Will Graham’s “This is my design” but if I wrote it
“Take off your mask. I want to see you when I do it.” He demanded, his loins groaning and creaking like a willow tree.
He desperately wanted to procure the wrath of me, the siren. He had the knowledge that with my wrath came the most excruciating pleasure of his life, but even then the knowledge was extremely limited.
It was my job, my revenge, and my guilt. It was what I felt and it was the only thing I knew to be true. I was going to gut this man like a fish.
“Are you ready?” I smiled, caressing his face with the most delicate touch.
My consumption of him would be merciless. This was my design.
I wanted him to watch himself in the mirror that I placed against the drawer days before. The dust that had settled would be interrupted with bloodstains. I needed him to see me pull his head back and inject my A positive blood into his O negative stream.
“Wait, take off your mask.” He begged. I laughed and my hand was almost unsteady. This would have been much more painful for him if something went wrong with the needle, but I didn’t want that. At least not yet.
He began to thrash. Well, no. He was trembling, but it certainly wasn’t thrashing in the way that he thought he was.
“What? You think you’re going to survive this?” I said, grinning and stifling another laugh as I stared at him through the mirror. This naked, ugly, pudgy body man was still looking at me as his lungs were collapsing.
I took his head once more and jerked it towards the mirror.
“Look at yourself, fuck face. Look how you’re still hard even when you’re dying. Look at your depravity.”
“I.. I don’t. I don’t want to die.” He muttered. His heartbeat was going at such a rate that if his heart exploded, I wouldn’t be able to take it right out of his chest and keep it as a trophy.
I didn’t want it unless it was whole and grotesque, perhaps even shaped like a pomegranate given that I needed to show it to his mother.
“Who’s doing this to you?” I whispered to him, pausing the injection.
“Think again.” I proceeded.
“What am I to you? Why do you want me? Why are you here you stupid fuck?”
His life was almost gone. It was almost mine.
“Be honest. Who am I, Senator?”
His eyes fluttered and I swore I could hear his blood cells popping, one by one.
But with his very final grasp for mercy he uttered, “Room 204.”
“That’s right. I’m Room 204.” I smirked and took the syringe out of his neck.
I then took it right into his heart and injected the rest of the blood.
And if his mother was coming to the aid of her horrible, perverted son, I would stick his heart right in her because that was my design.
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