The wolf
I pace between the bed and the television, set up not far from its end. Morgan has no fucking clue who I am. Bitch is trying to rile me up, and I won’t let her get under my skin. On occasion, I’ve allowed her to do that … fucking whore. Lines of red lipstick, lipstick owned by Daisy Malone, mark my wall with names. I stalk this list of bitches before placing both my hands on either side. Anger brews inside me. I swing back my leg and let out a primal howl.
Bang!
One powerful kick sees the plaster torn apart, and my foot buried deep in a hole I’ve created in the fibro.
“Shit,” I snarl as I twist at my ankle and rip my foot backwards. I huff when I bend down to retrieve my shoe left behind.
Thirteen useless slags and Morgan is the one I hate the most. She’s the devil disguised in angel’s clothing. She’s the last piece of fruit left to mould in a discarded fruit bowl. Morgan Banks is a storm hell-bent on destroying every single life which comes into her path. I want her dead.
Sitting down on my bed, I keep my eyes planted on my list as I undo the laces of my boot so that I can slip it back on.
Daisy Malone
Cheryl Riddell
Donna Martin
Sarah Pilcher
Christina Monroe
Elizabeth Shanks
Lillian Catcher
Alethia Warren
Stacey Seymore-Beth
Octavia Legend
Anastasia Daughtry
Katy Hodges
Morgan Banks
My trophies. Morgan is the only one I’ve not finished with yet. Each kill calculated and performed to perfection. Each kill used as practice for this moment, the one I’ve been waiting for for the last five years. I’ve never felt as alive as I do when I watch the life drain out of a woman’s eyes. It’s all in the eyes. The way they open wide due to a shock they’ve never experienced before. The way they plead. The tears that stain the tender skin surrounding their lashes. Eyes search for help and beg for mercy, but then a glimmer of fight widens the iris’ before surrender catches up, shrinking them … death is finally accepted.
This sequence never leaves me. This final moment washes over my body and brings with it immortality. I’m left feeling strong, so dominant I could lift mountains, create tidal waves, and produce catastrophic storms upon mere mortals. I become a god.
The thirst that grows to the point of unbearable as my game plays out is automatically quenched once these bitches no longer breathe. And after my heartbeat slows, and I catch my breath, I sit quietly in nature, slicing away the fingertips of these women who have brought me pain. I relax to the point I feel weightless … It’s a meditative calm. A woman’s touch is all she really owns in her life, and it’s the last thing I need to take before I can prepare to hunt all over again.
But even though there are no names left on my list, I know it’s not over. I won’t be able to stop after I take Morgan’s life, like I promised myself I would, because I’m forever hungered for immortality, and I’m forever in need of the hunt.
Morgan no longer appears as the broken doll she did the last time I locked her in this room. She’s still battered, grazed, gashed, cut, and bruised, but now she’s cleaned from the elements that hitchhiked on her extremities, and from the dry blood that was staining her skin.
The colour red has always been such a good match against Morgan’s pale complexion. It's one she’s often worn throughout the years. I watch as she limps around the room in the short underwear and tight white fitted tank top I exchanged her clothing with, and as I do, I exhale my satisfaction. Every single one of my players, bar my first, has worn this uniform to their death. They need to know they’re my property, and this is the reason ‘Property of The Wolf’ is on the breast of each top, written in the colour red.
My game plan is flawless.
The backpack I put together for Morgan is now out of the garbage bag and laying in the middle of the floor. I’m puzzled by this because every other player who has stood where Morgan is now has clutched this bag as if their life depended on it. Not Morgan though.
What is she doing?
Her arse becomes my view as she bends over at the tub. I switch the camera directly to the opposite side of the room to find Morgan slurping from her cupped hand. Her thirst must be extreme to drink such filth. She’s the first one of my Reds to do so.
The watch wrapped around my wrist begins to alarm at the pre-set time of 2:45 a.m. It’s time for Morgan's next test. Only three players have made it past nightfall on this day, and I hope Morgan can make it a fourth, but I’m not holding out hope; not after inspecting her this morning. She’s quite damaged.
She will fall. She will scream. She will have to navigate the dark.
Payback can be such a bitch.