I’m on my way to the kitchen. Shouldn’t be up and sneaking in the dark at this hour, but sometimes I get this wicked craving for ice cream. Sue me. I’m a girl.
I’m already deeply engrossed to my fantasy over a carton filled with chocolate ice cream with small bits of cookie dough, coffee syrup and almonds when a noise catches my ears. A whimper. From somewhere close.
I really have to get my ears checked, because I have to be hearing things. There’s no way the occupant behind that door is whimpering. No way. I have caught many kinds of sounds coming from behind that door. Growls, burps, cussing, sometimes even moans when he’s doing something I’m not supposed to know because I’m just a girl and he’s a grown man.
I strain my hearing. When I can’t hear a thing I decide I was hallucinating. I should go to Jean first thing in the morning and ask her to check my ears. Maybe my head, too, while she’s at it. I take a step, and there it is again. A muffled sob. And this time I’m sure I heard it. Because it’s followed closely by a gasp.
I shook my head. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. Suddenly that ice cream sounds very appealing. Surely I’m not going to stand here and listen while Logan jerks off…
Oh, yeah… I grasp the carton from the freezer. It’s almost empty, but it’s all mine. Everybody knows how much I appreciate this particular brand and flavor, so they leave it alone. It’s cold, it’s creamy, sticky, sweet and little salty thick goop and I will probably look like a freaking Michelin-man before I’m twenty, but as soon as first mouthful melts over my tongue I’m past caring. I might get fat. Fat enough to break chairs, but as long as I can do it eating this ambrosia… Oh…
It’s over too soon. Carton is empty. I tore it open and licked the remains of the ice cream from it before throwing it to the trash bin. Sue me. It’s chocolate.
I’m still reeling from the amount of sugar and chocolate when I walk past Logan’s room. I have to stop and return in front of it. Unbelievable. He’s still at it. I spend good part of an hour in the kitchen, and he’s still grunting and mewling. But somehow that doesn’t sound… Uh… Okay. I have been eavesdropping. I know how he sounds. What moans and whispers leaves his lips while he’s masturbating. It’s ugly and dirty thing to do, to spy on something so private, but it’s probably the closest thing to a real sex I’m ever going to get, so back off! And his voice is all wrong. I lean against the door to hear better. It might be one of his nightmares and I should probably go to wake up Jean so she can… Oh, shit. Door opens.
Just a small crack. It wasn’t even closed properly. That’s a relief. I can just leave and… What’s that smell?
I know the usual scents coming out of Logan’s room. Tobacco from his cigars, slight tint of beer, and something that must be Logan himself. This is new, yet familiar somehow. Metallic. Copper. Blood. Lots of it. Something is wrong. Really wrong.
I push the door little more open, carefully. It might be one of his nightmares, and getting skewered once was enough, thank you. I’m not freaking suicidal. I peak around the door when another moan comes from the dimly lit room. Room is empty. Light comes from under the bathroom door. As does the noises. Water dripping. More small cries and groans. Nightmare. And he’s awake now. I know I should go and get Jean. Sometimes she has to sedate Logan so that he can get back to sleep. But I can’t go. Not just yet. I have to know…
There’s a mirror on a closet door in Logan’s room. Both doors, door to bathroom, and that mirrored closet door are partially open. Sight that greets me through that mirror is nearly enough to send me out screaming, but something pulls me in to the room. I must be sick. Sick to the bone.
Logan’s sitting in the bathtub. Water is nearly dark red, sloshing around his waist. As I watch he raises his hand. Claws out. They’re trailing long, deep gouges across his chest. His back arches and he lets out a small hiss through clenched teeth. His head droops backwards against the brim of the tub when wounds on his chest bleed for few seconds before closing. His chest is heaving, and there’s moisture on his face. It isn’t water. Sweat and tears. Again clawed hand rises, slicing across his abdomen. Low gasp. One hand is working furiously under the surface of the water, and suddenly he flexes his hips, bucking, and I can see he’s indeed doing something little girls like me shouldn’t know about. His whole body is glistening from blood. It’s slicking his shaft and he’s pumping it slowly. Again clawed caress, this time from his shoulder all the way down to his thigh, and his half hooded eyes are closing completely. It takes a little longer to repair that long and deep gash, and he keeps rubbing it, as if trying to keep it open even longer. His lower body is grinding against his palm with slow, rolling pace and he’s panting, tips of his teeth flashing from behind his parted lips.
I can barely contain my scream when Logan raises partly out of the water, his knuckles pressed against his abdomen, one hand still grasping and caressing his erect cock. I can hear sickening crunch when he impales himself with his claws. His hoarse cry drowns luckily any possible noises that I make when he comes. Thick, white ribbons spurting, landing to the water, stark contrast with the dark blood red color of it.
I walk out of the room. I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want him to know, that I know. But I can’t go back to sleep. Not after witnessing something so brutal. More ice cream should do the trick.
I’m halfway through a carton of vanilla when Logan strolls in to kitchen, humming slightly under his breath. He snatches a bottle of soda from the fridge.
“The hell are you doing up at this hour? Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He asks. All normal. Relaxed.
“Umm… Yeah. Just wanted some ice cream.” Logan shivers.
“I’ll never understand the concept of stuffing yourself with icy goop…”
“We all have our little vices…” I mutter, trying desperately to sound normal. Logan nods and pulls a cigar from his pocket.
“That we do…” He breathes and walks out from the kitchen, to back patio. Brief flash of matchstick, and steady glow of the tip of his cigar.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This was a sick, perverted bunny. Didn’t have guts to kick it out, because it took a liking to another story of mine. Had to bribe it with this to keep it with me.