She Walks Away Burning

Photo by Tommy van Kessel 🤙 on Unsplash

Trigger Warning: Rape, Slut Shaming, Kidnapping, Violence, and Gore.

This story was inspired by the the 17th century Mother Goose Fairy Tale Bluebeard. A delightful little tale about a horrid serial killer that kept his wives bodies in the basement, and every new wife was given keys to the castle. He killed each new wife after she could no longer resist the temptation of looking in the basement.

She raced up the basement stairs and ripped at the door. It wouldn’t open. She rattled the doorknob. Nothing. She made herself calm down and look at the door. Beside the doorjamb was fingerprint lock, opened only by the hand of the evil bastard who hopefully was lying in a pool of his own blood downstairs. She smacked the door with her fist.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” she snarled.

A voice whispered. “Oh, I plan to…”

She turned to face him, “Shit.”

Earlier, they had met in a sleazy hipster place, with drinks like Sidecars and Manhattans. She skipped the date rape drinks and stuck to her usual red wine. She wasn’t looking for a soulmate, she was looking for a good flirt, a good time, but nothing that involved her cooking breakfast for someone. She was bored. Bored with herself, bored with life. Everything was grey. Every day was the same. She was searching for a thrill.

He called himself Mark. His cologne was nice, his smile had just the right amount of devil in it, and his laugh was natural without being aggressive. She was charmed, and it had been a long time since that had happened. She prodded a little, not much, just a few incisive questions. He passed with flying colors.

They’d kissed outside next to the taxi. He suggested they share a taxi; she replied they should share this one and call another later to take her home. It was a good ride, the driver had the radio cranked and Mark had slid an adept hand up her skirt to strum her clit, causing her to giggle explosively, something else she hadn’t done in years. They over-tipped the driver and stumbled into the house.

The sex was furious and fun. It had been awhile since someone had tossed her around. He bit and sucked at her with just the right amount growling pleasure. She twined her fingers in his hair and pulled his head backward while biting his ear. His pounding slowed to a whirl with a lift upward at the hilt. Her gasping became a howl. They collapsed in a sweaty gasping heap laughing. He stripped off the condom and tossed it toward the trash can. He missed and it stuck to the wall. She laughed. “The NBA will not be calling you.”

Naked, they wandered around the house after, discussing the art on his walls. He was amazed by her ability to critique it. She loved art. Modern and Abstract were the only forms she couldn’t get behind. Mark shrugged.

“Maybe you’re not smart enough to understand them.”

She snorted.

“Or maybe I’m one of the few people uncouth enough to say they look like rubbish. Intelligence isn’t the same as class. They just like to hang out together sometimes.”

He laughed and spun her in a circle and nuzzled her neck. They wandered to the kitchen and sat on the floor eating meat and cheeses straight from the packets. They talked of stupid things, private dreams, little failures that were bitter disappointments — all the things that no one ever shares with close family or friends. Time stopped, nothing mattered, and they were the only two entities floating in the black night of the universe. Over his shoulder was a door beside the fridge. She pointed to the door. “What’s behind door number one?”

Mark glanced at it. “You want to see?”

She shrugged, “Sure.”

He opened the door, she peered through, and then everything went black. She came to in a chair. Her hands chained together and pulled down to attach to the chains at her ankles. Her back was exposed and cold. She was still naked, and her buttocks were stuck to the chair. She was pretty sure she had pissed herself. She heard a noise but could not see anything moving in her peripheral vision. A whistling noise followed by a crack echoed in the basement just before she felt a stinging pain along her shoulders. She jerked. “What the hell, you bastard?!”

“Silence! You will learn to respect me, to fear me, and to love me before I kill you. You will even love me for that.”

He punctuated his words with lashes. She growled and screamed through gritted teeth. He chided her. He lectured her on the behavior of proper women. He counseled her on discretion, piety and grace. Through it all, she fumed, she boiled, she listened, and she promised in her heart, ‘Oh you foul little prick, I will end you for this.’

The lesson and the whipping finished with him dumping a cold bucketful of antiseptic over her weeping back. She gave a full-throated scream that ended with a strangled whimper. He tossed the bucket aside, and said to her,

“Quit whining. You stink of cock and need a good wash.”

She howled, “Your mother stinks of cock! We all do, or did you think you were the only thing that was ever wedged in her stinking hole?”

He spun to face her. “Don’t you speak of my mother!”

She laughed, “Why? Is she too perfect to fuck? You are so fucking shallow and pretentious. Even your emotional issues are banal. Your mother is not a saint. She is a walking cunt, just like me.”

He hissed.

She saw the punch coming and braced herself. It still hurt like a bear. She balled herself up to protect her more breakable bits. He tired quickly of the beating and stomped away. She wept breathlessly when she was sure he was gone. She was too angry to plead with him, but she was terrified. She knew she was in grave danger. This room was too well outfitted for a first-time killer.

She leaned sideways to vomit. She didn’t mind fucking the odd jerk, but it really stuck in her gut that she gave this evil shit one second of pleasure. That she had preened under his adoring gaze made her feel stupid and naïve. She rested her head on her knees and breathed deeply to calm herself. Now that she relaxed her body, she turned and twisted, noting every little thing she saw. She began to chant her mantra.

“Smart girls survive. Smart girls live.”

Her conscience broke in with its nagging superior voice that sounded like a prim version of her own.

‘Smart girls don’t drink with strangers or go home with them. Smart girls tell people where they are going. Do we see a pattern forming? Oh wait! Every moment tonight leading up to being whipped in a chair like medieval whore.’

She blew out her breath and regrouped. She said,

“Smart girls don’t listen to smug negative inner voices that don’t know when to shut the hell up!”

She took in the room once more, rattled every bit of chain she could find, tried to stand, tried to tip over, and every other thing she could think of. Frustrated, she wept until she slept. She woke stretched out on her stomach. Her hands were tied above her head, and her back screamed in pain. She slipped in and out of reality, but she knew this — he was raping her anally. Her guts felt torn and her ass was on fire. Passing out was a mercy. She woke when he slapped her ass and withdrew, dragging his limp dick across the back of her thigh leaving a snail trail of shame. She felt like a husk, a used tissue thrown to the side. She wanted to die for a moment then she amended the thought. She wanted him to die — horribly.

He stood before her, naked and gloating.

“Not in the mood to talk? Are you finally understanding your place in this world? It’s about time. Women like you sicken me. You act like men. Your arrogance makes you ugly.”

She laughed weakly.

“You seek to dominate me because you know I’m better than you. If I was lesser than you, I wouldn’t have been a blip on your radar. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. I don’t care who you are. You need to prove yourself to you. That makes you the weak one. Besides… You don’t chain down sheep; you chain down lions, because you know they’ll rip your fucking heart out! Kill me now and save yourself. I plan to eat your soul, you chinless little fuck!”

She screamed that last bit before she spat a mouthful of blood on his chest. He stumbled backward, and her laughter followed him up the stairs. She smiled with bloodied teeth. Her heart actually lifted. There was hope; she saw it in his eyes. He feared her now.

“Good,” she whispered.

One other good thing had happened, her legs were free. She stretched out her arms as far as possible and pedaled her legs around to see how far she could get. She just managed to hook a nearby table with the tips of her toes. She pulled it just a few inches closer.

If it fell, she’d be screwed.

She took a few bracing breaths and stood on one leg. Her upper body was pulled down by her tied hands, but she was standing with the one leg extended to the top of the table. She used her toes and imagination to figure out what was on the table.

Surgical tools.

She shuddered.

She padded her toes around until she found a blade light enough to lift. Her leg trembled as she lowered herself back down to the filthy futon she’d been raped on. Her other leg gripped a long-bladed scalpel with her toes. She dropped her leg toward her hands, and almost squealed with joy when her right hand gripped the handle. She began sawing at the thick canvas straps around her bleeding wrists. She cursed faintly when the lights went out. She didn’t have much time left, she got the feeling this was Act 3 in his little passion play. She wrenched her wrists free. Thought about it a second then gripped the pole she’d been tied to and tried to look beaten. She peered into the darkness. She yelled, “Who was she, Mark? Who are you trying to kill, because it damn sure isn’t me? Was it your mom that you couldn’t fuck? A sister maybe?”

Nothing. No noise to pinpoint. She revised her tact. “Wait. Your mommy thing is all ‘bout purity. You don’t like dirty girls. Was there a school slut that fucked everyone but your ugly awkward ass?”
A bit of noise to her left. Sounded like he tripped over something. She was close but no psycho. She grinned. “Oh Mark. It was your mom wasn’t it? She was the town bicycle, and you were the only one who didn’t get a ride.”

A gasp, then a flurry of steps approached. She held the pole until the very last second then dropped flat as a bat whistled over her head. Mark shouted.

“SHUT UP!”

She lashed out aiming for the femoral artery at his inner thigh. “Smart boys don’t play with dangerous things,” she snapped back, ripping the blade across his upper leg.

He gripped his leg and fell backward writhing in pain. She picked up the bat and clocked him across the temple then ran for the stairs.

Now, they stared at each other on the stairs, her at the top, him at the bottom. He lurched toward her. There was a water pipe about three feet in front of her. She prayed she didn’t just land on her ass and jumped. Her hands caught the pipe and she swung on it, hitting him in the chest with both feet. He torpedoed backward and landed on the floor. She dropped lightly beside him and knelt on his upper arms. He choked and spat up a mouthful of blood. She dug the blade under his chin then said, “There are two types of people in this world. Victims and survivors. If I was a victim I’d run now and spend the rest of my life dreading your return. I’m not. I’m a survivor. I’m going to make sure you’re dead, really dead, and then I plan to sleep like a baby for the rest of my filthy little life.”

He struggled to breathe. She leaned in close and poked him in the chest with the knife. “Hey, wake up. I want you to hear this.”

He opened his eyes wearily.

She smiled. “I want to say thank you.”

His eyes got huge.

She continued, “Seriously. Thank you. Life had gotten very dull for me. Everything lost its flavor, but now. Holy shit. I am shivering I’m so happy to be alive. You did that for me. In some fucked up way, you were right. I do love you for it. But you were wrong about me dying. I need your hand to open the door, but out of gratitude I’ll take it after your death.”

He shook his head and began to weep.

She shushed him with a kiss, jammed the blade into his throat then held him while he shuddered to death. Her body was slick with his blood. She set him down gently then picked up the bone saw. She winced when the saw whined through his bones. The door popped open easily with the severed hand. She tossed the hand down the stairs and headed into the house.

Still naked, she combed the house, removing all the artwork she admired, and stacked it in the driveway. She returned to douse Mark, the basement stairs, and lower floor of the house with every bit of flammable liquid she could find. She turned on all the burners of the stove. Finally, she stood on the porch with a bottle of rum with a flaming towel shoved in the neck. She lobbed it hard onto the hallway floor.

Flames raced everywhere.

She stumbled naked and blood covered to the middle of the lawn then plopped down wearily. She lit a cigarette and leaned back to watch the stars until the emergency crews arrived. The universe kept expanding, stars grew, went super nova, and exploded while she lay on her would-be murderer’s front lawn, shivering with relief.

Later, at the hospital, she slept soundly, like a fucking baby.