Twisted Passion
folder
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
7,570
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
7,570
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This story is an original work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Twisted Passion
Prologue
At the site moderator of aff.net request, I am posting this disclaimer at the beginning of my story: Disclaimer: "This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited."
To my readers: I apologize for this chapter being re-posted just to add the above disclaimer, but as I do not want my story to be deleted or "hidden", I am obeying the site mod's instructions to the letter.
Author’s Note: Please be warned that this story contains adult situations.
lll
It was now or never. Marjorie raised the knife and paused, her heart pounding hard in her chest, and took a deep breath. She held the sharp blade over the place in her wrist where the pulse point beat the strongest. The thin, diffused sunlight from a cold February day barely filtered through the fogged-up bathroom window. She brought it down quickly, slashing deeply into the white flesh.
She stared in morbid fascination as the hot water in the tub turned redder with each beat of her heart. Almost immediately after slicing her flesh, she already felt the effects: she was becoming drowsy and nauseous and she knew she did not have much time to finish her task before her strength was completely depleted.
Before her resolve could fail her, she transferred the knife to her right hand. She closed her fist around the wooden handle as best as she could and prepared to cut herself again. Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes and sliced as hard as she could into her other wrist.
She rested her hand on the edge of the tub. Her fingers did not have enough strength to hold even the slight weight of the small knife, and of its own volition, her hand opened, letting the knife fall.
The clatter it made when it struck the white tile floor made her tears prick in her eyes. The floor was always kept spotless by her mother’s constant scrubbing and Marjorie regretted letting it go. Her mother would have a hard enough task dealing with her only daughter’s suicide; she shouldn’t have to clean up as well.
She put both hands into the water and placed her feet onto the water taps so that when she did finally lose consciousness, her body would relax and her head would sink beneath the surface of the water. There was no pain now, only a lassitude that told her the end of her suffering was drawing near. To make sure of it, she clenched both hands into hard fists, making even more blood leave her body.
Her brother could not hurt her anymore—with two strokes of a common kitchen knife, she had made sure her rest would be forever peaceful. No longer would she have to be afraid of the dark, wondering, waiting, her heart pounding in her chest as she listened for the sound of stealthy footsteps coming down the hall. Of the doorknob as it slowly turned and the slight creak of the door as it opened and closed behind him.
No longer would she have to fear falling asleep and waking up with strong hands groping and twisting at her tender flesh; her nightgown pushed up to her waist, her legs forced apart as he rammed into her, satisfying his sick lusts while giving no thought to her or what she might be feeling. It seemed that he enjoyed hearing her cry out and the more she tried to fight him off, the more aroused he became.
But that all was in the past.
Bringing her mind to the present, Marjorie stroked the area below her navel where the life within her slumbered and grew. She had known for a month that she was carrying a child; young as she was, she was not so innocent that she did not know the signs. Her less-than-one-year-old menstrual cycle had stopped suddenly and her breasts and belly became noticeably larger. The first indication that something was wrong occurred when she could no longer fit into her favourite dress for Sunday services. She had not felt well that day and immediately after taking her dress off in search of something else to wear, the first bout of nausea hit before she could get to the bathroom in time.
She cleaned herself up as best she could and blamed the smell and mess on the hall carpet on the ill family dog. Since then, she wore loose clothes that revealed nothing about her shame.
As the daughter of a clergyman, she had been taught from infancy that suicide and abortion were sins against Nature and God. So was what Nathan did to me, but that was never mentioned in the Bible, she thought.
Too weak to hold her head upright, Marjorie rested it against the back of the tub and contemplated the letter she had written and mailed to her parents that very afternoon. For a long time, her hand hesitated dropping it into the post box. A sudden bout of nausea made her realize she had no choice.
It wasn’t fair! Nathan was her brother! As her big brother, he was supposed to protect her, not rape her in her own bed.
From dry lips, she recited the Lord’s Prayer for the last time.
When the prayer was complete, her eyelids fluttered then closed before she slipped into the crimson water….
Some time later, her body was roughly hoisted out of the water, but by then, she was already dead. Shaken, slapped, and yelled at, she bore everything with a peaceful and serene look on her face. She was finally free of the pain and shame. Her brother could never hurt her again.
Nathan. The man who was the father of her child, her rapist, and relentless molester now wept over her as he cradled her chilled body in his arms. Nathan frantically swept his gaze over the entire bathroom for anything that could be used to revive her but saw nothing except the instrument of her death.
Feeling ill from the sight of so much blood, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, forcing the nausea down. When he felt strong enough to open his eyes, he saw that nothing had changed. The girl he loved still lay dead in his arms. The brightness of the blood smear where Marjorie had rested her hand on the white tub’s edge hypnotized him and he was unable to wrench his gaze from it.
With trembling fingers, he picked up the knife and held it in his hand. He aimed the blade point at his heart, intending to plunge it inside his breast and end his misery. But no matter how earnestly he willed his hand to do it, he could not. He was weak-willed and greedy for life. Accepting the fact that he could not follow her to the grave, he placed the knife where he found it. He held her body against his as if its heat could keep the warmth from departing from hers.
He rocked back and forth, still holding onto her, his anguish giving way to keening wails of unbearable grief that could be heard from outside of the house.
At the site moderator of aff.net request, I am posting this disclaimer at the beginning of my story: Disclaimer: "This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited."
To my readers: I apologize for this chapter being re-posted just to add the above disclaimer, but as I do not want my story to be deleted or "hidden", I am obeying the site mod's instructions to the letter.
Author’s Note: Please be warned that this story contains adult situations.
lll
It was now or never. Marjorie raised the knife and paused, her heart pounding hard in her chest, and took a deep breath. She held the sharp blade over the place in her wrist where the pulse point beat the strongest. The thin, diffused sunlight from a cold February day barely filtered through the fogged-up bathroom window. She brought it down quickly, slashing deeply into the white flesh.
She stared in morbid fascination as the hot water in the tub turned redder with each beat of her heart. Almost immediately after slicing her flesh, she already felt the effects: she was becoming drowsy and nauseous and she knew she did not have much time to finish her task before her strength was completely depleted.
Before her resolve could fail her, she transferred the knife to her right hand. She closed her fist around the wooden handle as best as she could and prepared to cut herself again. Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes and sliced as hard as she could into her other wrist.
She rested her hand on the edge of the tub. Her fingers did not have enough strength to hold even the slight weight of the small knife, and of its own volition, her hand opened, letting the knife fall.
The clatter it made when it struck the white tile floor made her tears prick in her eyes. The floor was always kept spotless by her mother’s constant scrubbing and Marjorie regretted letting it go. Her mother would have a hard enough task dealing with her only daughter’s suicide; she shouldn’t have to clean up as well.
She put both hands into the water and placed her feet onto the water taps so that when she did finally lose consciousness, her body would relax and her head would sink beneath the surface of the water. There was no pain now, only a lassitude that told her the end of her suffering was drawing near. To make sure of it, she clenched both hands into hard fists, making even more blood leave her body.
Her brother could not hurt her anymore—with two strokes of a common kitchen knife, she had made sure her rest would be forever peaceful. No longer would she have to be afraid of the dark, wondering, waiting, her heart pounding in her chest as she listened for the sound of stealthy footsteps coming down the hall. Of the doorknob as it slowly turned and the slight creak of the door as it opened and closed behind him.
No longer would she have to fear falling asleep and waking up with strong hands groping and twisting at her tender flesh; her nightgown pushed up to her waist, her legs forced apart as he rammed into her, satisfying his sick lusts while giving no thought to her or what she might be feeling. It seemed that he enjoyed hearing her cry out and the more she tried to fight him off, the more aroused he became.
But that all was in the past.
Bringing her mind to the present, Marjorie stroked the area below her navel where the life within her slumbered and grew. She had known for a month that she was carrying a child; young as she was, she was not so innocent that she did not know the signs. Her less-than-one-year-old menstrual cycle had stopped suddenly and her breasts and belly became noticeably larger. The first indication that something was wrong occurred when she could no longer fit into her favourite dress for Sunday services. She had not felt well that day and immediately after taking her dress off in search of something else to wear, the first bout of nausea hit before she could get to the bathroom in time.
She cleaned herself up as best she could and blamed the smell and mess on the hall carpet on the ill family dog. Since then, she wore loose clothes that revealed nothing about her shame.
As the daughter of a clergyman, she had been taught from infancy that suicide and abortion were sins against Nature and God. So was what Nathan did to me, but that was never mentioned in the Bible, she thought.
Too weak to hold her head upright, Marjorie rested it against the back of the tub and contemplated the letter she had written and mailed to her parents that very afternoon. For a long time, her hand hesitated dropping it into the post box. A sudden bout of nausea made her realize she had no choice.
It wasn’t fair! Nathan was her brother! As her big brother, he was supposed to protect her, not rape her in her own bed.
From dry lips, she recited the Lord’s Prayer for the last time.
When the prayer was complete, her eyelids fluttered then closed before she slipped into the crimson water….
Some time later, her body was roughly hoisted out of the water, but by then, she was already dead. Shaken, slapped, and yelled at, she bore everything with a peaceful and serene look on her face. She was finally free of the pain and shame. Her brother could never hurt her again.
Nathan. The man who was the father of her child, her rapist, and relentless molester now wept over her as he cradled her chilled body in his arms. Nathan frantically swept his gaze over the entire bathroom for anything that could be used to revive her but saw nothing except the instrument of her death.
Feeling ill from the sight of so much blood, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, forcing the nausea down. When he felt strong enough to open his eyes, he saw that nothing had changed. The girl he loved still lay dead in his arms. The brightness of the blood smear where Marjorie had rested her hand on the white tub’s edge hypnotized him and he was unable to wrench his gaze from it.
With trembling fingers, he picked up the knife and held it in his hand. He aimed the blade point at his heart, intending to plunge it inside his breast and end his misery. But no matter how earnestly he willed his hand to do it, he could not. He was weak-willed and greedy for life. Accepting the fact that he could not follow her to the grave, he placed the knife where he found it. He held her body against his as if its heat could keep the warmth from departing from hers.
He rocked back and forth, still holding onto her, his anguish giving way to keening wails of unbearable grief that could be heard from outside of the house.