The cold, black barrel of the Colt .357 invaded my mouth like a steel tongue depressor. The fingertips of my left hand pressed into the soft, well-worn leather of the office chair’s arm. The tip of my right index finger rested on the trigger. And it trembled.
“No, Daddy, please!” A tiny, almost pixie-like voice rang through my mind, pleading. I hated when she called me Daddy. “I need you. What am I supposed to do without you?”
My eyes clenched, squeezing out a tear that ran down my cheek as my own reply played in my head.
“You’re a big girl. Get a job. Stop depending on men to support you.”
We met at work. She was young, just out of college and started as a temp. She hit on me the second day she was there. Being that I was a little older and had recently divorced, I was appreciative of the attention.
I let her seduce me a few days later when she followed me into the men’s room at work. She used her mouth on me for the first time. After that, our lunch breaks, and any few minutes we could get away from our desks together, were spent in dark closets or bathroom stalls.
After a couple of weeks of really looking forward to going to work, and a near-constant flow of oxytocin in my bloodstream, I felt great. I lost weight, and my hair even started to grow back. So when she asked to meet up outside of work, I was all for it. I was falling in love despite the fact we had never had a substantial conversation about anything. Ever.
Our first date was just us fooling around in the back row of a theater during a new Stephen King movie. There was another spent groping each other in the corner booth of an Applebee’s. Everything revolved around the physical aspects of the relationship.
Then one night, as I slept, she got into my apartment. I’m not exactly sure how, but she did. I woke up as she crawled up my body. As soon as I opened my eyes, she cooed “Don’t worry, Daddy, it’s just me.” I almost couldn’t perform after that, it made me feel so dirty, maybe because I was technically old enough to be her father. But she had a way of getting what she wanted.
She stopped showing up around the office as much. Eventually, she didn’t show up at all. But every night, she was at my place. Even if I told her I needed to rest, she was there. She stayed one night after I fell asleep and just kind of never left.
Actually, she never left. No work, no shopping, nothing. She was always there. She would cook and wear me out. She didn’t let me sleep. She never helped with bills. I continued losing weight to the point of becoming unhealthy. My hair began to fall out again. Dark circles developed under my eyes. I lost my strength.
I told her it was over. She had to leave. Her retort was that she was pregnant, and I couldn’t kick her out. Of course she was. Her long, dark hair and big brown eyes had captivated me. She showed me the attention I was starved of. I’d been swept up in everything and never even thought about condoms.
I agreed to let her stay a bit longer.
Five months passed. My body deteriorated further. It became frail, weak and fragile. I must have been on the edge of death. She still wasn’t showing.
I told her to get out.
“No, Daddy, please! I need you. What am I supposed to do without you?”
“You’re a big girl. Get a job. Stop depending on men to support you.”
She attacked me, scratching, clawing at my arms as I held her back so she couldn’t reach my face. I pushed her and retreated to the second bedroom, which used to serve as a home office but was now painted Easter egg yellow and covered with clowns and circus animals and shit. I locked the door. I walked three steps to my old leather office chair, turned, and plopped down on it. The entire episode, though brief, had drained all my energy in my weakened state.
The bang was near deafening as the bedroom door swung open and slammed against the wall, embedding the knob into the drywall. She entered, waving the .357 King Cobra I inherited from my dad. I never told her about it. She must have found it while snooping.
“You won’t do it,” I said, keeping my tone as calm and steady as possible.
“What makes you think that?” she asked, squinting as she did.
“You want something from me.”
“What is that?” Her voice had become cold.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But if you really wanted to kill me quickly, you’d have done it. I think you enjoy sucking the life out of me. Literally.”
“That’s what we do,” she replied, a sly grin spreading across her lips.
“We?” I asked.
“You stupid man.” She shook her head. “Don’t you know a demon when you meet one?”
“Wha—”
“I’m a succubus.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “I’ve been draining the life out of you—it’s what we do. Looks like tonight’s the night I finish you off for the last time.” She stepped closer with that damn mesmerizing walk of hers. If Shakira was right and hips don’t lie, then these said I was in for a Hell of a night.
She placed the gun on the desk near me, removing the hair tie from her wrist and putting her hair in a ponytail like she had so many times before. She leaned over and kissed me. I felt a tug as she pulled my belt loose.
I placed my hand on the revolver as she dropped to her knees in front of me.
“Do me a favor?” I asked.
“I suppose I could at least give you that,” she said. The brown of her eyes glowed orange like fire as she looked up at me.
“Suck this,” I said, shoving the barrel into her mouth. I pulled the trigger. A hole formed in the back of her head as the bullet exited, splattering the wall with blood, brain, and bone. She fell backwards to the floor.
I dropped my hand holding the gun to my lap. Blood leaked from the hole in her head and formed a growing pool on the wood floor.
Closing my eyes, I hung my head.
Gurgling. That’s what it was. Gurgling. I opened my eyes to see her sitting up, eyes glowing red now, lips pulled back to expose razor-sharp teeth. They were stained crimson from the blood pouring from her wounds. She gurgled as the blood ran down her throat.
I raised the revolver and squeezed off four more rounds into her chest. Only four, to make sure one was left—I didn’t know if it would kill her.
I stuck the barrel into my mouth, finger trembling on the trigger. Then a realization hit.
If I died now, and someone found us, they would think I’d lost my mind and killed us both. If she didn’t die, then I’d just be some sad, sick guy who lost his will to live.
So I decided to write this all down. I want whoever finds us, or me at least, to know why. What actually happened.
I think I’ve got it all down now.
It’s my turn to paint some of these clowns red.
