Page 83 of Miserable Marionette

Gideon Bell is all I have left.

I slip on the slick floor as I push to my knees, muffling my cries as I cradle my bleeding arm to my chest as he brings the receiver to his ear, only managing to sound slightly out of breath. “Bell Funeral Home.”

It becomes apparent quickly there’s a client.

My eyes dart to the basement door, the blood smeared around the foyer as I wobblily get to my feet, almost slipping again in the mess. His intense blue eyes never leaving me as I head into the supply closet for the mop and bleach. Not looking at anything else in there, not daring to. A violent shudder leaves me as my hand brushes something fleshy. I’m struggling to steer the large yellow bucket out with nothing but the dry mop inside it when he finishes up, the receiver clicking.

“Hey,” he says, taking the mop handle from me and wrapping his arms around mine as he pulls me away from the closet. “Hey, I’ve got you.”

“What do we do, Gideon?” I sob.

“I take care of you, like I always have. You let your best friend handle everything, okay?”

I nod, turning to press my face deep into his chest, my mind spinning. “When will they be here?”

“It was a hospice call. Sometime tomorrow, most likely.”

My crying doubles down at that, as he gathers me in his arms and heads up the stairs. I don’t bother to ask if he’s locked the doors or who will clean the mess because Gideon is right… he’s always taken care of me.

“I need you, Audrey. I need you so bad.”

I nod again, my thoughts muddy.

“We can have everything, a united front like my parents. Can you do that for me, puppet?”

I just nod again, crying as I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, nestling into him like the feel of his skin will wipe away the worst of what’s happening in my chest.

“I need you to see, to understand… that this was for you.”

“N-no, I-I don’t want to see anymore. I’m sorry for asking about her. I don’t care anymore, Gideon.”

“Shhh, I know you don’t. You just love me, right?”

I nod against his neck.

“Then this… this is how I can love you back. It’s the only way I know how.” His chin rests on my head as he carries me into the bathroom. “You asked me all those years ago, and I always regretted not saying it, not just telling you that-that this is what I feel every second of every day, this insane desperation.” I’m silent, watching him as he grabs the first aid kit from the closet. My thoughts empty and numb as he disinfects the ruined skin, barely wincing as the smell of rubbing alcohol fills the room. And when he turns on the shower, I don’t hide my body as he strips me, nor when he steps in behind. The water is hot and welcome on my skin, but the feel of him is hotter.

My skin prickles with gooseflesh as the water runs pink at our feet, his hands making adoring, reverent passes up my skin, mapping each groove and divot. It’s not even hard to let the sensation pull me away from my thoughts as his lips test and taste the sensitive expanse of skin between my shoulder and the base of my neck, his hard cock pressing into the small of my back. “Tell me again,” he whispers.

My hands brace on the shower wall as he turns his attention to my taut nipples, teasing and rolling them between his fingers until my breath is choppy again, my throat raw and scratchy. “What?” I breathe, shifting closer.

There’s no buildup to it, no long hours spent teasing and edging me. This time, he notches into my embrace and shoves.

The stretch is sudden and painful, but like always, my body is eager to adjust for him, my sex gripping and spasming around his length as he pulls out, stroking me deep.

“Tell me you love me.”

There’s no hesitation in my response, no lingering doubt. I have always loved Gideon Bell. I think now I understand; I can see now that perhaps I was the only one who ever has. I sniffle. “I love you.”

His arm bands around my stomach, holding me tightly to him as he fucks me, my breasts heaving with the weight of his thrusts. Our moans and grunts fill the shower and mix with the steam as we rise and fall together, his hands calming and bruising on my flesh, dancing among the rest of the marks he’s left on me, and I can’t help but think how right it feels. How this must be what the universe, god if he’s up there, wanted for me. It’s what I’m good at, endlessly. For my body to be decorated in a roadmap of his violence, that it’s better me than anyone else. To remember my vows all those years ago. He certainly kept his.

My orgasm hits seconds after he jerks into me, eliciting waves of pleasure as my sex clamps and squeezes over him, his thrusts becoming lazy and gentle as he bends, pressing kisses into my back.

What was it again?

He lets us fall forward, exhaustion battering deep in my bones as he gathers up his soap and a washcloth, washing me with a gentleness I know he reserves for me alone.

Forever and always, no matter what.