Gay Horror Suspense

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

“The first kill is the hardest.”

She said to me, with a brutal indifference that is mastered by creatures who have surpassed their lifetime. I cradled the broken body of an innocent girl, as if she were mine to protect. As if I didn't reap the very life from her. Blood. On my hands. Not mine, but hers, I soon realized. Scarlet and oozing, and mingled with mine. Thick as burnt caramel, sitting on my tongue like tar without any of the sweetness. Bitter. I had once revered this white gown as a gift, a present free of charge. Unknowingly, I had paid a most grievous toll for such indulgence. Her life, and mine, entangled in the dark strings that made up the Countess’s web. The girl’s eyes widened for the last time. What may have held the memories of a lifetime, contained only a few fleeting, yet precious years. Blank, was the faint silhouette of something that could have been, had she not provoked the Countess; had she not entered the chamber at the wrong time; had she not been born as poor as she was. Had I not been born. Why blame her? This is my fault.

The difference that separated us, was the startling reality that I would go on to breathe and blink and kill for another day.

Another month. 

Perhaps even centuries. 

Death is what it took to keep us living. This was the agreement I made the second that blood hit my lips. I watched the rise and fall of her caved in chest. She wheezed back and fourth, like a burning house. She made an odd creaking sound trying to breathe. “She won't live. What are you attempting? To save her life? My dear, you already stole that from her. The only possession she laid claim to, and you stole it from her. There’s a certain victory in that, isn’t there? Savory and sweet, the threat of looming over someone small. You made her a powerless creature. Prolong her suffering, if that is what brings you joy, then perhaps we are more alike than I knew.” She was right. Why distract from the inevitable? I pulled my hand from her gaping neck. Without my fingers closing around the wound, I could finally see the outline of my teeth, my newborn canines imprinted on her nape. The blood sputtered in dark rivulets, arcing against the macabre paintings on the wall. Then, the substance began to pool from her, slowly. 

“That’s right, my dear, let her die.” The countess leaned back on her throne. “And with her death, you'll live endlessly.” She is a portrait of beauty, unsettling, horrific beauty. The kind of loveliness one would find in the expression of a freshly dead girl. I can almost pretend she is only sleeping. Her eyelashes tickle my hand as I close those broken, doll like eyes. As if to congratulate me, The countess raised a bloody wineglass to the twinkling chandelier. She lowered the glass in a slow, teasing movement to her lips. As if entranced by her reflection in the viscous red, growing cold in its glass, she sipped. And when she smiled, her pointed teeth were stained red. 

“To take life is a messy thing my dear. A beautiful thing, to exchange pitiful years for eternity. And yet, such a tricky business, being a god among rotting flesh.” 

At her confession, I note that this has been a game to her all along. As much of a game as playing chess, with someone that never knew the rules. As much a game as the fleeting mouse was to the perusing cat. As if to choose black or white means the difference of life and death.

 “Eternity.” I mumble, shaking. “Eternity indeed is lonely business, wouldn’t you agree?” I ask. At this, that cruel facade collapses for a moment. And I see the real countess, like a flash of green between the sea and the sky. But like a flash of sunlight against the sea, that unguarded facade dies within a moment, lost within the blink of an eye. 

“Aren't you poetic?” The glass shatters in her hand. Her palm bleeds, but the blood is not hers. And even so, she wouldn’t hurt. Pain in the face of eternity is nothing, that was one the first lessons my lady taught me. Perhaps then, it’s easier to justify when her cruel hand slithers around the expanse of my throat. Pain is nothing to me any more. In fact, it's the only humanity I have left. Her fangs pierce the flesh of her lower lip. 

Her gaze settles upon me like a rain of burning arrows. 

Something thin and sharp clawed my wrist and snapped. I wailed. My broken wrist hung at my side, limp. She pulled me to the surface of despair that I had grazed the thin veneer of. I don't process the movement until she is breathing into the side of my face, until the body tumbles off of me with a soft thud. It is only when I smell her perfume, warmed by her stolen youth, that I realize she is a bloom-less rose. All thorns, digging into my heart. But how lovely it felt to have something growing within you, even if it was invasive. 

I know better than to struggle against her. It wasn’t always like that. “Hush now. Stop your crying.” She coos. I hate that I feel comforted by the sound. Her cat-like eyes narrowed into mine. For a moment, she possessed a gentleness I had never known existed. Her touch once fleeting, burned through my skin, tucked my hair behind my ear. For a moment, I pretended we were two mortal people. I pretended we shared only a mortal kiss, a kiss that reeked of death. She cupped my cheek, and lead me by the waist to the center of the ballroom, not far from the girl I had murdered. 

“Shall we dance?” Her voice is too tender, too full of pride, and what I mistake for love. But, there was never such a calmness as the peace that shivered over me at the feel of her hand in mine. Even though her talons sunk a little deeper, the longer she kept me. I would wake in the morning in a cold bed without her, the only impression left behind, her bracelet of purple and red along my wrist. The longer we danced together, the less she cared about hurting me. The feel of the brief wind in my hair as she twirled me round, was the only proof of love she carried for me. The sound of her laugh, as coveted as earthly pleasures, was mine to possess. I forget about the dead girl. Whatever I had done, it seemed worth it, if only to be allowed in her presence, if only to endure the blunt of her temper. If only to be hers for seconds or for years. And so I told myself that pain and pleasure are the same, uniquely bound together with a rope of thorns. Our movements become less a dance, and more of her throwing me into the furniture, into walls, into sharp points until every wall is cracked. Crack, goes my ribs. The bone sticks out from me, reddening the white of my gown. I sputter blood. Wheezing, I look down at my cracked ribs, and touch delicately. It stings, and sparkles like freshly cut rubies. It’s almost beautiful. My body found purchase on the wall, a few seconds to collect myself before she continued this process of loving me. Until I'm certain that she has split every bone into parts. 

It had never felt so good to hurt so bad. 

My dress billowed around me. I met her gaze. She dipped me low enough for my hair to wet with the blood of the girl. 

Her voice lowered to a purr. And I forget about my broken body, because even a web is beautiful to behold, a gilded cage of silver and blinking moonlight. “Never forget, my treasure, what a privilege it is to be a damned creature.”

In the drabble of her words, I find myself entwined deeper in her magnificence, till the words mean nothing. Until I am just listening to the sound of every chord of her siren like voice, cradled in a newborn innocence. Until I catch one word, a word that makes me shiver.

“Privilege?” I whisper against her. Her hand drapes down my spine. She feels for a moment around the base of it, and I tense. She releases it and continues her petting.

“To be born as we are. To be possessed by me. To kill with me. Are you not satisfied?” She asks me. A fast turn, and I can hear the crunch of bone as the Countess’ gilded heel smashes in the dead girl's face. I look down, horrified. I feel my body reject the creature I am. The spinning stops. I retch, and wail. My nails dig into a painting and rip. That is until the soft caress of her lips settles on my neck. Until she bites ever so teasingly. My back arches. And every reasonable thought is drowned by the swarm of her seduction, buzzing and impatient like a hornets nest.

“Don't look at her.” She warns. “She is but an artifact of a past you will soon outlive. Look at me.” And then, all the violence wanes, eclipses into the darkness that makes up her eyes. Her eyes awake with starlight itself. She is more than I could have ever dreamed. 

“I thought it would feel different. It didn't feel the way you described.” I say, meek and quiet like a little girl. I don't dare look down at my victim, but I know she's there, just a dance away. 

“And how did you feel?”

I looked at her, and despite the unholy beauty that makes up the Countess, I hold on to the image of the girl crying out for her mother. I feel a monster tearing me apart. I feel solace in the pain she had given me. For it is something that I deserved. Her love, her bite, every broken bone muttered a vow in my heart. I stare, fall deeper into her. I flex my hand, and reach into the cavern of my ribs and pull at bone and snap, tears swamping my eyes. She doesn’t wail or beg me to stop, no words of disbelief come from her painted mouth. She just…smiles. A sweet smile. Whatever I had broken within me, I had placed in her pale hand. I watch through foggy tears, her talons sinking into the flesh and bone. Was it an offering or a sacrifice? Even then I couldn’t tell what I had given her, just that I had relinquished it. I don’t think I’ll ever know. I couldn’t tell her how much I hated myself, how I hated her. How I wish I could bring back the dead girl, and leave the countess in her stead. That is right, that is just. But she knows as I know, that’s not what I really want. Her hand tightens around the pieces of me. But the words don’t come. And my throat closes, until I will it open. “I never felt anything so thrilling.” The lie rots on my tongue. I can almost taste my deceit, burning and bubbling. Thick as burning sugar crusting a rotting cake.

Those eyes narrowed. And with a satisfied hum, she flicked off my viscera, and picked me up from the cold ground. Every part of me hurt. I was a mess of dislocation and severed limbs. She carried me like she had before all this madness, like a bride over a threshold. A wedding I never consented to. And trotted along the bloody room, with her frightened bride. Her other hand, unsullied by blood, caresses my jaw. 

“What did I say about lies, my dear?” She says and her words send a chill up my spine. I think she might hurt me, but she simply leans in close until her eyes are boring into mine. And so gently, almost like she’s telling me she will take care of me forever and ever, She kisses my cheek, still wet with tears. I pray she can't see the horror blanching my face white. For a moment, I tried to move out of her grasp, but she was stronger than I thought, and I was in no position to move. I writhed against her, ever the butterfly pinned to the cork board by a crazed obsessive. But there was no escape. My wings fluttered lifeless against the grain. She had me pinned down. The tears of blood fall before I can hide them. Her brow furrowed. A sharp red talon scrapes the wetness away.

 “What a pity. Perhaps one day, you'll grow to love it as I do. Listen closely, my dear, for it is the last time I shall tell you. When you find you crave their violent ends, come and find me. One day, I hope you will realize that there is no such pleasure as seeing the life drain from a young girl’s eyes.”

May 25, 2024 21:45

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Kayden Solace
19:15 Jun 01, 2024

This story is beautifully written. I probably haven't read enough, but I have not yet seen brutality this pretty.


Sophia Dove
23:03 Jun 01, 2024

Thank you so much!!! That is such an amazing comment to receive🖤 have a blessed day


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