Rust

“Mark,” his boss greeted him loudly, a slight smile on his lips as he placed a folder down on the desk. “Get that done before we head home, would you?”

His lips curled into a tight smile, his stomach twisting and churning inside of him. “Sure,” he said lowly.

His boss grinned and walked away.

———————————

The room smelt like rust.

It made his nose curl slightly, his fingers flexing around the knife dangling in his palm, bleak eyes glancing out at the room around him. His heart was still pumping with adrenaline, the scratches against his face stinging and flecked with dirt though somehow filling him with a dull sense of contentment.

His hands were sticky with blood, his white work shirt covered in the crimson liquid. He could hear the thick sound of panting; whimpered moans — pleading and pleading with him.

“What’s my name?” he asked roughly, fingertips tingling as they clenched tightly around the knife. He could feel the blood rushing to his face; a morbid sense of delight pooling at his stomach, swelling up until it consumed his lungs and heart. The silence that greeted him made his heart pound, his lips lowering into a snarl as he glared tightly at the bloody body in front of him. “What’s my name?” he said, shouting this time, his chest heaving with anger.

A whimper greeted him this time. “Michael,” came a whispered groan, voice thick and hoarse. “Michael,” the voice repeated.

He barked out a laugh, lips curling into a wicked grin. “You remember,” he said loudly, eyes glinting as they stared at the body on the floor. “How spectacular.”

His black shoes crunched against the floor as he stalked forward, crushing the broken glass that laid shattered on the concrete. With every step closer his blood began to rush and his warped face curled even more tightly, and when the man on the floor began to cry he ran his finger idly along the tip of the blade.

“Please,” the man was sobbing, chest heaving as he struggled to push himself upright. “I won’t tell anyone,” he pleaded, wrinkles more prominent as his face twisted in desperation. “I’ll get you a raise… anything… I’ll do it.”

Michael smiled. Lowered his head so that he was just inches away from the man’s face, watching his lower lip quiver as tears dropped down his cheeks. “What’s my name?” he asked again, face relaxed and expressionless as he stared blankly into the older man’s eyes.

The man’s lips trembled. “You sick fuck,” the man gasped out, a breathy laugh leaving his lips as his face curled into a look of weary disgust.

Michael froze. His heart pounded, something heavy reaching down the length of his arms, down his legs, reaching the tips of his fingers. It wrapped around its heart — made it beat more rapidly, made his stomach pool with a feeling so dark that it pounded in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t find it in him to move; his body frozen as his hands began to shake.

Before he knew it the knife was out. His heart was pounding in his ears, his lips curled into a snarl, a yell leaving his lips as he plunged the knife into the man’s stomach. Blood flicked everywhere; across his shirt and his black pants, painting his shoes and covering the floor. A whimper sounded as the man began to gurgle, head lolling back as blood dribbled down his lips.

Michael watched his eyes the whole time. Watched them as he plunged his knife into the white stomach, carving the word, digging in as deep as he could. He watched the life leave him — watched his eyes roll back into his head, imagined that the body was cold, that the man had paid.

Minutes passed and he continued to carve the word into his stomach, his hands drenched with blood and still shaking from the adrenaline. Eventually his ears began to stop ringing and he forced himself backwards, stumbling until his back hit the wall. From there he stared at the body with a heaving chest, the bloody knife dangling idly between his fingers.

The word stood out against the whiteness of his skin. It was there for the whole world to see, carved into the man’s flesh, stark and hauntingly beautiful in the most despicable and ugly way.

“Now you’ll remember,” he said quietly, breathing still laboured as he continued to stare.

Eventually he stilled, calmly placing the knife in his pocket before walking from the room. And maybe they could find him; maybe he’d be done and finally silenced, but the blood on his fingers made him feel more invincible than he ever had.

He made it to his apartment by two am. Stepped into his shower and washed the blood from his skin, watching it dribble down the drain with morbid interest. Eventually he shut the water off, resting his head against the shower tiles, lowering his body onto the floor.

The dead body filled his mind; the bloody word that had been carved into the man’s body making his lips curl into a smile.

MICHAEL, it had said.

Maybe now he’d remember.