It was a peaceful night. The sun had gone down a few hours ago, but the air still felt hazy and warm. The pavements held their residual heat and the faint smell of asphalt calmed your mind. It reminded you of summers long-past, nostalgic and bittersweet. It was on this night that you found yourself walking home, alone and lost in thought. The area was generally considered to be a safe one, so you didn’t feel the need to call someone – to bother them with all of that. It simply wasn’t necessary.

You turned the corner onto a familiar street. You were almost home. Just a few more streets, and one left turn… You let yourself fall back into your thoughts, allowing your body to function on autopilot for a bit. A short while later, as you were approaching the corner for the turning, there was a smooth voice at your shoulder from the shadows.

“Mm… Didn’t your parents ever tell you that walking around after midnight was reckless?”

Your heart leaped into your throat. It was just a question, but the way the stranger’s voice melted into your ears made you feel uneasy. It was too leading. Where had he come from, anyway? You hadn’t heard his footsteps… Still, this was a built-up area. Families lived here, on both sides of the street. You supposed this was just a misunderstanding – a man with lacking social skills, that’s all. Somebody that was too used to approaching people in daylight hours, fumbling his way through a conversation with a disinterested stranger. That must be it. You would let him down gently, he’d be on his way. Simple.

“Shit! Y-you scared the hell out of me!” You breathed, making to turn around.

“Oh – no, don’t do that. Let’s just keep facing forwards for now.” The smooth voice gave the order casually, as though it were mere suggestion, but you sensed that disobedience was not an option. There was rustling, then a small metallic fwip in the darkness. You felt something sharp press into the small of your back, as if to emphasise the point.

Fuck.

“You know this area?” He asked. You nodded, afraid to speak lest he push the knife into your spine for some perceived misstep. “You can speak… In fact, I like it when you do.” His voice was slightly muffled, but you could tell he was smiling. “You know the park nearby?”

You cleared your throat, feeling choked up. “Yeah…” No sooner had the faltering word left your mouth, he was nudging you again with the blade. You immediately stepped forward, stumbling slightly on the kerb. “S-sorry…” you mumbled out of instinct. He made no sound, but you imagined him smiling again. The park wasn’t far away – it was a route you had taken many times. Even recently, you had come there to relax. It was… nice. A quiet, pleasant place.

“Good. Very good.” The man spoke, his voice velvety and calm. “I’m going to walk beside you, now, okay?” You wondered what would happen if you said it wasn’t okay, told him to fuck off, tried to make a break for it. You answered quietly in the affirmative. “We don’t want to cause any onlookers to… panic.” Onlookers. The street was empty. Your eyes darted from side to side, flicking up to various windows. Some still had lights on behind the curtains. Briefly, you contemplated screaming. As though he could hear your thoughts, the stranger replied. “I wouldn’t scream, if I were you. As much as I do enjoy it, it always makes for difficulties this late at night.”

Always? You felt sick. He came up from behind your back, falling into step beside you. His footsteps were so quiet, measured to perfection to avoid making noise. You dared not turn your head to face him yet, wanting to catch a sneaky glimpse of his face without him noticing. You didn’t want him to see you committing his features to memory. Bile rose in your throat as you thought on it. Commit them to memory. What for? Oh god, what for?

The two of you kept walking in silence until you reached the park. You slowed at the gates, optimistic, but he was having none of it. “Go on… Over there, by the trees. You don’t really think I’m that stupid, do you?” There was a sudden hard edge to his tone. If you were being honest, you really hoped that he was. You fervently hoped, heaping prayers upon prayers, that he was as stupid as they come. Plenty of criminals were – you’d read all about them on various websites, watched them fail to evade capture in documentaries, leaving plenty of victims alive to tell their tales. Perhaps he was one of those. Less experienced. The word victim kept resurfacing, you gave your head a tiny shake as if to ward it off.

You’d made it to the trees. It wasn’t densely forested but there were enough trunks to provide sufficient cover for whatever activities the stranger had planned. You swallowed, quietly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how afraid you really were. The knife was still pressed to your back. You felt it rub slightly against your skin, sharp and cold, the motion of the walk having caused it to shred right through the thin fabric of your shirt. The man behind you stopped moving. You waited, completely still.

Without fanfare, the stranger stepped in front of you, quiet as the night. The sight of him chilled you to the bone. You couldn’t see what he was wearing on his body in any great detail due to the darkness of the fabric, but the way it rustled made it sound like a long cloak – or robes of some kind. The most noteworthy aspect of the outfit was his face. Or rather, the lack thereof. His face – the only identifying feature that you’d hoped to have – was covered entirely by a creepy rubber mask. It was white, with curved sunken eyeholes creased in a perpetual grimace. The mouth was long, unsettling, extending in a distorted scream. After allowing you to get a good look – he clearly enjoyed this part – the man moved back beside you. Quietly, his gloved hand was against your throat. Your breath caught in your lungs, limbs paralysed in inaction as he brought a thumb up to gently caress your jaw.

Your stomach churned with pure, unadulterated fear. You’d gone over this sort of scenario in your head before, of course. Who hadn’t? You knew exactly what you’d do, how you would subdue your attacker in a most heroic fashion. Despite your lack of any real training, you’d always been confident you could take down the average person. How hard could it be? Watching all those true crime shows on late-night TV had to count for something, didn’t it? After all, you weren’t one of those people. A victim. You hardly ever walked alone after dark… tonight was just an exception. You didn’t talk to strange men – well, no more than anyone else. You fumbled around in your head for justifications, to defend yourself, to other yourself from the type of person that could get into such a perilous situation. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.

You might not have done everything right but, damn it, you hadn’t done anything wrong. The injustice burned in your chest and you fought the urge to cry, feeling childlike, laid bare by the unfairness of it all. The feeling of gloved fingers snaking across your neck pulled you back to the moment, preventing you from having a full-on meltdown. “What… What do you want?” you managed, hating the way it sounded. It was so… cliché. The stranger seemed to think so too, as you heard a small sigh from behind the mask.

“Yup, there it is…” he muttered, hands slowing in their motions. “Didn’t the knife make it just a little obvious?"

Oh, god.

“I want to kill you. I want to see what your insides look like.”

Gripped with the overwhelming urge to vomit, you began to cry instead. A single tear, at first, rolled silently down your cheek. A gloved hand moved, affectionately, to cup your face. The tender feeling of the soft leather against your skin whilst his other hand played with that awful blade made something unknowable writhe in the pit of your stomach.

Your heart beat as though it were being choked in his fist, squeezed in a frantic rhythm, pounding so hard you thought you might simply die on the spot without any intervention. There were houses nearby, still. Not as close as they were earlier, but… Your thoughts trailed off as he suddenly spun you, pulling you against his chest so that you faced the vast dark expanse of the park. You were aware of his hand upon your neck again, moving, teasing. Screaming was out of the question, you could barely breathe. Every motion he made, you tensed as though it would be your last. Any moment, you expected to feel that knife spearing into the side of your torso, your chest, the back of your neck.

“Relax, relax…” He purred, tiptoeing his fingers downwards towards your chest. You shivered, not wholly with fear. Delicately, he slipped his hand beneath the neckline of your shirt, feeling his way along your collarbones. With this fluid motion he was delving deeper, touching areas that made you shift from foot to foot, squirming. You wondered if he could feel your thrumming pulse beneath his fingertips, even with the gloves. You hoped not. Again, you’d rather he not know the full extent of your emotions. You just needed to get through this. You would endure whatever it was that he did, then you would get to safety. Survival. That’s what mattered. He wouldn’t kill you. He just wouldn’t.

His hands roved further down, pulling down your shirt, long fingers ghosting across your nipples. You couldn’t help the strangled groan that escaped your throat as he lingered, circling one sensitive peak with his fingertip. You exhaled, a shuddering breath. Survival, you thought, that’s all it is. When he pulled you tighter against his chest to gain more access, pinching a nipple and giving it a sharp twist, you cried out before you could stop yourself. He spoke, close to your ear. “So sensitive… Just how I like it.” A small whimper escaped your lips as you leaned unconsciously into him, some instinctual part of your brain finding comfort in his warmth, his proximity, the dexterity of his touch. “Obedient, too…”

Well… It only made sense that your body would respond to such touches. You reasoned with yourself as you tried to ignore the implications of the words themselves. It was more difficult to ignore the trembling in your legs, the feeling of warmth coiling low in your gut. There’s nothing wrong with pretending for the sake of self-preservation. He was drawing a playful finger across your chest again and you arched into his touch, desperate lies and other false narratives pushed to the back of your mind as you allowed yourself to feel the delicious friction in its entirety.

“I’m glad you and I are on the same page. It’s just not the same without a little extra fun.” His voice, smooth and flirtatious, made you feel foolish. You hated your traitorous body for responding to it at all, each time he spoke you felt weaker in the knees. “It’s not always possible, of course… Sometimes I get too caught up in the moment. Before I know it, I’ve –” he drew the knife to your throat with dizzying swiftness, letting the blade trail slowly along your clavicles. He dipped the cruel tip into the hollows above the bones, pressing slightly as he did so to make small cuts. You hissed at the feeling, surprised by how much it hurt. At that sound, he brought the weapon back up – sharp and ready. You gasped as the keen edge kissed your throat. Your pulse roared thunderously in your ears, beating feverishly at the active threat. You tried desperately to calm it down, to will your heart to slow, afraid that the leaping thrum might press against the knife and pare you open without him even having to try.

Suddenly, he pulled you downwards. You hit the grass hard, winded, staring up at the stars as he crawled on top of you like an animal. You could hear his shuddering breaths, hand trembling around the knife as he seemed to wrestle with himself momentarily. You were silent, neck still bared, gazing up at him. The cuts on your chest oozed, stinging slightly as they came in contact with the fabric of his sleeve. The weight of him atop you was prompting thoughts that you really didn’t have the capacity to deal with. You tried to ignore them. He proceeded to pin your arms above your head, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. The position was so submissive that you felt heat creeping up the sides of your neck. As he moved, his body brushed at your skin in a way that made you moan quietly. Fear. A groan of fear. He whispered, giddy, more to himself than to you. “Oh, you like that, huh?” he moved the blade to slash at your shoulder. You jumped, yelping as it ripped through your shirt, leaving a bleeding slit. “How pathetic.”

He brought one of his knees up to fit between your legs, rubbing at the apex of your thighs. He pressed, harder than necessary, eliciting a small whimper. “It’s really far too easy to get you all riled up, isn’t it? A few simple touches and you’re just begging for me to continue.” He brought his hand, the one not holding the knife, to grasp around your throat. “You like feeling helpless. Makes it easier to rationalise, doesn’t it?” His tone was self-congratulatory, with the hint of a smirk evident there as he taunted you.

Even if he hadn’t been squeezing your throat, you couldn’t have said a word. This stranger had you pinned both literally and figuratively. You were a mess. The blade flashed again as he brought it down to spear into your upper arm. “Agh!” you cried, strangled, wailing in pain. He pulled back his arm, blood arcing from the knife.

“Shhh now, shhh.” He brought his gloved hand from your throat to rest over your mouth, index finger and thumb pinching your nose for a moment. In the brief moment he allowed you air, the metallic scent of blood wound into your nostrils. “Let me have my fun. I think I deserve it, don’t you?” The blade was back, trailing down your front, opening your shirt like an autopsy. Slicing through the fabric with ease, he pulled it from you and tossed it aside. Instinctively, you tried to move your arms to cover your bared chest, but he pressed the tip of the bloodied blade to your stomach. “Don’t be stupid, now.”

Gore trickled from the tip, staining the skin of your abdomen with crimson. A hunter marking their prey down the sight of a rifle. Laser precision.

You obeyed.

The knife travelled further, reaching the top of your thighs. Casually, as though he’d done it multiple times over, he began cutting the fabric. It was not a neat procedure, the knife nicking your skin in his excitement, a frenzied edge to the way his arm dove back and forth. Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, you were completely bare beneath him. Gloved fingers moved from your mouth to replace his knee on the inside of your thigh. Rubbing little patterns onto the sensitive skin, he wrought a low moan from your trembling lips. Satisfied with your reaction, he moved to trail his fingertips silkily over your core. You hissed, arching your back, desperate to feel that again. “Please…” you whispered, voice croaky with disuse. “Please… I need –”

“You’ll get what you’re given – and you’ll like it.” He snapped harshly, pinching at your sensitive flesh as if to illustrate the point. Yowling, you tried to wriggle away, kicking your legs in a futile effort to unseat him. He leaned heavily against you, pressing you into the grass. The way he changed, so volatile, made your heart palpitate with fear. It seemed as though at any minute he could just snap. He snuggled into your prone body, voice flipping again to the honeyed tones he’d used before. Your head reeled. He was murmuring in your ear now, the proximity of his lips sending a pleasured shiver down your spine.

“Nngh –, I just can’t wait to get inside of you…” He ground up against you as he let out a breathless laugh, making you aware of his painful hardness. At the same time, he’d begun twirling the knife in full view as though to emphasise the double meaning. Not funny. He sat back up, leaning back on his feet as he straddled you. Your eyes widened, watching the knife intently as he flipped it, spinning it around and catching it again with ease. It was a special kind of knife, now that you saw it in this context. The handle was split in two, allowing the blade to be folded out and locked into place. They had a name, but you couldn’t quite recall it. The evident mastery in the way he manoeuvred it was chilling, and you wondered how many others had seen this display. Plenty, you supposed. Though perhaps none left alive.

You felt a leather-clad finger probe your entrance and jolted in alarm, clutching at the ground. Ignoring your reaction, he pressed deeper, with no regard for your comfort. It wasn’t long before he had one long finger sheathed inside of you, curling it to stroke at your walls with a motion that felt strangely practiced. Once you started to get used to the feeling, you rocked into his hand, mumbling incoherently under your breath. Periodically, he lifted the knife up, just under your chin – holding it there as he sped up his rhythmic motions. He seemed to be conditioning you for his own amusement – each time the knife was brought to your throat he would twirl his fingers just-so, reducing you to tears after the fourth or fifth time you felt the chill of the blade bite at your neck. Each time he took it away, he pulled out almost completely, causing you to lose the buildup of that delicious feeling between your legs. Frustration gnawed at you, causing you to look up at him with pleading eyes. You could feel the tears threatening to come back, burning behind your eyes as you bit your lip so hard it bled.

“What is it, baby? You want me to hold my knife to your throat? You like that?” You contemplated shaking your head – it wasn’t… it wasn’t that. It was the touch of that warm leather, coated in traces of your blood, stroking you just right. He knew it, too. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You flushed, embarrassed, while he slowed his motions to an unbearably slow circling around your sensitive flesh. It was just enough to keep you dangling on the precipice, but not nearly enough to satisfy. “Come ooo-n… Tell me what’cha need. If you beg for it, I might just give it to you…”

When you were silent, save for the breathless little whimpers that escaped you as he teased at your swollen flesh, he continued. “Please, Mister Ghostface!” He simpered in a terrible imitation of your voice. “Pleeease hold your big sharp knife to my throat!” He threw back his head at this, tickled by his own joke, to laugh ruthlessly. “Is that really what you want?” He dipped his head to your ear. “How filthy.”

You groaned deeply, angling yourself so that he might hit the bundle of nerves within. Frustratingly, he seemed to be an expert in avoiding it, pulling back so that his fingers were sheathed only to the second joint as you thrust yourself forwards. You whined, motioning your hips desperately to get more friction. Desperation overtook dignity as you broke into a litany of “Please, please! I’m begging you, I need it – ”

“That’s not what I said, now is it? Are you really so desperate for me that you forgot how to listen?” His tone was teasing, but you recognised the hard edge. “How will I know how much you want it if you can’t tell me?”

Swallowing your pride, you began to force out the words – each one a struggle. Your voice shook, humiliation evident in the way you fought to raise your voice above a whisper. “P-please… Mister Ghostface…” You paused, wanting to die. The embarrassment was intense, burning you from the inside out as he watched you intently. “Please hold your… big sharp knife to my throat…” Slightly emboldened by getting through the awful plea, you added in a barely-audible breath. “Please… make me come.”

At that, he shook his head, bringing the knife up to hover above your chest. “Ah, ah, ah!” He wagged his finger, the knife glinting in the moonlight as he did. “Not so fast! We haven’t got to the main event, yet! Well – the penultimate event, really.” Pulling his fingers out, he wiped them against your thigh. “Hm, oh – I’m sorry. I bet you wanted to lick those clean, right?” You burned again, saying nothing. You were fast becoming an expert in hearing the smile that crept into his tone whenever he said something particularly unfair.

Pulling aside swathes of dark fabric, he took out his curved length and held it in his gloved hand, stroking it slowly. As he did, he looked down at you, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. In his other hand, the knife was still clasped tightly. Occasionally, he twirled it in his fingers. Your eyes widened, the sight of it sending thrills straight to your core. There was something about it – the danger, perhaps, or the way the rest of him was so covered, a mystery – that made you lightheaded. “You can’t wait either, can you? No… I can see it in your eyes.” Before you knew it, he was all over you again, smothering you with his body. You felt the tip of his cock press eagerly against your entrance and your breath hitched. “Cute,” he laughed. He lowered his tone, dropping dangerously into a smooth purr. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Though you were, undeniably, aroused – that didn’t do much to ease the dry burn as he began pressing himself into you. It was as though he was violating your very being as he speared inside, pistoning his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping on skin seemed obscenely loud - surely somebody could hear? You tried to modulate your breathing at first, exhaling hard through your nose, counting seconds to regulate the length of each breath. He was above average in size, and it hurt.

You’d begun to lose count on your recent breath – had it been four seconds already? – when he lifted your hips, hitting a spot in you that made your thoughts dissolve into dust. You were lost immediately, thinking of nothing but how he felt – how perfectly he must fit inside you. Sounds were escaping from your mouth that you made no claim to, and you felt your hips tilt in response to allow him better access. The knife, the danger, it all seemed so far away and meaningless in that moment.

“That’s it… That’s it…” He groaned, his own thoughts seemingly in disarray. Dirty talk had been put on hold as he seemed to lose himself for a moment, taking pleasure in the way you wriggled against him and adjusted your movements to match his own. Before long, his breathing became laboured, short moans behind the mask indicating that he was approaching his peak. The blade was still held tightly in his hand, not forgotten but rather a part of him – an extension that felt so natural that he felt no need to justify its presence. He no more thought of it than one would contemplate the presence of their own fist. Pressing his other hand to your neck, he pushed down, cutting off oxygen. You gave a muffled wail, the pressure too intense to be safe. Blood roared in your ears.

As he clenched his fingers at the apex of one particularly delicious thrust, he remembered the knife was there, bringing it down to threaten again at the side of your throat. Something about the way you eyed it seemed to reignite his desire for toying with you, as he spoke once more to the air.

“Mmm, yeah. Say my name, baby” he crooned, thrusting into you without mercy. His hand relinquished its hold on your throat, just barely, so that you could force out the words he so wanted to hear. Gasping for air, your head swam.

“Your name… but I don’t know your – ?” You stopped, shaking your head violently at the implications. You didn’t want it, it was too dangerous. You not having any clue as to his identity was one of the things you were holding onto – your last hope.

“It’s –”

“Please don’t, please, I don’t want –”

“Don’t talk over me again, bitch!” His voice was like a bucket of ice-water, knocking the breath from your lungs. Stricken, you did nothing but tremble as he hovered over you, gazing down at the way you’d flinched back. Laughing, he stopped moving inside of you altogether. Remaining sheathed, he leaned in close. “Oh, did I scare you? Are you scared?” His masked face was inches from yours now, the scent of latex and sweat filling your nostrils. “Good”. You groaned, a tiny desperate cry as he began to pull out. He seemed to change his mind about something as he retreated, leaving you unfulfilled. You clenched around his length, as though you were trying to keep him in place. As he pulled free, you whined – a pathetic dissatisfied sound that wrought a chuckle from behind the mask.

“You had your chance. You disobeyed me.” He crouched. “Come on, get up.” His arms were suddenly underneath your own, hauling you upright into a kneeling position as he stood before you. “That’s it, that’s it… Now hold veee-ry still. We don’t want a blurry shot, now do we?” Pulling a camera from his robes, he cocked his head at you, waiting for a reaction. You cast your eyes downward, humiliated, unaware of what was yet to come. Your head dipped slightly, ashamed. The last thing you needed was photographic evidence of your disgrace. He reached downwards to grab your chin, tilting your head back up violently to face him. “I said keep still. If you move again, I’ll gut you like a fish. Understand? Keep your eyes open, too. Closed eyes in a photo is so amateur.”

He stood, palming his length, seemingly fixated on your tearstained face. The casual way in which he threatened you was nauseating, of course, but the authority of it made you tingly. Eyes still open, a furious blush heating your cheeks, you watched as he jerked his hand feverishly. The danger of the situation was well and truly getting to your head – amongst other places. You clenched your thighs together, throbbing with need at the wanton sight laid out before you. There was a smear of red on his mask where he’d readjusted it. You let out a shaky breath.

Small grunts and moans escaped from behind the mask as he played with himself, twirling his gloved fingers about his cock as he had done with his knife earlier. You watched intently as he rubbed a thumb over its reddened and weeping tip, capturing some fluid which glistened on the dark leather. You shivered, feeling a flush creeping up the sides of your neck. An idiotic part of you wanted to lean forwards, to… to… What were you thinking? Your depraved thoughts must have been written all over your face, as he gave a smug laugh before moving slowly towards you. Hand still moving in rhythm, he spoke in a low seductive tone. “Mm – you want a taste? I don’t blame you.”

He continued to move, slowly, torturously, still out of reach. “That’s it, baby. Crawl to me. Keep your eyes up, don’t you dare look away.” Embarrassed but desperate, you bent forwards, beginning to crawl along the ground. Your head was still raised to stare at the mask, as instructed, its face revealing only the same dead eyes and yawning mouth. Eyes fixated on him, you crawled nearer. You’d almost reached him, lips parting in anticipation. The desperation was evident in every arch of your body, the way your eyes pleaded with him to move closer, the way your tongue was poised.

Suddenly, everything was white – the flash of his camera blinded you as hot fluid spurted across your face, coating your features with his filth. Flecks of it adorned the bridge of your nose, some tiny globs in your hair. It had narrowly missed your eyes – a small mercy. Still reeling, you remained silent, daring only to breathe in the aftershock. Flashing sunspots floated across your field of vision and you blinked rapidly in an attempt to dissolve them. One viscous pearl had fallen on your tongue as you recoiled from the light and you tasted him – bitter and heated. You shivered, the lingering heat of the day all but dispersed.

As your eyes slowly adjusted once again to the darkness, the only thing you could see was the ghostly white of his mask, its hollow eyes looking down on you as though it were simply the natural order of things. You knelt in the dirt, dizzy and used, marked as his. Heat still pooled between your thighs.

“Perfect” he said, before the photo had fully developed. “One to keep, I think.” He flapped it in the air, keeping it pinched between two fingers so as not to spoil the image. “Looks like you enjoyed yourself, too. You’re welcome. I’d print a second copy for you, but…” he paused, allowing the silence to grow heavy. You imagined a sharp grin stretching wider and wider behind the mask before he finally finished. “…Well, you know.”

Pulling you to your feet, he held you in his arms from behind, like a lover.

“I didn’t…” You started, in a small voice.

He cut you off, a gloved finger to your lips, not interested in hearing your pathetic attempt at denial. “Truth hurts, baby… but perhaps not quite as much as what I’m about to do to you.”

His quick turnabout was chilling, spoken in that same alluring tone as always. Velvety smooth on the surface, razor sharp underneath. A true predator. You trembled, some primal part of your brain making you cling to him for support for lack of anything else. Your shaking hands fisted the fabric at his chest as you let out a terrified whimper. A breeze, surprisingly chill for such a warm night, ghosted across your face. It cooled the liquid there, bringing a heated blush to the surface of your skin. Cheeks hot, you turned your face inwards towards him – desperate to hide your shame, your fear, your confusion.

“Mm, I know, I know.” He stroked one leather-clad thumb across your neck, his knife tracing patterns teasingly across your abdomen. “I give you butterflies, don’t I?”

“Butterf-?”

The hand at your neck moved to clamp over your mouth as his knife plunged deeply into your stomach. Your sentence morphed into an incomprehensible cry, trailing off into a gargling, muffled scream. Help me, please – somebody, help me –

“Butterflies… in your stomach.” He laughed, a cold and manic sound that sent dread shivering through every fibre of your being. You cried, more from shock than pain, as you looked down at yourself in horror. The wound felt white-hot, but your brain couldn’t process the full extent of the pain in that moment. In its desperate attempt to protect you, everything became… fuzzy. Your surroundings took on a dreamlike quality: the glow of the lamplights soft and inviting, distant telephone poles towering like ancient monoliths in a lonesome forest. The trees looked soft and fluffy, a place to rest your head. You hoped you were dreaming. You had almost convinced yourself, when he spoke again.

“Oh, baby. I know. I’m sorry.” He adjusted his tone, unabashed mockery wearing a flimsy mask of sympathy. “It wasn’t one of my better jokes…” He chuckled, giving your hair a couple of lazy strokes. You began to feel quite lightheaded, leaning heavily against him for support. As you unwillingly rubbed against him, you heard his breaths quicken in excitement behind the mask. Fuzzily, you felt his hand leave your neck, delving into his robes for something else. “I can make it better, though… Wanna take a guess at what I’ve got for you?” You were silent, mostly because formulating a sentence was becoming increasingly difficult. Staying upright seemed like more of a priority so you focused on that, trying not to sag into his arms more fully than you already were.

He waited for your answer, you couldn’t tell for how long. How long had all of this taken? Time seemed to have lost all meaning. Perhaps sensing that your silence was due to inability rather than disobedience, he persisted with the show. There was a small movement on the edge of your periphery. He pulled out the object, holding it up closely in front of your face so that you could take a good look. The second blade glinted in the dull light of the streetlamp. The twin handles were gripped tightly in his hand, flipped upwards in a reverse grip that suggested it was primed for action.

“Another one, of course! Can’t be butterflies when there’s only one, right?” His voice lowered. “After all, I don’t want to downplay how strong your feelings are for me. You’ve been so good tonight. So eager. The perfect little subject.” He dipped the hand holding the knife for a moment, it reappeared with a photo between his fingers. Looking at yourself in the image – kneeling and desperate, coated in a sordid mixture of the killer’s fluids and your own tears – you were horrified. You longed to close your eyes, but were afraid that if you did they may never reopen again.

He tucked the photo away again, safe from any soiling that might occur. “I should repay you properly by giving you my all.”

“N-no… no, please, I –”

The second knife hit its mark with cruelty and precision, gliding through muscle and sinew, parting your skin with ease until his gloved hand bumped against the flesh of your stomach.

Static fizzed at the edges of your eyes as you swooned at the awful sensation. It doesn’t hurt, though. It doesn’t hurt. Maybe it’s not so bad. You could taste iron, something frothing at the back of your throat, pooling on your tongue. You coughed, shuddering, bloody spit gathering at the corner of your mouth. He nuzzled his head up against you, hand in your hair as he angled your head upwards. For a bewildering second, you thought he might kiss you. Before you could react, mouth open and eyes wide with fear and discomfort, the camera flash went off again. This time, it captured a photo of you both. He tucked it away with the other one, somewhere safe. “Don’t worry. These won’t make it to the Roseville Gazette. Much as that would be kind of fun. These ones are for my private collection.”

Without warning or ceremony, his arms dropped out from beneath you, letting you fall to the ground. Your head bounced as it hit the grass, knocking the breath from your lungs as you lay flat, afraid to put any pressure on your open wounds. You vaguely heard the sound of footsteps, as though he was simply going to leave. No goodbyes, no apologies. Nothing but the almost imperceptible sounds of him floating through the grass like a malevolent spirit, melting once again into the night.

“Oh - right.” He turned back for a moment, facing you with a casual wave of his arm. “My name.”

Your eyes fell closed.

It was over.