The Goodbye Man (5 page)

I am lifted up like a ragdoll. Every ounce of energy that I had is depleted to nothing.

“Wakey, wakey, pussycat,” one man says to me in a condescending tone.

I try to open my eyes, but they are nothing more than swollen slits. I can only feel. I am straddled on top of one man as I feel another sit behind me. His arms encircle my chest, massaging my bleeding nipples. I feel more, making me understand that I’m alive. I’m rammed down onto the men, one claiming my ass and the other claiming my sex. Both sear through me and I scream out loud. Tears form in my eyes, but they can’t escape. Even still, my body won’t allow it because they are swollen. I haven’t wanted to cry before, but now that I do, my body won’t let me.

Thrust after thrust, I’m taken as the steady stream of blood currents from my ass and sex. The men grunt as they fuck me, grasping onto every part of my broken body. I melt into them, letting them have me like they wish. After all, that is what I was made for.

The man in the front finishes first, pulling out and letting himself get off on my stomach. The other man flips me onto my belly on the makeshift bed and pushes my head into the hard ground as he fucks my ass harder. I wanted a goodbye so much before, but something tells me that little girls like me never get the version that they ask for.

The man stills himself inside of me, growling out loud like a dog. He bends down to my ear, breathing heavily, “Goodbye, bitch.”

With one hard hit to the back of my head, I meet the darkness that I have longed for.

Burnt flesh and loving touches.

I am not home long
enough to shower the smell of the incinerated girl from my body when Pavel knocks on my door with his little whore. She looks twelve, but I don’t care right now. Her dirty matted hair is pulled up with an elastic band, and not the kind made for hair, but the office supply kind. She has dark drug circles under her dull blue eyes and I know it will take weeks to make her healthy enough to be a donor. I wish they would look after their sluts better. She is going to have to scrub her dirty cunt before I touch her.

“Go shower, you filthy bitch.” I shove her behind me and Pavel puts his hand up to stop the door closing.

“I need money if this one isn’t coming back, Caesar. I can’t keep giving you free…” I stop him by grabbing his gabbing jaw in my hand.

“You need nothing from me unless you are ready to give me what is mine, Pavel. You owe me. Now fuck off.” I let him go and as he turns to leave I have one last word.

“Bring me another filthy emaciated bitch and our deal is off. You start looking after them, you Russian fuck.”

He flips me the bird as he walks down the grimy hallway. He is too cocky for his own good.
I would love to kill him, but he brings me a steady supply of nobodies to fill my beds
. I lock the door; the old lock wouldn’t keep anyone out, but I doubt they would try to come in. I have a reputation on these streets. I am not like the pimps and dealers. Anyone who crosses my path ends up gone, so they all stay away.

The quivering girl hasn’t even made a move to the bathroom, which infuriates me a little. I wish they would just fucking listen.

“Go shower. There is medical grade soap in there. Use it on that dirty cunt of yours, you hear me?” She nods, her eyes watering as she tries to walk in her stupid heels. She leaves the door open, as if I want to watch her. I don’t! I want to fuck her and go to sleep. I just don’t like dirty women in my bed. I might live in this filthy building, but my home is clean on the inside. I have to be clean in my line of work; diseased organs are worthless, sick people are useless to me. Well, not completely useless. I will not lie and say I have never sold sick parts, but healthy bodies don’t give up as easily while waiting to die. If an organ can be transplanted, it is. I am not bothered if you have hepatitis or HIV. The person receiving it won’t know for a long while that they got sick, and even then, they cannot blame me. Even if my spare part gives you a deadly disease, it gives you a chance to live first.

I take off my jacket and shoes while I wait for her to clean the filth and squalor from her body. I go to find the brandy in my small kitchenette while lighting another smoke, the burn of the alcohol down my throat and the smoke in my lungs takes away the day’s work. The water shuts off and I wait for the dripping wet girl to emerge - I don’t have any towels. I hate towels; they are breeding grounds for all sorts of vile germs. The slightly emaciated, shivering girl pads out of my bathroom, and I feel my mouth water and my cock jump to attention. There is something about a vulnerable woman, or girl, that makes me hard. The way her dripping wet hair sticks to the skin of her young, firm breast and the dark, sad rings around her eyes is enough to make me crazy with need. I am the only one she will ever see this way.

“Stand by the window until you drip dry, puta,” I motion for her to stand in front of the window where the last rays of the late afternoon sun are shining in. The twinkle of tears at the corner of her eyes delights the evil bastard in me and I watch her shiver there until her dripping skin is almost dry but still a little clammy. She starts to sniff a little from the cold air; the heating is somewhat hit and miss in the building and today, it’s missing again. I don’t care. The sniff sets off something I have no control over, the sound is like a vice grip on my cock and my mind turns to the craziness. My misophonia takes over and I want nothing more than to rape and hurt her. Not me, my disease; my disease makes me do things. I need to try and control myself, as I don't want to scare her. I need her to trust me. I cannot feel the chill through my warm clothes so it doesn’t bother me at all. “Are you clean? Or do we have to do this all over again, perra?” I like the fear in her eyes at idea of standing before me freezing her ass off for another half hour. It shows me they are not completely dead - yet. Dead bodies don’t excite me, or repulse me, they are simply how I make my living. I do it here.My family has clinics and harvesting plants all over the world. “Come here, la puta, so I can see for myself.” She stumbles slowly towards me, her steps having no conviction or purpose. She stands, shaking before me and I want to destroy her, but not kill her. I want to use her up before she dies. Take the last of her goodness before I make her say goodbye.

Sniff - my cock hardens more, sniff - I want to hurt her. Sniff - make it stop, please!

I put my hands around her skinny waist and pull her closer. Her skin is soft against my rough, dry fingers. My hands are hard and abrasive from using antibacterial hand wash all day long. She isn’t particularly pretty, not even beautiful, but she is soft and doesn’t smell of burnt flesh or antiseptic, so she gets me hard just inhaling her scent. She has scrubbed her grey skin almost raw trying to be
clean
for me. I trail my hands over her body like sandpaper taking the surface off, feeling every part of her. The pulse in her thigh where her veins will be taken, the soft tenderness of her belly where her liver lies waiting for its new owner. Her heaving chest where two healthy lungs breathe in air, and a heartbeat keeps her alive. That heartbeat already belongs to someone else who matters. Her dull blue eyes are the gift of sight to a blind person who wishes to see. I feel that heart beating faster and faster; I see her breaths becoming shallower, I am not so sure if it is lust or fear. “Are you scared of me, puta?” I ask as I grip her delicate throat a little too tight, and she nods as a tear escapes from her eye. I know the lack of air lets them escape even when she wills them not to. I need her to be ready to give up. I want her to
want
to say goodbye, as it’s so much more satisfying when they have no will to live.

I pull her roughly onto my lap so I can get close to her, to smell her, to feel her and ultimately to make her give up. You see, I’ve learned something about these little cunts; they don’t fear pain or abuse, they are used to it. Conditioned to live with the aching bones and bruised flesh, if you show them tenderness, a little affection, it will suffocate and crush them and they will beg to die rather than let it go. Kill them with kindness, slay them with a smile and murder them with a kiss.

The worst thing in the world you can do to a worthless washed up street whore is give her hope, because there is no fucking hope and they all know it. If you are on these streets, you are born into the world of the hopeless and you will die in it. If you are lucky, I will get you and you will say your goodbye, and if you are not, someone else will get you first.

She starts to move her body and act like the slut she was made to be, but it does nothing for me. I grip her tighter to make her stay still. “Slowly, puta. I am not in the mood to be rough with you.”

Do you want to know how to kill a worthless girl’s heart? It’s simple - kiss her. Holding her head still, I kiss her softly, and at first she resists me. They always do. Then she becomes still and unmoving - confused. Then when I add the softest touch to their neck or face, they fucking fall apart and give up. As she opens her mouth for mine to take it, I know she will give up her life easily.

When I lift her up and lay her on my clean sheets, she is confused and scared. Exactly where I want her to be. She speaks for the first time since she was shoved through my door. “You are him, aren’t you?” her words are a whisper. A whisper that feeds my insanity and I fight to make it stop. “Who, puta? Who am I?” She doesn’t answer me and reverts to her coping mechanism of being a limp, lifeless doll. I don’t want a doll. I want her to feel me bringing her to life, only to whip it away. I trace her beaten body with touches that I know will ignite that hope. I lick and kiss every inch of her whorish little body and when her walls have crashed down and she writhes beneath me, wanting me to take her, I do.

I pull a condom from my dresser drawer and protect myself from whatever it is she may have, and I fuck her. I don’t hurt her body because I like her soft body writhing in pleasure beneath me. I like the power I have over her, and I live for the prospect of making her beg me for her goodbye. I murder them with my love.

With my cock buried in her soft cunt, I keep going until I know she has enjoyed it. I fuck her a few more times before the night makes me tired. I order us food, knowing she is starving. I feed her belly and that hope, the same hope that will be crushed if she has to go back. When her belly is full and she sits on my lap with my hand stroking her hair, she is calm and the fear is gone. I do what I always do best. Dangle the hope in front of them.

“When they beat you and rape you, what do you wish for?” I know the answer, as it is always the same.

“To die.” She answers truthfully, because I have lulled her into a place of trust and false hope.

“I can give you that, or I can send you back to Pavel.” There it is, the choice of hell on earth or hell.

“Let me die, please! Don’t send me back. I knew you were him. I knew it! Let me die, kill me. Kill me now, but don’t send me back.” Her pleas become desperate sobs.
Stop talking! Please, stop talking. I cannot bear any more noise today.

Her talking has made my body react again and I need to get rid of the raging hard-on her fucking whispers have caused again. I put a finger over her lips to quiet her and nod. They always give up. Tomorrow she will fill a bed.

I am not the worst thing that can happen to you, but I will be the last.