17·【Extra 2 Super Psycho Love】
"You're destined to kill."
I still couldn't bring myself to call out to that woman. Now, we stood in front of their room, Lawrence behind me, his tall frame blocking my escape. He clearly still had pent-up lust, preparing to kill her before unleashing his pent-up desire. His lips kissed my neck with unfulfilled longing, his knee pressed between my legs, one hand erotically tracing my thigh down to my waist, making me feel weak all over, while his other hand gently placed my hand on the doorknob, intertwining our fingers, pressing them slowly downwards.
“We lost, Ray. I hate losing.” Lawrence’s voice was hoarse, a huskiness that comes with sex, his warm breath like a snake coiled around my neck. I was completely captivated by him, and involuntarily followed his movements, slowly pressing the doorknob all the way down. “Let’s go kill them. Let’s do it together…”
The door creaked open. The two men, naked and sprawled on the bed, slowly turned to look at us as the door opened, their expressions shifting from satisfaction to terror. Perhaps, in their eyes, Lawrence and I appeared as follows: a ghostly green eye peeked through the dark crack in the door, and a dark-haired man held a rusty kitchen knife. Deeper into the darkness, a tall, blond man, his eyes bloodshot and a sinister smile on his face, held a large cleaver about a meter long, tapping it repeatedly on the ground like blood dripping into a pool of blood, drip, drip.
I found that kitchen knife in the cupboard. I don't know when it's been there. Next to it was a crudely made rag doll with its head severed, cotton wadding peeking out from the tear, its eyes, sewn with buttons, wide open, and its mouth sewn shut.
The two people screamed almost simultaneously, their voices piercing and like cat claws scratching at glass. The woman's next reaction was to fumble for her clothes; apparently, she wasn't completely at ease in front of everyone. The man, however, was utterly stunned. He stared at me in disbelief, his trembling lips uttering a few syllables: "...Mel?"
Ah, I recognize him too. Isn't that Dr. Charlie Orwell?
Orwell swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Lawrence and me, as he shoved all the clothes off the bed onto his girlfriend. Men always have a kind of visual possessiveness towards their partner's naked body. I looked up at Lawrence, who was also looking down at me with a smile, completely unaware that his tight tank top was a bit too low-cut. Instead, he pulled up the back of my jeans and casually slipped his fingers into my buttocks, his nails lightly tracing the area. My back felt a little weak.
This flirting is so inappropriate," I thought to myself, glancing helplessly at Lawrence. Oh well, that's just how Lawrence is. I turned my gaze back to Orwell, who walked cautiously toward me with his hands behind his back. "Listen, Mel, I know you were forced by that man. I heard your screams just now. Now, put the knife down and stop letting him control you."
I stared at him, bewildered. His gaze was one of pity. His girlfriend looked the same way; she seemed ready to take me to the police or a doctor. Her boyfriend was a psychiatrist, and even he couldn't cure me. It was Lawrence who cured me.
Lawrence chuckled, looking at Orwell with the gaze of someone watching a monkey show, as if this weren't an orphanage but a circus. He embraced me from behind, slipped his hand inside my shirt from the front, and slowly kneaded my chest, his words dripping with suggestive intent. My breathing quickened, my whole body trembled, and I could barely hold the cleaver. Orwell tried to grab it, but Lawrence's eyes suddenly sharpened. He shoved me aside, and in the blink of an eye, his hand flashed, severing Orwell's right arm that was behind his back. Blood spurted from his severed shoulder, and Orwell screamed. I saw the arm lying on the ground, still in a clenched grip, holding a pocket pistol.
Damn it, Lawrence tricked me again. He actually used me as bait! But how did he figure out Orwell had a gun? Does killing too many people give you such a beastly intuition? Oh, or did Orwell's attitude of trying to "save" me when he was barely able to save himself make him suspicious? I looked at Lawrence with a look that was both aggrieved and admiring, but he kept staring at the woman named Emily, his eyes bright and full of interest.
I frowned at Emily. She had been staring blankly at Orwell convulsing on the floor, but suddenly she scrambled out of bed and reached for the gun. I was startled and tried to stop her, but it was too late. Emily grabbed the gun with a trembling hand, pointed it at me and Lawrence, her teeth clenched, her eyes filled with tears, her index finger already on the trigger, but she hesitated to fire. Turning the thought of killing into the act of killing is incredibly challenging; this was clearly her first time doing something like this. She must have been torn between two conflicting emotions: killing the monster who caused her boyfriend to lose an arm, or letting herself be forever stained with blood and haunted by nightmares?
“You…you…” Emily turned the gun on me and said in a trembling voice, “Put down the knife and walk over here slowly…”
This was the first time I'd encountered a victim who wanted to take me hostage to negotiate with Lawrence. Emily was intelligent and still had a conscience; although she was the one who caused Lawrence and me to lose that sex contest, objectively speaking, I admired her. However, I sincerely hoped Lawrence would stop staring at her with that interested look; I was genuinely jealous. I looked at Lawrence with a complaining and questioning gaze, and he lowered his head and smiled at me without saying a word. Emily couldn't stand the eerie silence any longer and shouted at me as forcefully as possible, "Come here right now!"
Orwell, pale-faced, clutched his severed arm with his remaining left hand and struggled to his feet. Emily immediately shielded him with her body, her eyes filled with undisguised grief and worry, yet her gaze gradually hardened. She clearly realized I only listened to Lawrence, so she directly pressured him: "You! Get him here right now!"
Lawrence's eyes lit up again as he looked at her. I was immediately filled with unease. Lawrence suddenly nudged my lower back and whispered in my ear, "Looks like I'll have to lend you to Miss Emily for a while."
I stared at him in disbelief. Was he going to abandon me again, like before? Emily might take me away, to a place where I could never find him again. He wasn't going back to New York this time; he'd be driving his truck all over America. Was he going to play hide-and-seek with me across these nine million square kilometers? Like last time, making me suffer the agony of missing him until I was on the verge of collapse, only to then throw me a tiny, faint clue, making me crawl to him like a dog smelling meat?
No matter how my brain screamed "No!", my body obeyed Lawrence's every command, and I even felt pleasure from it. I was truly hopelessly in love with him. I stiffly dropped the kitchen knife on the ground and, like a walking corpse, stepped forward to face Emily's gun, letting her press the pistol against my temple. In the blink of an eye, Lawrence and I went from skin to skin to skin, staring at each other across the distance, and he was still looking at Emily, not sparing me a single glance.
A terrifying thought suddenly struck me. Had Lawrence lost interest in me? Did he find Emily more interesting and want a new toy? Did he want Emily to kill me, to take my place in his heart, and then he would kill Orwell, taking Orwell's place in hers, and then they would go on a road trip together? I knew Lawrence was capable of anything; he could make anyone fall in love with him if he wanted to. Taming someone as strong as Emily would surely give him more satisfaction than taming me. My hands and feet turned ice-cold; I dared not think any further. I didn't want to appear so weak in front of Lawrence, but I couldn't stop trembling, and tears streamed down my face.
Emily looked at me with that pitying look again. She certainly couldn't see the complex emotions in my eyes. She thought I was afraid of the gun, so she moved the muzzle a little further away from me and whispered, "Don't be afraid, I'll get you and Orwell out of here. He told me about you."
I didn't care whether Orwell had told her about me. My attention was entirely on Lawrence. He was tilting his head with interest, his eyes fixed on Emily, the deadly machete resting on his shoulder, the back of the blade tapping rhythmically. He must have been thinking of one of his favorite tunes again. Lawrence always liked to hum when he was toying with victims he was interested in, but I felt like he was toying with both Emily and me at the same time. Was he humming because of Emily, or was he just amused by my reaction? This really mattered to me; his interest in me was more important than my life.
“Now, make way for us. Don’t block the doorway, and don’t make any sudden movements.” Emily’s tone was cold and hard as she spoke to Lawrence, but I could feel her trembling with fear. His gaze clearly sent chills down her spine. Lawrence’s eyes were filled with undisguised murderous intent and lust; a layer of bloodthirsty red light shone in his azure eyes, like a lion smelling blood from a thousand miles away. His muscles bulged with excitement with heavy breathing, a perfect hunting stance, ready to pounce at any moment. But the moment of explosion hadn’t arrived yet. Lawrence adopted a friendly demeanor, sighed, shrugged, and stepped aside to make way for Emily, clearing a safe passage for her. Emily held me hostage, Orwell close behind, trembling as they passed this chilling killer, fearing he might suddenly disregard my life and swing that terrifying machete again. For a moment, Lawrence and I were very close. I could feel his breath on my face, and our eyes were locked in a fierce struggle. The desire to kill and the desire to love collided in the air, creating intense sparks, yet they were also so tender and affectionate, like the fine threads of our bodily fluids when we were intertwined.
Emily, wary of Lawrence and unwilling to show her back, could only drag me along, inching her way towards the stairs. Orwell, watching me cautiously the entire time, though far from professional as a psychiatrist, could sense my intense jealousy and hatred towards Emily. He leaned close to his girlfriend's ear and whispered, "Listen, honey, don't get so close to Mel. I suddenly have a bad feeling..."
I couldn't hear what they were saying, but Emily's gaze towards me instantly changed. It went from looking at a victim of a serial killer to looking at an accomplice, the fear and apprehension so intense she couldn't hide it. I even saw goosebumps rise on her arms. Emily and Orwell exchanged a glance, their unspoken understanding flowing freely. Almost simultaneously, they made their decision, abandoning me and running away as fast as they could.
But it was too late. Lawrence walked silently, like a large feline, and when we turned around, his tall figure was already close at hand, his long cleaver raised high above his head, gleaming coldly in the pale moonlight like the Grim Reaper's scythe. His expression was one of uncontrollable excitement, an unbelievable curve to his lips, his usually sculpted face now contorted in grotesque horror. It was a kind of uncanny valley effect of terror; even I felt a chill run down my spine, let alone Emily and Orwell.
That instant felt like the final frame. Orwell frantically tried to jump out the window to escape, Emily screamed and raised her gun to Lawrence's forehead, while I desperately tried to block the muzzle of the gun that was about to kill Lawrence. Lawrence, however, seemed completely unconcerned about it, his taut muscles stretched taut, as if he were going to use his own flesh and blood to meet the deadly bullet head-on. I watched as that solid chest that had embraced me countless times was pierced by a small bullet, my stunned expression frozen forever, his strong body, far more deadly than any weapon, collapsed to the ground like a mountain crumbling, my beloved handsome face becoming a plaster mask that would never move again, Lawrence stained crimson in his own pool of blood.
But I didn't hear a gunshot until the machete severed Emily's right arm. The gun clattered to the ground, and Emily screamed in agony and collapsed. Orwell was about to fall when, at the last second, Lawrence stepped forward, pulled him back from the window, and, in front of Emily, severed all four of his limbs, throwing them off the building one by one. Orwell's screams were no longer human; his remaining torso was covered in blood, like red meat on a chopping board. This extremely bloody and brutal scene was beyond the mental capacity of most people. The resolve and courage in Emily's eyes vanished instantly; she finally broke down, clinging to Lawrence's leg and begging for mercy like the previous victims, only to be kicked to the ground and have her head crushed with the sole of her shoe like a cigarette butt.
I collapsed to my knees, utterly exhausted. The scene of death was, in fact, another of my delusions.
"Haha..." Lawrence, covered in blood, slammed his machete to the ground, bent over, clutching his stomach and chuckling. Then his eyes met mine. Seeing my expression of relief and joy at surviving, he could no longer contain his extreme excitement and burst into maniacal laughter, "Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!"
I remained kneeling, tears welling in my eyes. Lawrence laughed so hard he almost fell over, and I cried out. Only then did he finally reach out and pull me into his arms, his grip so tight it felt like he wanted to meld me into his body. I sobbed uncontrollably in his arms, and Lawrence, while soothingly stroking my head, said to Emily, who was struggling desperately at his feet, "I can tell at a glance what kind of person will kill and what kind of person won't, even in death. You are the latter, Miss Emily."
I sniffed, tugged at Lawrence's hand, and asked anxiously, "What about me?"
“You are my favorite, Ray.” Lawrence smiled and wiped away my tears. “You are a man destined to kill.”
A note from the author:
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