Page 37 of Retrograde

It’s not adding up. Us being here makes no sense.

The apartment building where my parents, siblings, and I used to live was levelled to the ground. My childhood home is long gone. So how are we here?

I’m asleep!

As soon as the realisation hits, I bolt upright with a half-wheeze, half-groan.

And I’m back at the cave complex. It’s nearly dawn, the bluish light invading the darkness of my room with the first promise of sunlight to come. Cold crashes through me in shock waves, my body slick with sweat. My stomach churns at the memory of my dream. I toss the covers aside and go take a cold shower. Back in the main living area, I stop by the window. I look outside, across the clearing in between the rock formations and at the iron door sealing the entrance to Riley’s cave. I open the window, and chilly air slaps me in the face.

It must be freezing in the cave. As soon as that thought hits, another one trails right after it. The thought of Riley in her cell, curled in a corner on the rough ground, shaking and unable to sleep.

Anything is a fair punishment for a traitor, no exceptions. I’m about the only law left in this land. And the law must be the same for everyone. There can be no pardon for traitors. Ever. If there is, people will just keep switching sides as it suits them, and we’ll never get out of this mess.

Still, images invade my mind. The dark circles around Riley’s sunken eyes, growing darker each day. The increasingly more protruding ribs. The bruises on her hips from having nothing to rest on but the gravel-strewn ground. That haunted expression.

I tear my sight away from the window. I have been accused of being a monster more times than I can count. But for the first time, I feel like one.

“Do you fear death?” I ask the earless zombie patrolman over the chirp of birds as I lean over him.

His face is wet with sweat and tears, his eyes are bulging, and his teeth are chattering. His fear is palpable, like an aura around him. I can almost taste it in the balmy air. And it’s delicious.

“Y-y ...”

“Yes?” I finish for him. “I have great news for you.” I clap his shoulder, hard, and he whimpers. “You won’t be scared of it anymore by the time I’m done with you.” He sobs, snot pouring out of his nose. “You’ll be begging me for it like you’ve never begged for anything in your life.” I smile, the thrill of violence coursing through my veins like a drug. “I’m going to cure your fear. I’ll make you a fearless man.”

He’s naked, bound to my portable cross-shaped table, arms spread to the sides. Sheen of sweat all over his body, ribs outlined with each frantic breath, greying pubic hair hiding a miniature dick in almost its entirety.

“P-Please. I’m just a cog. P-please.”

I drag my knife over his abdomen without piercing the skin, the blade whispering, leaving a thin red line in its wake. Memories of the dream I had assault me. My hand fucking wobbles.

“Hmm. Yes, you are just a cog.” I drone, my breath hot on my face underneath my mask. “But it’s the cogs that make the whole machinery run. I blame the cogs. I hate the cogs.”

“I told you everything you wanted to know!”

“Yes, but you made me work for it,” I point out. “Pulling someone’s fingernails off isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

That is true; the tendons in my right hand and wrist feel stiff from hours of squeezing those pliers. I do this too often. Carpal tunnel issues are definitely in the cards for me down the line. If I live long enough.

The other patrolman is crying loudly and distractingly on his table a couple of feet away, his large gut wobbling with each high-pitched sob. He’s getting on my last fucking nerve.

Unlike his colleague, he didn’t make me work for the information I wanted from him at all. I didn’t even have to touch him for words to start spilling out of him. He pissed himself when I stepped close to him. Naturally, I beat his face to an unrecognisable pulp. The only thing I hate more than mustards who make me break a sweat to get them to talk is those who make it too easy.

I’d love to kill the loud one first to shut him up. But he’s way more afraid than the zombie. It’ll be worse for him to watch first. I usually work this way: the more afraid they are, the longer I make them wait.

When I’m doing Riley and that crybaby, I’m definitely making him watch.

Out of nowhere, violent nausea crashes through me, cold sweat erupting all over me. I close my eyes, propping my arms against the edges of the table. And I don’t know why the fuck I’d do that, especially right now, but I picture Riley on it, bound and naked. But there’s no knife in my hand. Instead of a blade, I trace my fingers over her skin, caressing the curve of her hip. There is no fear in her eyes. Just nervous anticipation. And a breathless smile on her face as my hand makes its way between her legs.

I nearly black out as all the blood in my body rushes south. Fuck’s sake.

Over the past week, I’ve fucked more call girls than ever before in my life. But no matter how similar to Riley they look, I can’t shake her. And after yesterday? I’m done trying. There’s no point. I don’t want to fuck someone who looks like her. I want ... her.

My mind is now a fallout zone, contaminated with thoughts of her that have nothing to do with her betrayal, and everything to do with the way she touched me yesterday and the way her body visibly wanted me to touch her back.

I keep coming back to her little confession. Now that I know I could be the first man to ever give her pleasure, I can’t stop coming up with all the ways I could do that—all the ways I could make her feel things she can’t even imagine yet.

I need to snap out of this. Fast.