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“Tick Tock, Baxter. Tick Tock.”
“Tell me who the mole is!” I demand in frustration. I can see the light fading from her eyes. Fuck! I need actual answers. This isn’t enough to take back to Raven.
“Mole, Rat, Badger, Toad of Toad Hall,” she sing-songs in response automatically.
Fuck. She’s had some sort of training.
We have it in The Order. Well, the higher ups do. We have to go through all sorts of resistance training so that we don’t spill secrets under torture, but learning to resist ‘truth serums’ is the worst. The Order don’t give a fuck if you spill your deepest darkest secrets, so long as you don’t breathe a word about theirs. You get trained to trigger an automatic nonsensical response upon hearing certain words under stress. Just like Cuntdelia has.
I try again with a forced calm I am absolutely not feeling.
“Who is the leak?”
“Leeks and spuds and pumpkin pie, squash and rye, now stab my eye,” she sings.
“That might just be the best idea to ever come from your mouth,” I growl. “Don’t mind if I do.”
I snatch whichever blade is closest to me – which turns out to be an ice pick – and drive it straight into her eyeball. It makes a deliciously satisfying pop, followed by a squelching sound which I only just manage to catch over the Cunt’s screams.
In my anger I break another bone.
Then right on time my Teasmade beeps to announce it’s finished. I fucking love this machine. The perfect brew, made just how I like it, on a timer. I call it my death brew.
I cross to retrieve my all-time favourite mug – a gift from Amelie, a white ceramic thing with the words “Stabbers gonna stab” emblazoned across it in a sexy stabby sort of font – and pull out the metal folding chair that I keep for this ceremony. The Death. It’s always spectacular to watch, and it’s exactly why control is so important.
I’d love something a little more comfy for this ritual, but practicality takes precedent. Luckily for me, I do such a good job in the prep work that I don’t ever have to wait long.
I take my seat and sip my tea, waiting and watching as the life slips out of her. I wonder if I did enough, made her hurt enough to be worthy of Raven’s love and hand in marriage? I can only hope so.
She gives a strangled sob. A garbled scream. And then I hear it, the death rattle in her chest, the sign that her evil spirit is departing.
Music to my fucking ears.
Damn, this tea is good.
Raven’s Diary
Present Day
I guess I could wax lyrical about the sunrise and how everything seems brighter now there’s one less evil in the world...but poetry aside, it’s true.
I can breathe in a way I haven’t been able to in years. I feel peace like never before. So many of my demons have been released, and the ones that remain I’m happy to co-exist with.
I’ve never experienced anything so cathartic as sliding that blade in.
The best bit was Baxter joining me in bed afterwards and making love for the rest of the night...morning? Whatever. I mean, obviously it was still fucking – not to mention fucking hot – but not a drop of blood was spilled between us. I think we’d both had our fill downstairs and were content to worship each other in celebration of Cordelia finally being gone.
Speaking of which, he’s stirring which means round...oh god I’ve lost count, but he never disappoints. Maybe in the cold light of day I can convince him to get a little stabby with me.
