Hey guys, I'm back! It's been a while I know and I apologise for that, but I'm not gonna lie I've missed writing so so much (hence why I'm not waiting for the next film).
This is the third story in the Thatcher series, if you wish to add any ideas then please feel free to tell me and I will see what I can do. I hope you all enjoy, and if you are a new reader then I strongly suggest you read the first two stories first :)
Enjoy my lovelies!
I felt nothing. I was beyond comprehending any emotion anymore. What was the point when it never aided you in anything? Love, hate, compassion, lust; what was the need? Humans are animals, just smarter than the regular mammal. We're just monkeys that can talk; emotion shouldn't be a part of it. Love and hate doesn't help you survive, emotions like that just distract you from the real problems at hand.
And that was how I acted, like an animal. I could see him, the boy I had fallen in love with what felt like a life time ago. He was there below me, his brown eyes filled with an anguish I couldn't understand. I knew who he was to me, I knew our history, yet nothing inside me stirred. Not the quickening of my heart, not the hitching of my breath, not the rash thoughts of wishing he would kiss me already.
He certainly didn't look like he wanted to kiss me right now, anyway; his face was turning blue. I was almost sure that shouldn't be happening but I couldn't have given a single crap about it. I also disregarded the black bruises on his cheek and below his left eye, as well as the blood pooling out of his nose.
I remembered his name lodged in my throat, desperate to reach my lips and cry out. It was like a stone was lodged viciously in my oesophagus, refusing me any permission to say a word. His name tasted like a sour lemon.
My hands were cramping. Why? It hurt from my fingertips to my locked elbow, and the power in my muscles ached from my upper arms, over my shoulders and right down into my abdomen. The boy was clutching my forearms, but that wasn't causing the pain.
"… Cl-Claudia… s… s… stop…!"
My eyes refocused from the boy's eyes, instead coming to rest on the little hands wrapped around his neck like a vice, small thumbs pushing savagely into the soft, tender skin below his Adam's apple. Little hands, with chapped nails and bruised, bloodied knuckles. Seeing the cuts made me feel the sensation of stinging, the kind of sting that the breakage of the first layer of skin would cause.
I came to the realisation that those little hands were my hands. They were pushing into his throat, blocking the air from reaching his lungs and crushing his windpipe. I felt like I should have been worried, or scared, or even angry at myself, but I felt nothing.
The boy's eyes rolled back and I pushed harder against his throat. And I heard a sound. A cackling, vibrating within me. My lips were pulled back in a twisted smile, and soon I came to realise that the cackling was my own, insane laugher.
The boy I had just murdered, the boy lying dead beneath me had once been my partner. He was dead, and I was maliciously happy about it.
I bolted awake, beads of sweat cooling my forehead, neck and back. I was panting, my heart racing in my chest. My legs were cramping and my knuckles were burning; blood coated my fingertips where I had bitten my nails down to the flesh, while my knuckles glowed red with split skin from punching the wall on a recent occasion.
I heard the rattling of a chain that was attached to the wall, though it parted to form two metal cuffs around my skinny ankles. The white gown I wore was filthy, smelling of a week's worth of body odour. My bear feet looked no better than my hands, covered in blistered and cuts. My legs were almost black from thigh to ankle with bruises.
But the state of my body was nothing. The sight of him was another.
Harry Osborn sat opposite me with a sadistic smile on his face, like he always did when I awoke from a manipulated nightmare. There was no point in lunging for him; both of us knew how that would end, which was usually me in a bloodied mess after being punished by the 'doctors'.
"Did you kill him again?" Harry asked me sweetly, like we were talking about cookies and marshmallows. I remained silent, watching him like a rabbit eying a fox. He cocked his head at me, his hair falling over his left eye. "It must be so blissful to dream such a satisfaction."
I spat in his direction. He laughed at me when I missed and the saliva landed on my foot.
"I wish I dreamt about killing him," he continued. "Though the dreams I do have are just as pleasant." He looked like he wanted to shuffle closer but thought better of it. His eyes shone black with lust. "Your creamy skin under my hands as you give yourself up to me, thighs gripping my waist, hands in my hair…"
"Shut up!" I snarled, though my voice was rough and broken, no longer mine. I rarely spoke anymore, and when I did my throat and tongue felt like they were made of sandpaper.
"Were you ever with him in such a way, Claudia? Did he ever touch you; did he worship your body like a man should with his lady? Did he ever carry you to bed and claim you, while also telling you how much he loved you?"
I found myself chanting the same line over and over while covering my ears. Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! I knew he was only taunting me, laughing at me, but that didn't make it hurt any less.
Beyond the fierce front and strong attitude, I was afraid of Harry Osborn. He frightened me, reduced me to a shivering mess that cried herself to sleep. He terrified me because his blood ran through my veins, the same blood that had saved me from death. I was better off dead. I wished his men had never found me; I wished I had died hugging Gwen's body. Apparently fate had another path for me.
I hated Harry Osborn, but I couldn't survive anymore without him. His blood was mine. We were tied.
He was my own personal hell.
In his eyes, he was his own version of Lucifer and I was his Queen.