"Look at what he did to me."
Her incantation echoes against the basement walls.
"Yes, I'm so sorry about that," Tate mumbles flippantly, reaching around her to tug the zipper of her uniform down. She's quiet now, like she always is, her eyes gazing blankly. He pulls the nurse's uniform down her arms, exposing her modest white bra. He snaps the front clasp and pulls the cotton away to reveal ample tits. He wraps his lips around a smooth brown nipple, sucks and nibbles a little. He pushes her dress down the rest of the way, removes all her undergarments. She's no help at all.
"Show me," Tate says. On cue she turns around to show him her bloody gashes. Tate traces the edges with a gentle hand.
"Look at what he did to me," she drones. Every time, he counts the wounds. He doesn't know why. He nudges her shoulders and she bends, doll like, over the dusty table, one of the few things left in the house since Constance moved out.
He puts his feet inside of hers and pushes out, spreading her wide. He undoes his jeans, pushes them down with his boxers. He strokes his half-hard cock and closes his eyes to imagine her in that virginal white uniform, climbing on top of him and lifting her skirt. She welcomes him inside of her, envelops him with moist, pulsing heat.
The vision makes him harden fully in his grasp. He opens his eyes and pushes into her now, releasing a satisfied grunt. His hands grip firmly on her hips. She makes no sound as he thrusts, hard. It is quiet but for his breathing and the steady slap of skin on skin, but it is slowly being swallowed by the silence. It surrounds him and begins to close in, so he keeps it at bay with his solitary cries. He releases a low, guttural grunt, and with each plunge inside her, he howls, pushing the silence and stillness back, savage proof to the darkness that he is there.
In his mind, she caresses his face. Her eyes, bright and curious, explore him. He imagines the delicious weight of her gaze. When he kisses her, slow and deep, she weaves her fingers through his curls. She whispers to him things meant for only him to hear, sweet, hot breath against his ear.
He comes then, hard, a brutal release. He pulls out and the cold seizes him cruelly. It rushes up and around, penetrates him until there is no boundary, and he becomes the cold.
He is the silence and the shadow.
He sinks to the floor, his head down, not able to watch her rise and dress.
"Look at what he did to me."
Tate buries his face in his hands. He can't look. Not now. When he opens his eyes that's all there will be – blood and rot and vacant eyes.
He curls up on the concrete. He will rest there in that spot a while.
But he knows he will not dream.