the cell she helped put me in. Thanks to the
good Reverend, I’m finally free to make all my dreams a reality.

Reverend Orison.

If it’s true that sheep go to Heaven, then I had been in good company.
They were all sheep. I almost pitied them, falling so eagerly under
Orison’s transparent spell. Simple mind tricks, and they actually thought
they were touched by God.

Well, I know no God. I’ve seen no proof of such a thing as a soul. I
don’t believe in such a bourgeois concept as Hell. There is no final
retribution, no ultimate punishment. There is only the here and now. There
is only blood and flesh, life and death.

He thought he was an instrument of God. I didn’t complain when he
assisted my escape. I could almost believe in his God the moment I
walked out into the sunshine, past every guard on duty that stood
between me and freedom. I almost believed, because I was that much
closer to what I craved, that which I desired above all else.

Dana Scully


She sat in that courtroom five years ago, eyes straight ahead and posture
painfully erect as she delivered the testimony that would see me convicted
for the rest of my life. I remember how she looked over to her partner
several times that day. For support, I suppose.

Relief was written all over that pretty little face of hers when the judge
handed me my sentence. To tell the truth, I was a little surprised he didn’t
give me the death penalty. In a way, I was disappointed. I ached for death
the way a man in the desert aches for water. It soothed me, comforted me.
I wanted it badly, but wanted to taste more of life first. I had things to
do yet. The monotonous days turned into wearisome months.

But I found escape in my bunk every night, regardless of the bars and solid
walls. I began to dream the most wonderful dreams – about my Dana. They are
different from the dreams of my sisters or of the others. So delicious.

In them, I am undressed. I don’t want to miss a single sensation and
clothing would only be in the way. She is clothed in a gauzy, flowing
white gown, her beautiful, coppery hair streaming down her back – it’s
long enough to reach the middle. She lies down upon a bed of pure, white
silk. She’s ready for me.

I tremble in my sleep, watching myself as I bring a knife down again
and again on her still form. I know she wants this. She’s been waiting
for it, anticipating it. All she desires is to give herself to me.
She doesn’t even move as the blade penetrates time and time again into
her soft, welcoming body.

When I’m finished, I notice the flecks of her life-giving blood,
still warm on my bare chest. This is what I craved. Her dress and the
sheets are stained with it, shredded from my love for her. But she wants
more. Somewhere, deep inside her lifeless body, she lies quiet,
demanding more. And I want to give it to her.

Every sensation is heightened, every nerve dances, alive in a way they
have never been. I crawl up onto the ruined bed and look into her glazed
eyes before I mount her tiny body. I pull her dress to her belly tenderly
and smile in approval as I see she has gone without panties for me. I’m hard
and aching with desire for her and can’t wait any longer to push into her,
to make her my first taste of intimacy. The first thrust is slow and easy and
she feels incredible and cool and perfect all at once. She is pleased, as
am I. This is all I want, from now until eternity.

I always wake from the dream feeling sated, my underclothing quite damp and
sticky from my emissions. She’s the only thing I ever think about, and now
that I’m free, nothing will stop me from getting what I want.


I slip into the diner’s booth for a bite, thinking, as I always do, about
the moment my Dana and I will meet again. She’ll be so surprised!

While waiting to be served, I glance over and notice the waitress behind
the counter. She’s flipping through her open checks. She isn’t really my
type, but I’ve been imprisoned for a very long time and her nails look
simply divine. I feel my tongue peek out and lick at my lip and my
breathing quickens. I have to calm down; I need to choose more carefully,
until I’m reunited with my darling Dana. It simply wouldn’t do to get caught

A young lady slides into my booth, startling me from my reverie.

“Looking for something to eat?” She is skinny, but has a chubby face. I
stare at her, interested but disappointed in her hair – it’s choppy and
too short for my taste. For a minute, I consider telling her to leave, but
that shade… I decide she’ll whet my appetite for the time being.

I play along. “Me?”

She flirts rather uninterestedly, “How about today’s special?”

Her nails are horrid, painted in blue. I detest the trend. It shows a
lack of class. Chipped, neglected nails and a lack of personal
hygiene. She’s definitely not my Dana, but she’ll serve my purposes.

She notices my staring. “You aren’t a narc, are you?” If I had been, I
would’ve noticed the track marks between her fingers long before she
had the sense to hide them under the table.


“You’re looking at my hands.”

“You need a buff and polish.”

I can’t wait to get hold of her. My mouth salivates thinking about
the smell of acetone and the sound of an emery board scratching
across those roughened nails.

Her thin lips draw up into a smile. “What are you? A freak?”

Well, that seems to be the popular consensus. Society sees me as a
monster, when in fact I am quite the opposite. I can relate to the dead
in a way I never could with the living. They intrigue me, beckon to
me. During my work in the mortuary, I became rather intimate with the
cold, unmoving corpses. They were honest and pure. I respected them
even as I envied them for crossing into a plane I have yet to achieve.

My respect carries on to this day. There is no one more deserving,
more worthy of it than the deceased.

I offer her what I think is a rational explanation just as that
boisterous waitress orders my girl to leave. I ignore her and explain
that I’ll be happy to her nails for free, that I’ll do a good and thorough
job for her. She looks amused. I estimate her age to be around seventeen.
Not that this matters. The only thing I’m interested in are the natural
red tresses on top of her head.

Reverend Orison’s judgmental voice suddenly booms behind me like the
Almighty, Himself. I turn to face him, irritated with his preaching
and sacrosanct disapproval of me. He, who is no better. My girl is
frightened away and this angers me, though I soon see I have bigger
problems – the place is swarming with police.

“You called them on me,” I accuse. He assuresme that he didn’t and
proves to be rather useful in aiding my second escape. I spot my girl on
the way to his car, hovering by the door, and pull her quickly by the arm.

“Let’s go,” I tell her, and she follows. As we pull away, I see the
Reverend come toward us and I aim the car at him, running him over. In
the rearview mirror, I see him struggle to get up, so I attempt to back
over him and finish the job. However, he rolls out of the way. I have no
more time to deal with him.

I ask my girl where she lives. She gives me an address and directs me
as we go. I can see how unnerved she is by the scene we’d left behind,
but I wonder why she isn’t more upset. After a few sideways glances, I
decide that a combination of youth and drugs are the cause. I doubt she
has much sense left.

“Look, this is all getting kinda heavy for me,” she finally says and
extracts a small pill from a little tin, pinched between her chipped,
blue-tipped finger and thumb. “Wanna roll?”

“What?” I ask.

She laughs nervously, trying to be brave. “X. You’ve never heard of X?
It’ll make you feel sooo good!” she drawls. I decline, but tell her to
go on without me. It seems to relax her, which makes things easier for

We drive to the house she shares with two of her hooker friends. I am
disappointed that I have to rush, but am determined to take my time with
her nails, nonetheless.

Once I am finished, I instruct her to let them dry while I run her a bath.
Experience tells me women don’t generally enjoy the cold water, so rather
than repeat a potentially aggravating mistake, I run her a warm bath. I
won’t have the time to see to her preservation anyway. Not this time.
But once I get the one I want, I fully plan to keep her as fresh as possible
for as long as possible. We have much to do, after all.

For now, I spray a drying accelerant on my girl’s manicured fingernails and
lead her limp, giggling form to the bathroom. Making short work of her
clothes, I lift her into the tub. Her spurts of ridiculous laughter are
beginning to wear very thin on my nerves and it’s all I can do to remain calm
enough to make this last. What could have been a religious experience is now
cheapened by her foolishness. I wish I had refused her the drugs.

She twists around in the tub, insistent on resting against the cold faucet,
she claims feels “awesome” against her hot skin. She didn’t seem to notice when
I stopped the flow of hot water just before she got in. The water is warm, but

I carefully choose the products I want and lather her hair with a fruity
shampoo. She slumps over, facing the water as if it’s very interesting. She
starts blowing on the surface, giggling at the ripples she creates as I work
the shampoo from root to end. Rinse, condition, rinse. The silkiness of wet,
freshly conditioned hair between my fingers is exquisite.

I am not pleased with her. She’s making this less than satisfactory for
me and I don’t think I want to wait any longer. I leave her side for a moment
and root through the drawers of the bathroom vanity in search of a pair of
scissors. I find a very nice pair in the bottom drawer. Oh, lovely. They’re

I take my place by her side and slowly slip the scissors underneath her hair,
careful not to startle her. In her present condition, I hardly think
she’d notice, but I want to be careful nonetheless. After a few moments, every
strand of hair is in a neat pile next to the tub where I

Despite my caution, realization suddenly dawns on her. I see it descend
upon her in a matter of seconds – the look on her face and the hands in her
closely shorn hair tell me she now fully understands her predicament. She
puts up the token fight, the horror on her face as she battles for her
pathetic life so familiar it’s like a homecoming.

Water sloshes in great waves out of the tub and onto the floor. I’m
excited, not about the contact of squirming, naked flesh, but from the
delightful anticipation. I enjoy the struggle almost as much as I love the
end result. I don’t generally like to strike them, but this girl made it a
necessity. I can already see the bruises begin to form and I wonder how
I’d ever let such an opportunity pass. They’re so beautiful.

The scissors make a handy tool, I discover. I draw out the fight, swiping
at her arms, legs, stomach – any part of her body available – with the sharp
blade of the scissors. I have a particular fondness for them. They are
older than the weak, plastic varieties you find in stores today. They are long
and pointed at the ends, heavy in my hand and, much to my pleasure, very
sharp. I’ll take them with me when I leave. I doubt their current owner
will miss them.

Her skin is littered with slashes. It’s almost over. I can feel her
weakening as the water turns red with her blood. I wish I had time to play
a little longer, but I have her roommates to consider, so I stab the
pointed ends of the scissors into her stomach and twist them inside her. Her
mouth opens wide, as do her eyes, but no sound comes forth. After a moment,
she goes limp in the bloodied water.

I hastily strip the soaked rug from the floor and toss it into the corner of
the room, then sop up the excess water with a couple of towels. They are added
to the growing pile. My neat little mountain of auburn hair was upset in
the struggle and I carefully scoop up as much as I can before proceeding any
further. It’s placed inside a plastic bag for safekeeping.

I look at her body. There is such a mess that I’m glad I had the
opportunity to take her hair before all the blood could render the careful
washing useless. Her face is battered and my eyes rake over her body to
assess the damage. A flash of pale skin catches my attention. Somehow, a small
section of her right thigh has avoided injury. I’m fascinated and decide to
take that little piece with me. I’ve had no experience with extracting skin, so
I’m surprised by how easy it is to merely carve it away from the body. It’s
exhilarating and the pleasure of it rockets through me. I have to focus,
though, so I set it next to my bag of clippings on the sink and finish up.

I decide to take all of her fingers. They are now painted in a tasteful red,
buffed and filed. Much more suitable, I think. They are removed with a pair
of wire-cutters I have found in a toolbox in her kitchen. Luck seems to
be on my side today.

I complete my task by moving the few burning candles I could find to the
base of the tub. She’s displayed quite lovely now, her head cocked to the side
and her stubbed hands proudly flaunted. I am pleased to see her right leg
showing off the pulpy mass of blood and tissue where the skin was taken. The
whole scene looks like a sacrifice placed upon an altar, the candles
accentuating this wonderfully.

For the first time, I see her as beautiful and for a moment, I contemplate
touching her. I dismiss the thought quickly. I’m saving myself for that lovely
FBI agent. This is all just foreplay to me, not to be overindulged.

Very soon, I promise myself. I’ll have satisfaction very soon.


My time with Dana has already been meticulously planned out. There
will be no sloppiness, as there was with the diner hooker.

I will come to her. She’ll be shy, embarrassed by her behavior in the
courtroom that day. My Dana is repentant and desires to make amends
for her trespasses against me. She wears the gown of white and
floats toward me like an angel, ethereal and shining with light. I
lean down to press my lips gently to hers in a chaste and loving kiss.
It’s innocent and beautiful and her full lips move to caress mine as I
slip her dress up, inch by inch with shaking hands. She smiles against my
mouth and deepens the kiss.

I reluctantly break away and lead her into the bathroom where a hot
bubble bath awaits her. She smiles serenely and slips under the mass
of bubbles. It strikes me how beautiful she is with her gorgeous
auburn locks falling over her shoulders, modestly covering her
pretty breasts. She leans slightly forward and waits for me to choose
the shampoo.

After selecting the appropriate formula, I delight in the silky
texture of her hair as I lather it up. The smell of coconuts and papaya
wafts to my nostrils, mingling with the scent of arousal I’m sure I can
smell exuding from my Dana, even as she sits in the bubbly water. She
closes her eyes and hums, leaning her head backward into my hands. The
action pushes her breasts forward, thrusting taut nipples heavenward.
I allow one hand to wander from her soapy head to touch one of
them as I stare in awe, stilling the hand that wants to concentrate
on the task at hand. I run a finger over one nipple, then my palm. I’m
amazed by the hardness of it, that skin could pucker and become like
the rubber eraser of a pencil from my touch. She moans and the sound
echoes in my head.

Never in my life have I been sexually aroused by the body of a
living woman, having always related more with the dead. But I feel my
groin tighten because of her, straining against my slacks. My Dana
understands and rises from the water, waiting patiently for a towel.
I wrap one around her delicate body and help her to step out. It’s time,
her eyes tell me.

After toweling off, she crawls onto the bed and demurely looks up at me.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I have decided that I’ll try
something a little new with her, something that I’ve fantasized about
the entire time of my incarceration. I will prolong her life as long as
possible. To be more specific, I will experiment with an asphyxiation
technique I learned from an inmate. It was something he liked to do with
his girlfriend – until one night, he took it too far. Unfortunate for him,
but what a marvelous idea!

I move to put my plan into action. She lies in the bed, staring up at me
from eyes heavy with her desire for me. She wants this almost as badly as
I do. I climb up her still body, straddling her and lean to kiss her
deeply. As our tongues clash and duel, I slip both hands around her creamy
throat and clamp them down tightly. Her eyes pop open suddenly, wide with
shock. It’s all part of the act, you see. It’s all for show. She knew it was
coming all along. For five years, she has expected this.

I am so careful not to take her life, but to bring her to the edge of death.
She is unconscious as I slip my hardened penis into her warm entrance.
I’m so pleased that I waited for her. She’s exquisite. I have created for
myself an artificial death – a mate who can assume the positions and be
submissive as a corpse, but still breathes, still maintains the body’s
functions. Thrusting into her, over and over again, I envision her lying on a
concrete slab in an ancient sepulcher, surrendering to my love. I want to be
inside of her eternally, want to crawl up inside her and die right along with

She regains consciousness just before I spill my hot seed into her, but does
not dare move. Instead, she stares blankly and unfocused, giving me this
fantasy before I come.

We do not speak afterward. Words have always meant little to me and
we have mutually agreed to abandon them. There are no words for what
we have anyway – the spiritual connection we share says it all.

Some time passes and we repeat the earlier ritual of our lovemaking. I
keep her on the brink of death for the entire evening, pushing her body
to its limit time and again. Sometimes I even have to resuscitate her
because I’ve pushed too far. By midnight, we are both ready.

I whisper a goodbye and take one last kiss from her sweet lips,
straddling her. My hands wrap around her delicate throat, which bears the
bruises of my devotion, and squeeze tighter than I had before. I swallow
her final breath and lay my head on her breast. It has been a long and
tiring night for both of us, but I have rested before taking her on her
last journey. I’m ready to connect with her.

Her body is still warm. I know this will not last – soon she will stiffen
and become cold. Within days, she will lose her rigor and become soft,
almost spongy as she begins to decay. No amount of refrigeration will stop
the process forever, especially not the oversized deep freezer I plan to
obtain for this purpose. It will buy me a few precious weeks, but nothing
short of a cryogenic chamber will give me more than that.

Making love to her body is the sweetest, most intensely religious
experience I could ever have hoped for. Somewhere, deep within herself – behind
those glazed eyes – I know she feels the same.


Thoughts of her and our time together are interrupted by the voice of a man
on the radio, describing both me and the good Reverend’s car. It angers me
to be hunted like a common criminal. Don’t they understand? Can’t they see
that what I do is provide a service? Those women are on a plane no living
being can even begin to understand. I gave that to them, even as I cater to
my own needs.

“Police are involved in a four-state manhunt for a prisoner who escaped
maximum security prison in Marion, Illinois. He was last seen driving a
green 1970 Chevrolet Impala with a black landau top. He is described as
six feet tall, medium build…”

I can’t hear anymore. I get out of the car and rip the top off the car
with my pocketknife, then go to the trunk, where I find two bloody prison
uniforms. So, Reverend. I guess you’re not quite as pure as you’d
like to believe. I’d love to see him explain exactly how these got here.
Of course, I already know. And I don’t plan on joining those two any time

I’ve found his address. I get back into the car and drive to my temporary new


The second I close the door, I begin to shuck off the bloodied clothing.
My girl was very messy, indeed. I pull the baggy of her fingers from
the pocket of my discarded pants and sit down on the couch. Absently
fondling them through the plastic, I think about Dana’s beautiful red hair.
She began a craving in me, all those years ago in that dismal jail cell. I
need sustenance, some little morsel to hold me over until I can have the real
thing. The last one was less than satisfactory.

I reach over and pick up the phone. A quick call to information supplies me
with a connection to an escort service. I make my request – a woman with long,
red hair – then hang up. The anticipation begins to overwhelm me and I
rise to busy myself with the tasks of preparing the bathroom and preserving my
girl’s fingers.

Once in the kitchen, I take my time packing the digits in new baggies,
silently congratulating myself on a job well done on the manicure I gave her.
A knock at the door startles me and I quickly place my treasures in the

She’s here. The excitement runs through me, making me lightheaded and somewhat
dizzy. I scoop up the clothing on the living room floor and toss them into the
bedroom before answering the door.

Her hair is gorgeous. It’s piled up on top of her head and curly tendrils are
grazing her neck and shoulders. My eyes drift down to her hand, which showcases
beautiful red nails. I’m pleased.

I excuse myself to double check on the lighted candles I’ve already gathered
and placed in the bathroom. She sits on the couch, patiently waiting for me.
I return and explain that I’d like for her to take a bath. She smiles. It
must not be an unusual request for her. That’s the difference between her and
the blonde I first tasted bliss with – class. She’s used to being pampered
and treated well, whereas the blonde was happy to cramp herself in the backseat
of cars time and again before the night was out.

I show her the way into the bathroom and leave her to undress and slip into
the bath I’ve begun running. After shutting the door, I put on a robe and bring
my hair supplies into the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” She has turned off the water. I wonder why she’s so
surprised to see me.

“Is your hair chemically treated?”

“My hair?”

“I don’t know which product to use,” I explain.

She’s angry. I don’t want her to leave, but I play along and allow her to
think I’m going to let her go.

“I’m being a gentleman.”

“Well, be a gentleman and get me a towel. I’m gonna get outta here.” I
turn to dump my armful of products into the sink and grab the towel hanging on
the rack next to me. Wrapping the towel around her, I notice something… she
has two hairlines. A wig!

“It’s a wig. They lied to me.” I tear the offending thing off her head,
outraged. “You lied to me!” I throw it at the sink. She’s going to be very
sorry she tried to trick me.

My head is turned for a split second as I rid myself of the fake hair, but it’s
long enough for her to pick up a candle. They’ve been burning since I called
her, so there is a considerable amount of melted wax in each of them. She draws
back her hand and throws the hot, stinging wax into my face. As the lava-like
liquid burns my face, she punches me. Disoriented, I fly forward and strike my
forehead on the sink, sliding into unconsciousness.


I stumble to my feet as soon as I come to, clinging to the cold, ceramic sink
for support. My head reels and I’m angry, so angry that she bested me. I’m also
aware that I have to leave. Who knows how long I’ve been out? The cops could be
here any minute.

I look into the bathroom mirror, staring at my bloody face as I wipe at the
cooled wax.


The unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. For a moment, I imagine my Dana has
found me. Then I look into the mirror and see the face of Reverend Orison
locking eyes with me from behind.

“Whosoever shedeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”

He’s come to collect me. To continue “God’s work,” I suppose. I suppress a
smirk at his naivete.

I’m game, Reverend. Are you?


Kneeling before the grave that is being dug for me at this very moment by my
executioner, I come to a realization.

There is a God. I feel traces of it in the earth beneath my knees and the
wind blowing around me. There is a God, and He is nothing more than an
absentee guardian of the innocent, a blind and indifferent, uncaring deity
at best. He didn’t care about those girls. I could’ve been stopped, but wasn’t.
And why?

Because, Reverend Orison’s God has long since given up on His failed Creation.
The fools who follow him unto death waste their time. I weep with the power of
this discovery.

What fuels me – what has always fueled me – has nothing to do with God. I have
an aching need that comes from a more present source. I see it in their faces
as I squeeze the last precious drop of life from their bodies. I see it in the
Reverend’s face right now.

“I cry for *you*,” I repeat as his limp body falls into the grave he dug for


I’m hours ahead of her.

This is by design. It’s why I reported the location of Orison’s body – to keep
her occupied until I’m ready for her to return home. It’s worked out perfectly,
so far. I’ve had time to purchase the deep freezer and obtain a storage room in
town. I made sure to lease a large one, so there will be no shared hallways
with anyone else. I backed the car into the wide opening and unloaded my
necessities. This way, there will be no suspicious activities caught on the
security videos now or later, when I bring her body back there.

She’ll be home soon. I’ve left her with no reason to stay in Illinois after my
phone call to the police. I let myself in to her apartment. A surge of power
rushes through me; I am in her sanctuary and she is at my mercy. I have waited
for this moment for five long years. The anticipation is extraordinary!

As my eyes feast on the sight of her bed, I imagine what is to come. Will it be
as satisfying as I’ve imagined all this time? I smile. It has to be. How could
I expect anything else of my Dana? I put her Bible away. God has no place here.
He will not come between us.

Finally, the time has arrived! I can hear her coming through the front door,
and I duck into her closet and watch her through the cracked door as she
undresses. I’m rather disappointed that she has cut her hair so short, but she
is beautiful, nonetheless. My mouth is suddenly very dry. I want to taste her
sweet skin and drink from her lips. I’m delirious with desire.

I can smell her as she comes closer to me. But something stops her short. She
steps back and goes to her nightstand. The light bulb blows and her attention
is suddenly diverted from her clock radio to my hiding spot.

She knows.

Throwing all her weight into the effort, she attempts to trap me inside the
closet, but I am too quick for her. I jump from the small space and punch her
squarely in the nose. Stunned, her body slams up against the wall, slumping
over from the pain. I wrap both hands around her delicate throat and squeeze. I
won’t be able to enjoy the benefits of my labors until I can get her to

A searing pain shoots into my brain as I feel her press her thumbs into my eyes
and drag downward. The sharp ache is nearly unbearable and it throws me off my
guard long enough for her to punch me in the stomach and run for her gun on the
dresser. I throw her up against the dresser’s mirror, shattering it into
dangerously large shards, then slam her into the wall behind it again and

But she isn’t through fighting yet. That’s my Dana. She’s a fighter – I’ve
never forgotten that. Our last struggle is fresh in my mind. This is our
dance. It’s our way. She delivers two blows to my stomach and groin with both
her legs. The pain of the last doubles me over and she smashes a lamp over me,
then kicks me while I’m down on the floor. Next thing I see is her tiny body
pulling her bookshelves down on me.

She runs into the living room while she thinks I’m down for the count, dialing
911. She underestimates how much I want her. How can she think I’d let her
escape me so easily? I grab her from behind and throw her to the floor. Her
hands are held tightly behind her back as I straddle her. I take this
opportunity to see if she’s been caring for her nails in my absence.

“Go back to hell!” she spits at me.

“Who does your nails, girly girl?”

She tries to reason with me. It’s an almost desperate plea for mercy. Almost.
She’s too strong to break down and beg, and I respect her greatly for that.
Still, I don’t think she realizes her importance – I can’t let her go any more
than I can stop breathing.

“You’re the one that got away. You’re all I ever think about,” I explain.

She tries one last crack at reasoning, but I know she’s just nervous. She
doesn’t want to face herself, doesn’t want to admit to herself that she wants
this as much as I do.

“I’m going to run you a bath,” I soothe. She startles me with a loud scream. I
cover her mouth before she ruins this for us by alerting a bunch of nosy

I make quick work of her binding, tying her hands and feet and gagging her.
Hopefully, she’ll behave when I release her. For now, I put her into the closet
I hid in before and shut the door. Time to start that bath.

I start the water and pour the bubble bath under the forceful stream. Once the
temperature is just right, I rise and walk to the living room, where I find her
stereo. Some music might be just the thing to calm her nerves. I turn on the
radio and ignore the nagging ringing of the phone. No interruptions for us

I return to the bathroom and test the water again. This has to be perfect.
After all, this is the night we pledge our devotion to each other. I am very
pleased by her vast selection of bath and hair products. She’s a kindred
spirit. I don’t know why I expected anything different.

Candles. A very important detail, indeed. I rummage through her cabinets in the
bathroom and kitchen for them, scooping up some on the way from the living
room. She has quite a few of them. This makes me smile. I dig in a kitchen
drawer for a book of matches or a lighter and stumble upon a pair of scissors.
I’m happy about this discovery. She deserves to be delivered unto death with an
instrument that has never been used on another. I decide to use them rather
than the older pair I’d adopted yesterday.

Returning to the bathroom, I set up and light the multitude of candles,
propping mirrors against the wall and placing masses of candles in front of
them. It illuminates the room rather nicely, I think. Standing in the middle, I
admire my handiwork.


I blow the match out and walk into the living room. The music is now
inappropriate for the occasion, so I turn the stereo off. Time to begin, Dana.

From behind me, I hear the door burst open.

“Get your hands in the air, you son of a bitch!” It sounds like her partner. I
turn to confirm this, ignoring his shouts.

He places a heavy hand on my shoulder and repeats, “Put your hands up!”

Something makes me turn around. My Dana stands there, walking in a daze with
her bindings cut and dangling from both wrists and the gag around her neck. A
gun is held loosely in her right hand, and I know that this is the end for me.

She is my Avenging Angel – not Reverend Orison. She will deliver me into the
hands of retribution. My sadness is unfathomable. I want to weep for being
denied the sweetness of her lips. I’ll never have the chance to shower her with
my love. It’s my only regret.

“Did he hurt you?” I hear her partner shout. He doesn’t see it coming, but I
do. In slow motion, I see the gun raise and point squarely at my chest. Her
eyes have gone cold, no longer filled with the love I was so certain she had
for me. I am going to die. I lock eyes with my Dana.


~The End~

This story is dedicated to Mimic. I wouldn’t want to be shredded by anyone but you, Dahlin’! Thank you so much for your support and generous efforts to make sense of what I send you.