Well Kept Secret

“Dryden!” The all too familiar voice rang, echoing through the double floor house. He wince, mind caving unto itself at the slurred, throaty call, his master was summoning again… and that was never a good thing. Not when done so in that manner, quaking the boy rose, no older than 5, as he made his way across the dark, dusty room. The door creaking on it’s hinges, protesting being opened, outside, it stormed, rain battered the roof of the house and sloshed against it’s filthy paned windows. Dryden edged, silently, not daring to make a sound as his bicolored gaze was fixated upon the dirty floor. Fair skin marred by bruises and, and chalky from his limited exposure to the sun… to be honest, the glowering ball of light pained his eyes and seered his skin in his intolerance for it. He related it to his master, whom was always gone by day, theorizing that somehow, he congregated with the hated sun and only returned at night.

He stopped, toes curling beneath his feet, small hands tugging at the frayed stained shirt he wore. Which had once been a tint of white, loose bottoms covered his legs but holes broke their thick woolen texture to reveal flashes of pearly skin. “Stupid boy,” The voice of his master slurred, laiden with a deep scottish accent that twisted his words. A toxic, putrid smell lingered on his breath, one that would have choked the boy had he not been so invariably acclimated to it. Rough skin slid itself across soft, filthy and damp from the rain and a days work, he forced the boy to look at him, a sinister, manacle sneer curling his lips, twisted his bearded face and causing his beady black eyes to dance with some foreign emotion. Dryden yet still stared into those eyes, fear blanketing his own, wide and scarred by the years he had spent here. He had never quite found his voice, timid and low it drawled out in a whisper, though he rarely ever spoke, not even now to inquire what the strange look in his masters eyes were. As they bore into his own, one a pale almost white gray, the other a chalky green tinged pink.

With every ounce of self control and pleading he could not cease his shaking body, of cold and fear as the towering man again sneered. “Couldn’t move any faster could you?” He barked causing the boy to wince back involuntarily. Drawing and hand back and striking him to the floor, Dryden gasped, choking down a yelp of pain as his body slammed into the heavy wooden floor. The large man was above him in moments, a hand wrapped tightly about his throat as he supported himself above the boy’s thin body. Dryden shook, staring up at his master’s mangled face. Yet, did not make a sound, he man’s breath rasped heavy and hot against his face, a stench loomed about him one that made the boy’s stomach knot.

His eyes widened, catching a gasp in his throat as his master’s lips crashed against his own, engulfing his mouth as his tongue forced it’s way into his mouth. He wanted to wretch, the vile taste of alcohol and saliva mixed with whatever other unholy things had entered his master’s mouth. And the stench.

Ale and …. Slop, mud and sweat clung to the air and beat down harshly onto his face. He wanted to cry out, to beg the man to stop, but he didn’t. He couldn’t as the man was choking him, his tongue violating every inch and cavity of his mouth. Tears glassed his eyes and slid down his flushed cheeks, dripping soundlessly to the filthy floor.

His master moaned, a deep, throaty sound as he pulled back, eyes devouring the boy’s body. Quaking, fearing him, and yet too afraid to do anything against him. He smiled, for he was god, and he could do as he pleased to this creature beneath him. His prize, trophy to be bragged upon for his exotic appearance. And he could do as he pleased. Slowly, he traced a finger across Dryden’s cheek, chuckling as he did so. “Your mine boy, to do with as I please, and you will please me.” He growled gripping the boy’s chin in his hand and once again bringing his lips to his. Hand slipping from about the boy’s neck, snaking it’s way across his small body.

Dryden gasped, yelped in surprise arching against the large man above him, as the coarse hand cupped itself between his legs. Tears fell, still freely from his eyes. Dotting the filth ridden floor in their luster, and yet the man did not halt. As he slid the loose clothes from the boy’s body, doing the same with his own, and only pausing to gaze wholly, wrongly… oh so wrongly upon the small body beneath him. And smiled, a smile that could have damned hell itself, as he forced the boy’s legs open. Ignoring his rapidly shaking head, and the tears freefalling down his face.

Dryden’s eyes widened, as he screamed, throwing his head back against the wooden floor and arching up, into the robust, disgusting man above him. All he could hear, see was pain, a pain that made him want to wretch and throw himself away. And yet, embedded itself into his mind, memory, his body ached and shook. And he screamed, until the gruff hand struck itself across his face, snapping it to the side. And he fell quiet, biting back the pleas and screams of agony, closing his eyes tightly. And yet, nothing could erase the jolts of pain that surged through his body with every thrust the man made, the rhythmic, jagged breaths that made sweat and bumps rise on his flesh where they struck. The swirling pleasure that filled those beaded, hated eyes as he continued. Over and over, the pushed himself into the boy, even as blood smeared lightly the fair skin on the inside of his thighs, tears streaming fruitlessly down his face. Choking back any scream, yet unable to stop the gasps for breath.

Hs fingers bled, his back ached, every muscle in his body screamed at him and yet his mind fled. Nails breaking, shattering as they raked against the wooden floors, splinters embedding themselves beneath the peach nail and cutting into the pads of his fingers. He wanted to scream, to fight back, though he could not, held firmly in place by the monster above him. He could do nothing but sob uselessly.

He gasped again, fingers scraping dragging across the wooden floor as a hot, wet wrongness filled him. Disgusted him, making him want to wretch and scream and.. die. Yet he could do nothing but lie there, as the man’s coarse, wet tongue slid across his cheek, and again crashed against his lips. Invading his mouth, before rising and stumbling off drunkenly.

- - -

Bicolored eyes fluttered open, gazing emptily across the dark room, hazy morning sunlight peeked through the shabby curtains. Casting dim rays and beams across the musky room, heavy with the scent of sweat and semen. The quilts on which Dryden lay were damp, his body wracked with aches and bruises. Years of bruises, and pain, that had eaten his mind and body, inside he had decayed while outwardly he had to remain the same. Though he was not the same, the boy seemed but a shadow in the 5 years that had passed since that first rape. And they had continued, night after night, bruises marred his hips and back, cherry marks speckled his neck and chin.

Horror awoke him every night, killing whatever might have been before it could be, lethargic, he was thin eyes vacant and dead. No longer welcoming in sign or form of life, and yet he was forced to live.

But he no longer cared… something had died that night, and every night hence, something had broken and snapped. And he wondered, bemusedly, how much longer until he could take it no more. Until oh so many fantasies would wreak their undying havoc upon that monster of a man whom he called master.

Yet, he would wait, loyally he would wait for Master to come home, to be done with him night after night. For Dryden did not live the life of most 10 year old children, he lived in a hell that was twisting and tainting his mind. He wondered briefly how blood tasted…. Not his own of course, he knew how that tasted, but another’s blood. His masters blood.

A ghost of a glint ignited his bicolored eyes and he grinned, sinister and empty as the heavy punch of footsteps rang up the stairwell. Master was home, he rolled over, eyes locking with the beaded eyes of the aging, obese man.

He was in no hurry, as he stripped of his clothes and strolled across the musky room, pushing aside without a thought the slim furnishings that adorned the bedroom. His day’s work had come and gone, a deep peach and orange light broke through the window and he stopped only briefly to look at it. Before once again refocusing on his prize, hoisting himself onto the bed he leered down at the boy, who looked up at him with those same dead eyes. Before swallowing his fair lips in his own, forcing his tongue into the boy’s mouth, savoring every sweet taste that lingered there. The faint ghost of his own saliva was present, and the slight smell of semen. He only chuckled mentally to himself, his hands groping about the boy’s body, pushing his thin legs apart. Hands cupping around, violating every inch they could reach, every night, the same routine. Violating, killing, soiling the boy’s body with his sinful lusts and rotting desires.

After all, the boy was his treasure, his property, left to him to be handled however he desired to handle him. He smiled again, as he pulled back from the bruising kiss and stared down at Dryden, “Mine still and forever.” He growled nipping the tender flesh on the boy’s neck harshly, raising vivid red marks imprinting his teeth. With a husky heave he thrust himself inside of Dryden, listening to the sharp intake of breath, pitched to a light soprano and the choke of a yelp being bitten back, oh how he reveled in the boy’s sweet voice. His creams and moans, how he fought to not respond, fought his body as it would spasm against his thrusts. And he grinned again, permitting decaying teeth to be seen by all the world, or all the world that dwelled within this room.

A final grunt, as he collapsed into exhaustion, falling beside the boy in a sigh of snores. Not feeling as the small figure shifted, waiting, until he succumbed completely to sleep before sliding from be bed and limping silently from the room. Down, the stairs and to the kitchen where he gathered several knives and a length of rope. A wicked sneer curling his fair, bruised lips before stalkng his way back up to the Master’s room.

Dryden stood silent at the foot of the bed, slipping the rope around his Master’s ankles, and wrists, binding him to the bed before laying out a knife and wrapping a gag about his mouth, silencing the man as his eyes groggily opened from sleep. The Master’s eyes widened, glaring at the boy who sat hunched at his side in the bed, a gleaming, half dull knife clutched in his small hand. “Do you feel… happy?” He asked in a voice that would chill and curdle blood some years later, yet now hissed and croaked hoarsely from screaming. The man’s eyes were wide as he watched the blade, lurching and crying out as it was ground into his forearm, Dryden watched as blood seeped from the puncture, lowering his head and lapping up a taste with his tongue. Cringing as the iron taste filled his mouth, mixed with salt and sweat and filth. “You don’t taste nice.” He scowled angrily, dragging the blade across the man’s arm, digging into and ripping muscle with it’s dulled edge. Listening intently to the man squirm against the bindings and scream. Sweat beading onto his fat face, eyes buldging from their sockets as he watched in horror.

Helpless and at the boy’s mercy, Dryden chuckled, digging the knife into his other arm, watching as the well of blood seeped out and trickled onto the sin marked quilts. Moving to his other side, he raised the knife and bore down, sawing and grinding against flesh and bone as he cut each of his Master’s fingers from his hand. Listening lightly to the half strangled cries and pleas, but he continued, until they were all gone and set them aside for later. He decided he would make a nice crown with the bones from his fingers, and grinned insanely as he looked back at the large man.

He drug the blade through his scalp, blood seeping across the stained surface, breaking skin and tissue and pulling the hair back. Tossing the flesh aside as he moved to his ear, sawing it from the side of the man’s head, and then to his mouth, he removed the bindings, grinning once more as the man stared in utter horror up at him. He stunk of sweat and blood, flesh and fly ridden wounds, “I am having fun now.” He drawled to his master as the man’s eyes widened and a choked plea escaped from his dry lips, morphed into a scream as the blade was drug through the soft tissue of his jaw, on either side. Beginning from the corner of his mouth and stretching out up the side of his face until it reached the join in the bone, where he stopped. Master’s mouth hung limply open, as muscle had been severed in the cut smile, and Dryden gripped his tongue, pulling the blade slowly through the muscle as he cut it from the man’s head.

Another incision beneath his eye, a spoon to scoop it out and a chizzle and hammer to be nailed into the nose, he pulled rusty wire through his jaws, threaded the mouth together in a false smile. The chizzle and hammer set to work on his knuckles, the joints in his arms and his knees. Separating the bones and dragging the lower knee from the bed and tossing it aside, Master had long grown silent. “Master, you don’t talk to me, why is it?” He asked, his childish voice dancing with hellish glee through the room, the walls and floor were splattered with blood as it pooled on the bed, soaking through and dripped to the floor. Staining the filthy wooden boards that held the bed, with its crimson hue and life bearing necessity.

He looked at the man’s face, eyes falling to his chest and he grinned again, stabbing the knife into the man’s lower abdomen and dragging it up, grunting and heaving with the effort it took to slice the man open. Sweat caked his face as did blood, plastering his raven hair to his once fair skin, he stopped at masters ribs, taking the hammer and chizzle he cracked and hammered them separate from his spine and breastplate, cutting flesh and bone away and watching as organs began to ooze from the open cavity, he set the bones aside with the fingers. Taking the lungs in his hands and, humming as he did so, threw them against the wall and watched with utter glee as they combust into flesh and blood.

Small hands wound themselves around the breast plate fighting it away from the collar bone and tossing it aside, with much help at extracting it from the hammer. He gripped Master’s heart in one hand, cutting away ligaments and other things that held the heart in place, Dryden held the withered organ before his eyes, picking up a straight pin in one hand and inserting it into the heart. Repeating this process until needles protruded from the heart in every direction. He smiled, placing it aside and grabbing the flaps of flesh, proceeded to thread them through with the same wire as was used to sew the man’s jaws back together.

He laughed, as he boiled flesh away from bone, bleaching it and placing it in plaster to harden and be protected, molding the digits into shape and sealing them together. And when he was finished he marveled, placing the small crown upon his head and skipping in a slight circle about a melting candle in the center of the floor. Laughter bouncing from the walls, as he stopped looking back over at the bed and grabbing Master’s heart, planting a dainty kiss upon the organ before tossing it into the fire, watching it shrivel and die away in the hot flames.

- - -

Dryden hummed, it had been 6 years to the day since that night, and he hummed a personal song as he sat huddled in the floor of his Master’s old house, before a hearth. A small brush painting a gleaming red smile across the face of a porceline doll with glistening emerald eyes, eyes that had been dumped in a preservative to harden and keep them… fresh. They had been carved from a recent victims head, and he chuckled as he watched the doll’s completion. “There, Kain, your finished.” He stated in a pitched voice that would send wolves running, as he carefully placed the doll on a shelf with a collection of some 50 or so other dolls. All men, all with different colored eyes, the eyes of the men whom he had tricked and killed, making them into dolls and keeping them forever.

The teenager wrapped a thin arm around a larger doll, clutched in his lap, with beady black eyes and a bearded face. “It’s been six years to the day since I killed you Master, I saved you, you know.” He grinned, holding the doll affectionately before his face and smiling at it, “1956” He stated, the year, “It was December 10, when I killed you, don’t you remember?” He asked the doll, a slight frown forming on his face. Before exploding with laughter, placing a small kiss upon it’s head. Tugging the heavy black Victorian style coat tighter about his frame. Perhaps, in a sick, twisted sense he had loved his Master, in a way, he had. And still did, and in that same sick, twisted way he stole the men’s eyes whom he tricked back to his Master’s home. And made them into dolls, to keep them forever.

He laughed, gazing about the room, jars filled with pin coated harts and filled with a preservative liquid sat on shelves, to match the dolls, they had once been the hearts of men. Whose, skin had been stripped from their bodies and formed into a large, life-sized manican that stood in a corner of the room with clothes tossed about it’s shoulders. A tall mirror near it, and small bone sculptures decorating the room, Dryden rose, grapping the bone-crown he had made of his master’s fingers and placing it on his head before walking to the bed. Sitting upon it and clutching the doll tightly to his chest. Again laughing as he fell back, looking at the ceiling, from which skulls draped from wire wound about them, smiling at his haven of death. Six years into creation, and curling about the small doll of his Master, he closed his eyes.

“I wonder Master, did you ever love me?” He inquired in a whisper to the doll clutched protectively in his grasp, frowning slightly as he concentrated, opening his bicolored eyes and welcoming in the last few dieing embers from the hearth.