vitiumdominus

[vitiumdominus]

† Back at my apartment, I placed the music box on my work table, the delicate melody still echoing in my mind. It wasn’t just the tune itself that captivated me. It was the feeling it evoked — a blend of innocence and sorrow, beauty and decay. The cherubs on the box seemed to mock me with their serene smiles, a twisted reflection of the purity I so readily corrupted. The flowers appeared as wounds needing to be reopened. The mechanism fascinated me too. Such intricate gears, springs, and pins. All working in perfect harmony to create a sound so delicate. I imagined dismantling it, exploring its inner workings, understanding how it produced such emotion. It was the same impulse that drove me in my art, the desire to dissect, to break down, to expose the hidden truth beneath the surface. I spent hours that night listening to the music box, letting its melody fill the apartment, washing over me like a dark tide. I imagined Lyra listening to it too, her face reflecting the same mix of emotions I felt. But then, a new emotion crept in — resentment. She didn’t deserve such beauty. She had rejected me, dismissed my passion, and now, she would be punished.

The next day, I drove to Lyra’s apartment. I had to see her, to understand why she had pushed me away. I parked across the street, watching her building, waiting for her to emerge. Hours passed, and the only thing that went through my mind was the revolving song from the music box. She didn’t. I decided to drive by the coffee shop we frequented. As I pulled up, I saw her. She was sitting at a table outside, laughing. But she wasn’t alone. She was with another man. He was tall with a clean-cut look that I instantly loathed. They were holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. A wave of fury washed over me, so intense that I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

𝗦𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗲.

She had told me. She needed “space”. But that was a lie. She hadn’t wanted space from me; she wanted space for him. The betrayal stung like a venomous snake. I watched them for a few minutes, my anger simmering just below the surface. Then, I put the car in gear and drove away, my mind racing. I couldn’t confront her now. I needed to plan, to strategize, to make sure that my revenge was perfect. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Lyra and her new lover haunted my dreams. I tossed and turned in my bed, my mind consumed by dark fantasies. I imagined them together, their intimacy a direct insult to me. I had to make them pay. I had to show them what it meant to reject me, to betray my trust.

Suddenly, I heard a faint scratching at my window. I sat up in my bed, my heart pounding. I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed and crept towards the window, my senses on high alert. As I approached, I saw a small shadow dart across the glass. It was a bird, desperately trying to escape the confines of my apartment. I opened the window, and the bird fluttered inside, frantically beating its wings against the walls. I watched it for a moment, a strange sense of empathy washing over me. It was trapped, just like me. I reached out and gently grabbed the bird, holding it in my hands. It was small and fragile, its heart beating rapidly against my palm. I took the bird to my work table and placed it inside the music box, closing the lid. The bird panicked, thrashing against the sides of the box, its tiny body writhing in terror. I listened to the music, watching as the bird’s struggles grew weaker and weaker. Finally, it went still. I opened the music box, revealing the lifeless body of the bird. Its eyes were wide and vacant, its feathers ruffled and disheveled. I stared at it for a long time, a strange sense of satisfaction filling me. It was a small victory, but it was enough for now.

I took the music box and placed it in a gift box, wrapping it neatly with a bright red ribbon. Then, I wrote a card: “𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝐿𝑦𝑟𝑎, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒.” The next morning, I drove to Lyra’s apartment and left the gift box on her doorstep, ringing the doorbell before hurrying back to my car. I watched from across the street as she opened the door and picked up the box, her face lighting up with curiosity. I imagined her opening the box, hearing the music, and then discovering the dead bird inside. I waited for her reaction, my heart pounding with anticipation. But she didn’t scream, she didn’t cry. She simply picked up the box and carried it inside, closing the door behind her. I sat there for hours, waiting for her to emerge, but she never did. Finally, I gave up and drove away, my frustration growing with each passing mile. My plan had failed. She hadn’t reacted the way I wanted her to. She hadn’t shown me the pain that I so desperately craved.

But I wasn’t defeated. This was just the beginning. I knew that I had to find a way to reach her, to break through her defenses, to make her feel the same torment that I was feeling. And I wouldn’t stop until I succeeded. The music box, however, was just a prelude, a taste of what was yet to come. I would refine my methods, understand her fears, and exploit her weaknesses. Lyra could run, but she couldn’t hide. And I would make sure that she paid for her betrayal, one beautiful, terrible note at a time. †

[vitiumdominus]

† I sat across from the therapist, Dr. Albright, in her sterile office. The air smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, a strange combination that did little to soothe the gnawing unease in my gut. Lyra’s rejection had been a shock, a stinging slap to my carefully constructed reality. The anger still simmered, a dangerous undercurrent threatening to boil over. “So, Micah,” Dr. Albright began, her voice calm and measured. “Lyra ended the relationship?”

“She said she needed space,” I corrected, my tone clipped. “It’s not over. She just needs time to process.” Dr. Albright raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “And how does that make you feel?”

“Frustrated,” I admitted. “Confused. I thought we were connecting on a deeper level. I thought she understood me.”

“Understood you how?” she pressed. I hesitated, carefully choosing my words. “Understood my passion. My intensity. Most people are afraid of that, but I thought she appreciated it.”

“And the…intensity you’re referring to, can you elaborate?” I leaned back in my chair, feigning nonchalance. “I’m an artist, Dr. Albright. I feel things deeply. I express myself through my work. Sometimes that expression can be…unconventional.”

“Unconventional how?” she persisted. I sighed, feigning exasperation. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. I have a dark side. I’m drawn to things that other people find disturbing. But I don’t hurt anyone. I just explore those themes in my art.”

Dr. Albright remained silent, her gaze unwavering. I knew she wasn’t buying it. She was trained to see through the façade, to recognize the subtle cues that betrayed the truth. But I was good at this game. I had years of practice concealing my true nature, of presenting a carefully curated version of myself to the world.

“And the…cuts you inflicted on Lyra,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Were those part of your artistic expression?” My heart skipped a beat. How did she know about that? Had Lyra told her? I forced myself to remain calm, to maintain the carefully constructed image of the misunderstood artist.

“She consented,” I said, my voice firm. “It was a consensual act. We were both exploring our boundaries, pushing the limits of pleasure and pain.”

“And you believe that’s a healthy dynamic?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “It was for us,” I insisted. “We were connecting on a primal level. It’s something you wouldn’t understand.”

Dr. Albright sighed, rubbing her temples. “Micah, I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you understand your own behavior. To help you develop healthier coping mechanisms.”

“I don’t need coping mechanisms,” I snapped. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you?” she challenged. “Because from what I’m hearing, you’re struggling to cope with the end of a relationship. You’re fixating on a woman who has clearly expressed that she needs space. And you’re justifying your behavior with excuses about artistic expression and consensual acts that sound, frankly, disturbing.”

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “This isn’t working,” I said, my voice tight with anger. “I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need your help.”

I turned and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind me. As I walked down the street, I could feel the darkness consuming me. Dr. Albright was right about one thing: I was struggling. But not in the way she thought. I wasn’t struggling to cope with the end of the relationship. I was struggling to contain the rage that was building inside me, the urge to lash out, to inflict pain. Lyra had rejected me. She had dared to question my desires, to challenge my control. And for that, she would pay.

I decided to take a drive. The open road always had a way of calming me. I drove for hours, aimlessly wandering through the countryside, the scenery blurring into a monotonous green. As the sun began to set, I found myself drawn to a familiar place: the antique shop on the outskirts of town. I parked the car and stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling merrily as I entered. The shop was dimly lit, filled with dusty furniture, old books, and forgotten treasures. The air was thick with the smell of mothballs and decay, a scent that I found comforting. The owner, a wizened old woman named Mrs. Henderson, greeted me with a warm smile. “Micah, dear! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you in today?”

“Just browsing,” I said, returning her smile. “Looking for something to inspire me.” Mrs. Henderson nodded knowingly. “An artist is always seeking inspiration. I’m sure you’ll find something here.” I wandered through the aisles, my eyes scanning the shelves, searching for something that would catch my attention. A glint of metal caught my eye. It was a small, antique music box, intricately carved with scenes of cherubs and flowers. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. “That’s a beautiful piece,” Mrs. Henderson said, approaching me. “It’s over a hundred years old. It belonged to a wealthy family in town.”

I opened the music box, and a delicate melody filled the air. It was a haunting tune, a mournful waltz that tugged at my heartstrings. I stared into it, seeing more than just cherubs and flowers. An idea sparked in my mind. A new obsession began to form.

I left the shop with the music box, my mind racing with possibilities. Lyra would be made to regret her haste. I refined my understanding of what it was that I liked. And knew a little more clearly what was coming next. †

[vitiumdominus]

† The red roses arrived early, a massive bouquet dominating her small apartment. I watched from across the street, a familiar thrill tightening my chest as Lyra opened the door, her face lighting up at the sight of them. She brought them inside, and I knew she’d bury her face in their petals, inhaling their fragrance. The fragrance I had personally enhanced. Getting her blood was easier than I anticipated. A discarded tissue after a nosebleed, a stray strand of hair caught in her brush. I’d meticulously collected them, simmered them down, and used the concentrated essence to coat each thorn, each velvety petal. A subtle message, a possessive claim only she and I would understand.

The next step was patience. Days bled into weeks, filled with stolen glances, casual encounters orchestrated with meticulous planning. I learned her schedule, her habits, her vulnerabilities. I presented myself as the wounded soul, the artist misunderstood, the man capable of appreciating her unique beauty. I mirrored her interests, feigned empathy for her struggles, and slowly, painstakingly, chipped away at her defenses. Finally, the invitation. The dinner at her place. A simple meal, she said, but I knew it was more. It was a test, a tentative step towards something deeper. I arrived bearing wine and carefully crafted compliments, playing the role of the attentive suitor. The conversation flowed easily, laced with laughter and shared secrets. I could feel her resistance melting away, her guard slowly lowering.

After dinner, we moved to the couch, the air thick with unspoken desire. I leaned in, my fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. Her skin was soft, delicate. She closed her eyes, her lips parting slightly. I kissed her gently, savoring the taste of her. Then, I deepened the kiss, my tongue exploring her mouth, my hands moving to her hair. She responded eagerly, her body pressing against mine. I could feel her pulse quickening, her breath becoming ragged. I pulled away slightly, looking into her eyes. “Lyra,” I whispered, “you’re so beautiful.” She blushed, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Micah,” she murmured, “I. . .” I didn’t let her finish. I kissed her again, harder this time, my hands moving beneath her shirt. She moaned softly, her fingers digging into my back. I lifted her shirt over her head, revealing her bare breasts. They were perfect, sculpted like marble. I cupped them in my hands, my thumbs teasing her nipples.

She gasped, her body arching towards me. I lowered my head, taking one nipple into my mouth. She cried out, her hands tangling in my hair. I suckled her hard, then moved to the other breast. She was trembling now, her body consumed by desire. I stood up, pulling her with me. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I whispered. She nodded, her eyes glazed with passion. We walked hand in hand to her bedroom, the air growing hotter with each step. I closed the door behind us, shutting out the rest of the world. I turned to face her, my eyes scanning her body. She was standing there naked, her skin glowing in the soft light. I reached out, my fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, down to her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She shivered at my touch, her breath catching in her throat.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife. It was small, a pocketknife with a razor-sharp blade. I flicked it open, the metallic click echoing in the room. Her eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing her face. “Micah?” she questioned, her voice barely a whisper. I smiled, a slow, predatory smile. “Don’t worry,” I said, “this will be fun.” I brought the blade to her skin, lightly tracing a line down her stomach. She gasped, her body tensing. I pressed a little harder, drawing a thin line of blood. “Does that hurt?” I asked, my voice soft, almost gentle. She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the knife. “No,” she whispered. “it feels…good.” I continued to trace patterns on her skin, drawing small cuts that crisscrossed and intertwined. The blood welled up, glistening in the light. She moaned softly with each stroke, her body swaying slightly.

I moved the knife to her breasts, gently scoring the skin around her nipples. She cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure. I leaned in, licking away the blood, savoring the taste. We moved to the bed, our bodies entwined in a dance of pleasure and pain. I fucked her hard, pushing her to the edge of ecstasy. She screamed my name, her body convulsing beneath mine. I came inside her, filling her with my seed.

Afterward, we lay in silence, our bodies slick with sweat. I traced my fingers over her cuts, watching as the blood slowly dried. She was beautiful, even more so now that she was 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝. 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝. She stirred beside me and sat, turning her face towards me. “Micah,” she said softly, “that was. . .”

“Incredible?” I offered, a smirk playing on my lips. “Yes,” she said, but didn’t return my gaze. Her eyes were still wide, but the passion had been replaced by something else. Something akin to fear. “It was incredible, but…” she paused, searching for the right words. “I think I need some space.” My smirk faded. “Space?” I repeated, my voice dangerously low. “Yes,” she confirmed, avoiding my eyes. “I think I need to be alone for a while. To think.” I stared at her, trying to decipher her thoughts.

𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳?

𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘐 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺?

“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice laced with a hint of desperation. “I thought we had something special.” She shook her head. “We do,” she said, “but it’s too much, too fast. I’m not sure I can handle it.” I reached out to touch her, but she flinched away. “Don’t,” she said. “Please.” I pulled my hand back, my chest tight. I could feel my control slipping, the darkness threatening to consume me. “Fine,” I said, my voice flat. “If that’s what you want.”

I stood up, grabbed my clothes, and left without another word. As I walked down the street, I could feel the anger building inside me. She couldn’t handle it? What was that supposed to mean? She was 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. She didn’t get to decide when or how this ended. The red roses came back to mind. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 on the petals. A promise, not just an offering.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. She might think she needed space, but I knew better. She needed 𝐦𝐞. And I would make her realize that, one way or another. †

[vitiumdominus]

† The first blow landed on the back of my head. It was a dull thud, unexpected, and sent a jolt of pain radiating down my spine. I stumbled forward, my carefully chosen words about Lyra dissolving on my tongue. I had been explaining to her brothers, in what I considered a reasonable manner, the depth of my admiration for her. How her smile was like sunrise, how her eyes held the secrets of the universe, how I would gladly paint her portrait with my own blood if she so desired. Apparently, they didn’t share my artistic vision. Another fist connected with my jaw. I tasted blood, metallic and warm. There were three of them, all bigger, stronger, and fueled by a protective rage I couldn’t comprehend. Lyra was exquisite. A masterpiece sculpted by the gods themselves. Surely, they understood that I simply appreciated her beauty.

I fell to the ground, the gravel digging into my palms. A boot slammed into my ribs. The air left my lungs in a strangled gasp. They were shouting, but their words were a meaningless blur of anger. “Stay away from our sister!”

“𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗽!”

“𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸!”

I curled into a fetal position, trying to protect my vital organs. Another kick landed, this time on my temple. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I saw flashes of color, swirling patterns against the blackness. It was almost beautiful, this pain. A raw, visceral sensation that cut through the dull monotony of everyday life. They continued to beat me, their blows becoming less focused, more desperate. I could feel the blood trickling down my face, mixing with the dirt and gravel. My vision was blurring, the world tilting. There was a strange detachment, as if I were watching this happen to someone else. Eventually, they stopped. Panting, spitting, glaring down at my broken form. “We warned you,” one of them growled, the oldest, probably eighteen. “Stay away from Lyra, or next time, we’ll kill you.”

They turned and walked away, leaving me in the dirt, gasping for breath. I lay there for a long time, feeling the pain ebb and flow, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The sun beat down on my face, baking the blood into my skin. When I finally managed to sit up, my body screamed in protest. Every movement sent jolts of agony through my limbs. But beneath the pain, there was something else. A strange sense of exhilaration. They had touched me. They had noticed me. And through their violence, they had involuntarily acknowledged the intensity of my feelings for Lyra. I touched my swollen jaw, my fingers coming away sticky with blood. I smiled. It was a painful, lopsided grimace, but a smile nonetheless. They thought they could scare me away. They thought they could intimidate me. They were wrong.

This was just the beginning.

•

•

•

My childhood was unusual. My parents, well-meaning but utterly bewildered by my existence, tried to raise me like any other child. They enrolled me in sports, sent me to birthday parties, and encouraged me to make friends. It was a dismal failure. I wasn’t interested in sports. The meaningless competition, the forced camaraderie, the sweaty bodies — it all seemed pointless. Birthday parties were even worse. The forced smiles, the insipid games, the sickly sweet cake — it was torture. And friends? I couldn’t understand the concept. Why would I want to share my thoughts, my feelings, with anyone? People were either useful or…not.

My true interests lay elsewhere. In the hidden corners of the world. In the things that made other people uncomfortable. I was fascinated by insects, by the way they moved, the way they interacted. I collected them, studied them, and sometimes dissected them. It wasn’t about cruelty. It was about curiosity. About understanding how things worked.

Then there was the blood. It started with small cuts, accidental scrapes. I was drawn to the color, the texture, the metallic scent. I would watch it bead on my skin, tracing patterns with my finger. It was mesmerizing. My parents noticed, of course. The small cuts on my arms, the vacant look in my eyes. They tried to intervene. They took me to doctors, therapists, specialists. They were concerned. They were worried. They were scared. I learned to hide my interests, to mask my true self. I learned to say the things they wanted to hear, to act the way they wanted me to act. I became a chameleon, blending into the background, concealing the darkness within.

It didn’t work for long.

By the time I was thirteen, my behavior had become problematic. There were incidents at school. A dead cat in a classmate’s locker. Graffiti scrawled on the bathroom walls, depicting graphic scenes of violence. A disturbing fascination with sharp objects. My parents were at their wit’s end. They couldn’t control me. They couldn’t understand me. And they were terrified of me.

So, they did what they thought was best. They sent me away.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

It was a sprawling, imposing building, surrounded by high fences and locked gates. It was supposed to be a place of healing, a sanctuary for the mentally ill. For me, it was a prison. But also, an opportunity. The first few weeks were difficult. The sterile environment, the constant surveillance, the endless therapy sessions — it was stifling. I hated the other patients, their vacant stares, their repetitive behaviors, their constant whining. They were weak. They were pathetic.

But I learned to adapt. I learned to play the game. I attended my therapy sessions, I nodded attentively, I regurgitated the platitudes about self-improvement and emotional regulation. I became the model patient. The doctors were impressed. They said I was making progress. They said I was responding well to treatment.

They were wrong.

Crestwood was a laboratory, a place to observe and experiment. The doctors and nurses were my subjects. I studied their routines, their habits, their vulnerabilities. I learned how to manipulate them, how to play on their emotions, how to get what I wanted. I also learned about the other patients. Their delusions, their obsessions, their phobias. I listened to their stories, their confessions, their darkest secrets. I filed it all away, adding to my ever-growing database of human frailty.

And then there was Ariana.

She was a nurse, fresh out of college. Young, idealistic, and hopelessly naive. She actually believed she could help us. She treated us with compassion, with empathy, with genuine kindness. I was fascinated by her. Not in a romantic way. More like an entomologist studying a rare butterfly. I wanted to understand her, to dissect her, to see what made her tick. I started small. I asked her questions about her life, her dreams, her fears. I listened attentively, feigning interest. I told her about my own troubled past, embellishing the details, playing the victim. She fell for it, of course. She saw me as a wounded bird, a lost soul in need of guidance. She wanted to save me.

I used her. I manipulated her. I got her to bend the rules, to grant me special privileges, to confide in me her deepest secrets. I learned everything there was to know about her. And then, I decided to take things a step further. I broke into her apartment one night. It wasn’t difficult. She was careless, trusting. I found her address in her purse, her spare key hidden under a flower pot. I let myself in, careful not to make a sound. Her apartment was small, cluttered, and surprisingly ordinary. There were framed photos of her family, stacks of books on her nightstand, a half-finished cup of coffee on the table. I wandered through the rooms, touching her things, inhaling her scent. It was a strange feeling, this intimacy. Like I was stepping inside her mind, invading her soul.

I found her teddy bear in her bedroom. A worn, faded, stuffed animal with one missing eye. It was pathetic. Sentimental. Disgusting.

I took it.

I went to the kitchen, found a knife, and carefully sliced open the teddy bear’s stomach. I pulled out the stuffing, replaced it with cotton soaked in pig blood. I stitched it back together, leaving a trail of crimson droplets on the floor. Then, I placed the blood-soaked teddy bear on her doorstep, rang the doorbell, and disappeared into the night. The next day, I was summoned to the head doctor’s office. I knew what was coming. Ariana had found the teddy bear. She was traumatized. She had told the authorities. I denied everything. I feigned shock, outrage, concern. But they didn’t believe me. They had their suspicions. And they had enough evidence to justify my expulsion.

I was kicked out of Crestwood. My parents were notified. They were horrified. They didn’t want me back.

I didn’t care.

I was free.

•

•

•

The world was my oyster. A vast, unexplored territory, ripe with possibilities. I had no job, no money, no place to live. But I had something else. A burning desire to experience everything, to indulge my every whim, to unleash the darkness within. I drifted from town to town, from city to city, working odd jobs, sleeping in abandoned buildings, preying on the vulnerable. I was a predator, a shadow lurking in the night, seeking my next victim. Women were my primary focus. I was drawn to their beauty, their vulnerability, their desperation. I learned to charm them, to seduce them, to manipulate them into doing whatever I wanted.

I used my looks, my wit, my manufactured vulnerability to lure them in. I told them stories about my troubled past, my broken heart, my yearning for love. They believed me. They wanted to save me. But once I had them in my clutches, the game changed. The charm faded, the mask slipped, and the monster emerged. I became possessive, controlling, demanding. I isolated them from their friends, their family, their support systems. I turned them into my puppets, dancing to my tune.

And then, when I grew bored, I discarded them. Like a broken toy, tossed aside and forgotten. I kept trophies, of course. Mementos of my conquests. A lock of hair, a piece of clothing, a photograph. Small reminders of the power I held, the control I exerted.

Lyra was different.

From the moment I saw her, I was captivated. She was a vision of ethereal beauty. I had to have her. I pursued her relentlessly, showering her with attention, with compliments, with gifts. I learned her habits, her routines, her favorite things. I became her shadow, following her everywhere, watching her from afar. Her brothers didn’t approve, obviously. They saw me for what I was. A creep, a stalker, a lunatic. They tried to warn me off, to intimidate me, to scare me away.

But I wouldn’t be deterred. Lyra was my obsession. My muse. My masterpiece.

And I wouldn’t let anyone stand in my way.

The beating they gave me was just a minor setback. A temporary inconvenience. It didn’t change anything. It only reinforced my resolve.

I would have Lyra. One way or another.

And when I did, she would finally understand the depth of my…admiration. †