Enigma Nocturne

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Part Five.


The Headmaster lifted a pale hand and stroked the side of Jore’s face, his nails only lightly brushing the tan skin. Jore’s countenance flitted rapidly through expressions of surprise, confusion, fear, anger, disgust, discomfort, arousal, embarrassment, and shame, before he snapped out of Mr. Nairicks’ eerily hypnotic gaze and turned his head away, shutting his eyes tightly.

The Headmaster seemed not to mind. He continued to caress Jore’s face, delighted by the trembling youth’s obvious fear and confusion. His fingers traveled slightly lower to trace invisible patterns in the flesh of Jore’s neck, and then went on to slowly unbutton his white shirt. Jore tried to keep calm, tried to steady his breathing, tried to ignore the frightening feelings of utter helplessness and insane confusion. And suddenly, as he felt a freezing cold blade on the skin near his shoulder, he let out a pitiful whimper.

Mr. Nairicks chuckled softly and began to slice and rip at Jore’s shirt with the elegant letter-opener; the only way to take the pesky garment off of Jore without unbinding his hands. Jore flinched every time he felt the metal touch his skin, but soon his shirt was gone, and he never felt the blade do so much as scratch him.

Mr. Nairicks stepped back to admire Jore’s shirtless torso, seemingly fascinated by the way the youth’s slightly sweaty skin shimmered softly in the dim light. Jore was trying not to breathe heavily, and trying to will the slight blush out of his cheeks. He feared the proximity of the letter-opener, and so he took a second to open his eyes and glanced up at Mr. Nairicks to see if he was still holding it. However, before he could see anything clearly, he shuddered and looked away as he heard the Headmaster hum softly in approval of the sight before him, admiring Jore’s body like a work of art hung on the wall.

“You’re quite a handsome young man, Jordan,” the Headmaster said softly, stepping back towards him.
Jore stared at the ground to his right. How was he supposed to answer Mr. Nairicks, let alone process that statement in his mind? He had to stay on the Headmaster’s good side; he knew that much. He swallowed. “Th-thank you, sir,” he said weakly.

Mr. Nairicks nodded thoughtfully and moved to stand mere inches away from Jore, leaning in close. Jore shut his eyes and flinched as he felt the Headmaster’s breath on the side of his face. Then, reflexively, he took in a sharp gasp of air as he felt one of the Headmaster’s cold hands wrap around his neck and squeeze lightly.

Jore was silent and unmoving in his fright as he felt Mr. Nairicks’ grip tighten little by little, and heard his own breath slowly become more and more shallow.

Soon, he was breathing in tiny, desperate gasps and his throat burned with the pain of the pressure and lack of oxygen. He opened his eyes and turned them towards his oppressor, casting a look of horror and pitiful helplessness. “Ah…nah…nah…n…no…” he managed to force out between the rapidly shrinking gasps, but the only response his tiny protest received was a purely evil smile from the Headmaster, who then suddenly tightened his hold even more, whacking the back of Jore’s head against the wall.

Jore’s eyes slammed shut with the wave of pain and panic he felt. He twitched and struggled against his binds, and tried to move his head from side to side, but nothing could budge the Headmaster’s iron grip.

After a few more moments, Jore’s adrenaline gradually began to fade away, and just as his mind barely started to darken, Mr. Nairicks released his hold. Jore immediately came back to his senses and took in a dizzyingly long gulp of air, then coughed a few times painfully. He sniffled quietly, and then began to sob, trembling.

The Headmaster’s smile widened and he stepped away, walking to look around one of the shelves, giving Jore a few moments to recover. “I’m not going to kill you,” he said quietly, an unsound smile still tugging at the sides of his mouth. He glanced back at Jore, who was once again silent and motionless, tears sliding down his face. “Now, now, don’t cry,” Mr. Nairicks said, moving to stand near Jore again.

As the Headmaster approached him, Jore bit his lip and sniffled softly, then said weakly, “Please… please let me go. I’ve… I’ve learned my lesson, and I swear… I swear I’ll never disrespect you, sir, ever again… please… please, Headmaster, sir…”

Jore looked fearfully up at Mr. Nairicks’ shoulder rather than his face. The Headmaster made a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound and shook his head, and then in a flash he was right by the wall, pressed against Jore, with a dark dagger in his hand. Jore had no time to even process what was happening before he felt the indescribable, burning pain of a blade slicing into the left side of his chest near his collarbone.

Jore’s whole body tensed, he threw his head back, opened his mouth, and screamed louder than he had ever screamed before. The dull, rasping pain of his throat as he screamed paled in comparison with the sheer agony of metal cutting into his flesh. Mr. Nairicks held Jore’s torso still by pressing against him, and his icy hand ran the blade down the left side of Jore’s chest horribly slowly. He slid it down past Jore’s ribs, curved it slightly across his abdomen, and then ended the wound on Jore’s left hip, where he finally moved the blade away. Jore let out a series of slightly quieter screams even after the Headmaster moved away from him. He had never felt that much pain in his life… his nerves were on fire, his heart had nearly stopped beating (and then started to beat insanely fast again to make up for lost time), and his mind threatened to completely shut down from the overload of raw feeling. Jore gritted his teeth, hardly feeling his tongue bleed as he bit into it slightly, and then his wild eyes spun in his head and looked down at his chest. He saw that the wound was deep, and a surprisingly large amount of blood streamed down his torso, starting to create a stain on the left side of his trousers.

Jore was dumbstruck. He could’ve never imagined this, even in his very worst of worst nightmares. But that was his blood; it was warm, and wet, and he could feel it. It was real.

The sound of Mr. Nairicks’ shoes striking concrete reached Jore’s ears, and he looked up, startled, and froze, his eyes huge and wild with the persona of prey.

After a moment, the Headmaster took another step toward him, and Jore was pushed over the edge. He thrashed madly, ignoring the intense pain he felt in his no-longer-numb wrists and ankles as they bumped and scratched hard against the metal binds. Jore’s mind reeled with the overpowering need to flee, but his heart sank as he realized there was no hope.

In a few moments he stopped struggling, and then the Headmaster stood directly in front of him. He then elicited a loud yelp of pain from Jore as he bent forward slightly and licked up along the fresh wound, blood staining his lips. He licked them clean, and then one of his hands shot out to grasp Jore’s chin firmly. He pressed his lips to Jore’s, and Jore felt a wave of nausea pass through him as he tasted his own blood, and felt the Headmaster’s freezing-cold lips. This truly was the worst situation that he could’ve ever thought possible.

But then, as if reading Jore’s mind, Mr. Nairicks pulled away a few inches and whispered softly, “Come on, Jordan, be a man. Get ready. It gets a lot worse from here.”


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