I dropped the needle onto the record. It skipped a moment, then the music started; Don't Fear the Reaper.
Splashing more wine in my glass, I sip it nonchalantly and hum to the music. Turning around, I rest my gaze on the whore in the middle of the room. She's tied to a chair, bound and gagged. Cuts and bruises cover her naked body.
I saunter over to her, she flinches.
"Don't fear the reaper, darling," I whisper in a sarcastic and charming voice as I caress her cheek, which is covered in sticky blood.
Suddenly, I decide I'm bored with her. I can't be bothered to savor her death, as my boredom threatens to overcome me. Walking to the dresser, I reach into a drawer and before she can blink there's three bullets through her chest.
I toss the gun onto the mattress and walk out of the room. Seb's standing in the hallway with his eyebrows raised; I usually don't waste bullets on cheap whores.
"Bored," I explain.
He moves to go into the room to clean up my mess, but I stop him with a wave of my finger.
"No. Stay close to me," I order, walking into the kitchen. He follows, as he always does. As if he has a choice.
Deciding I'm bored with the expensive wine, I smash my glass on the floor, too drunk and apathetic to care to find a table. Seb steps around it.
I go for something stronger; whiskey. I pour some of the amber liquid into a crystal whiskey glass and hand it to Seb, then one for myself.
It depends on how drunk I am to determine who's topping as I decide that we're fucking tonight.
I drain my glass; I want him to fuck me.
More whiskey; I probably won't remember this tomorrow I'm so plastered. That is, if I don't pass out first.
I stumble, Seb catches me and I growl into his ear, telling him to fuck me.
"Your room?" he asks. He's always so obedient, never doing anything before asking me.
"No. Here." We're still in the kitchen. He knows I like it rough and he slams my chest hard onto the marble counter. My whiskey glass goes flying off the counter and crashes to the floor.
"Jesus, Seb," I slur.
My pants drop, I hear him spit obscenely in his hand. Usually I'm the one fucking him, in a metaphorical sense.
I groan as he slams me against the counter. My fingers scrape against the expensive marble, searching for something to sink my nails into. A string of slurred profanity escapes my lips and Seb fucks me harder.
I'm not even hard, let alone barely conscious. I drink too much. It's either that or killing hookers.
I don't remember what happened next.
I wake up in my own bed. My chest is covered in bruises.
"Bastard," I mumble. It hurts to move. My head is pounding. I fall out of the bed and crawl to the bathroom on my hand and knees. Reaching up, I turn on the shower and sit underneath the hot stream of water.
People to kill, lies to spin. Just another day as a tyrant of an empire.