Mrs. Suicide

"Go." 
"Wh-" the words died in my mouth, I was lost in her wild sad eyes. His cum still poured out of me, a burning streak down my legs.
"Get out of here." 

Her mean voice made no room for anything else. 

Everything smelled of stale Bourbon and shame. I bit my lips and looked at his dead eyes. 

A habit of course- of slaves. A habit after 69 days here with him...and with her. 

"He's dead," her voice again. 

"Leave" it was cold, but also desperate. She pointed it at me, still dripping with his skull's blood from the barrels and the stocks. Her first command to her new slave. Her wet bloodshot eyes behind those barrels.

My soul obeyed, then my body, I ran into the cool morning air, my feet stumbled over a thousand thistles and pine cones, but I couldn't stop running, my fear made them all numb.

 
...At last my eyes. I didn't know why, but a part of me wanted to stay. I didn't know why I would think that of her. She didn't feel anything about my sister when she died here. Her hands were playing in my bleeding hips when I cried and begged. She watched Him doing all those things to us. 

I expected my back would explode, the shot would tore every strip between my rib cage and my heart. Or that the back of my head would split open by the shot, along with a dozen bundles of my hair, that the cops would step over a pool of my brain when they lead dad to find me...But when I looked back, I only saw her closing the door forever behind me.

Could evil change? A ecstatic thrill bloomed inside me as I ran, a thrill verging on madness, high on each passing branch, flower, and beam of summer sun, the thrill of everything that is alive. And then, something awful that chased upon my thoughts. 

I wanted to take her with me. 

The fly door banged with a wooden thud. 

The thing was heavy in her hands, a thousand screams raced across her head, fear, thrill, memories in brutal arcs across her inflamed thoughts. Torrents of madness and raw hate undiminished by two decades of needles. Her anger lashed out in tendrils, pure chemicals, her repressed screams and shame overlapped, her own voice, her stupid weaknesses howled over and over in her head. Was her eyes bleeding behind her blue-jay eyes? Did she relieve herself in fear? She can't tell. His cum was an oily paste still caked on her cheeks, mixed with her eye shadow. 

She cursed at herself. Everything smelled of stale Bourbon and shame. The scent of Him and her both in the familiar silent room. The gentle morning light was just coming through the white curtains. 

The cops would believe everything she would tell them. They would find His shackles, His needles, His...toys, and they would find the girls they He brutalized under that outhouse... They would gave her a blanket, then the news crew would come, then the advocates, then donations, someday they may even write a book. Then...nothing. This scared her, and she slumped her naked back on the cold fridge door. Even if they save her, she can't be saved. 

For in the silence of all things, there was only His voice still...always, her own Personal Him, either in disapproval, or a tenor of lust as his precum gathers...even as a whispering ghost. As long as her mind works, He was with her, and she was His. ...that half of her still wants to be His.

The gun came to rest on her forehead, it was good she asked Him to teach her how to use it. Despite a thousand weaknesses she held the weapon surely, with every mad part of her hanging on to it. 

She remembered how her perfumed hands would playing with the girls' cheek in some truck stop diner, the way she would then lead them here from the diner, the thrill she felt in her whole body as He fucked them while they screamed and her darting tongue ran circles across their stuffed and terrified anuses, the way His cheap katana would then sent their heads spraying in the fields afterwards. The way she laughed with Him after...almost becoming everything just like Him but without a cock. 

The weapon was firm, and her whole being greedily clung, instincts of survival, the bestial joy of being the only one safe in a hurricane.

Now? the court actually may let her walk away. But then her thoughts returned to the three girls that did ran and never told anyone about she and Him. They could never forget her face. Maybe...one day after the police broadcast all of this, they would show up at her door, maybe they would tell the world about who she really was, what she did with Him. But worse yet? they might not. They might never sleep again, knowing she's still out there after this. They might never know peace if they knew she waked away. 

Almost...She wiped her burning tears and listened to her heartbeats, letting the last of her bladder, along with His remaining cum gingerly drain out between her legs, a final cleansing of sorts she permitted herself.

Then placed the barrel whole in her mouth. Her naked legs braced its familiar stock whole. 

She thought she would finally be safe.