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The victorious huntress

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   She had killed him. Killed his body, of probable flesh and bone. But it seemed that she couldn’t kill his ghost.

   Helena was deeply Catholic. As a child, before the massacre, she would sit in Church, staring at the raw and bloody iconography around her and dreamt a passing daydream. If it was real, the conviction in the afterlife and in the resurrection and rapture and miracles, then she, little baby Helena, would have a place in Heaven. She, too, would join all before her in Heaven as well. All soft and pastel, loved and loving others, for an unending eternity in bliss because she was blissfully ignorant to politics, to money, to greed, to murder.

   She was just eleven, after all. Even younger as she sat in those plush seats, not even listening to the father as she daydreamed, her parents holding her hand, trying to instil their beliefs in her despite their own lack of ignorant bliss that they, adults well aware and embroiled in the evils of politics and money and greed and murder, held close in their God fearing hearts.

   And Helena was only twelve when she felt the blood spatter and viscera belonging to her dear mother and brother, holding tight onto that car, the vehicle of her will to survive, and was plunged deep into the bowels of just how terrible the human condition was.

   She was going to get revenge. She spent fifteen years, preparing herself for when she would swoop in and take the kills that she had been daydreaming about and drawing since she was twelve. Scratching out their eyes with crayons, Helena had wanted to do with her own nails. But she chose a more elegant solution; one which would let them suffer as they stared at her face. Never recognising her.

   But if they suffered in this life, those precious few minutes left, choking on their own blood, clawing at the arrow in their necks, they would surely suffer in the next as Helena’s religious beliefs caused her to thrust them upon those around her. They surely had a place in eternal perdition, just like little baby Helena.

   Maybe that’s why he was still here, in her body, in her mind. He was godless. Giddy, grinning madly, as he sprayed those bullets across a family, including and especially children, and therefore had no place to go except this mortal coil that they knew. And so, he haunted her. Her who was so certain of her place in all the worlds philosophised about by people she couldn’t understand because she was too single minded and connected to what she could see and feel beneath her.

   All the graves of her shot and buried beloved, the emotions which burned in her chest, the weapons she could touch. Sticks and stones, really. Words could never hurt her, and she couldn’t hurt anyone with her words. No matter how well rehearsed in the mirror.

   As she tossed and turned in her bed, Helena could feel that evil man’s presence near. Invading her room, her mind. His sadism dripped off the walls, hidden in the shadows of her minimalist lodgings. She could feel his eyes on her body as she curled up on her bed, hiding her pillow as she tried to sleep.

   Only thing was, her dreams were his favourite place to inhabit.

   Worse still, it was only he who haunted her. Perhaps the others conformed to the great American ego wrought with Catholicism. Maybe it's because he was her “last”. Not necessarily, she did a great many things in her name as Huntress, for the sake of justice which greased the wheels of her vigilantism. Maybe it was just bad luck, but Helena was glimpsing silver in the corners of her eyes, ever since she had murdered Zsasz. Occasionally there would be green and gold flashes, a stripy shirt, in her peripheries, behind her, leering and looming, waiting to grab her. Even feeling his burned off fingertips on her skin, too.

   He was here. Here with her and he wasn’t fucking leaving, apparently. So, Helena prayed. That’s all she could do when she was prey. She could beg her all forgiving Father in Heaven above that he would give her some attention and spare her from the demon which had clawed his way back to the land of the living. But God was only slow to anger, never infinitely patient and kind unto those who violated his Ten Commandments.

   Thou shalt not kill.

   And the victorious huntress that she was had many, many times.

   Thus, in the abandonment of virtue and in the pursuit of vengeance, Helena had only herself to blame and herself to protect. She was hesitant to rely on people. For good reason. People killed each other. So, just like her child self in church, daydreaming of what was to come when the clouds above descended, Huntress dreamt in nightly hallows, of what was to come when the Earth below opened up, and what evil would spew forth in brimstone and sulphur. Eyes glazed over all the same as the spectre of her sins touched her.

   Touched her so good; heart racing; a subtle, broken gasp elicited from her trembling lips. In a room within a room within a room; crowned in gold and bedecked with maroon velvet. A confession room suitable for the illicit confidante exchanges between a pope and a king. The perfect place for Helena to confess her own sins, borne of hatred and vengeance and even more: the sin of wanting what she didn’t want; shouldn’t have; and obsessed with all the more.

   Those ghostly hands, scarred yet so strangely well cared for, caressed her body. Mostly bare, stripped down to loose linen just like the King of the Jews on the cross. Hands broken, again like this King. She bled as he, Victor, held her hands, ploughing through her body as he made his sick love to her.

   She hated it. Hated it so much because as she slept, dreamt, she had never felt hotter, wetter, aroused. She moaned into her pillow, drooling, as her soul was trapped in this warm, unreal place. It was sublime in how heinous it was. He was just a ghost, and an unholy one at that, but he had her feeling things that she had never felt before. Thrashing in her sheets, trying to grasp, pin this figment of her traumatised imagination and get back at him with her own sick fuck. Rich with hatred for him and loathing for herself.

   Their bodies were mangled and entangled. His mouth on hers. His kiss was vicious, but she could be equally as ferocious, were it not for the fact that she preferred her sexual encounters with the living and ideally the sane. She could feel the scratch of his unshaved face on hers. She dug her nails into his hands as he still held onto her, kissing her roughly. He stank of some nameless, expensive cologne and gin. It was all shit to her.

   Over, and through, this kiss, Victor leered at her. Gold teeth glinting next to his grey pearly ones. Helena wished for nothing more than to bash her head against his and ruin that gruesome, handsome face of his but she couldn’t find the strength in this body that she inhabited tonight, wounded and splattered in blood which was fifteen years old that she still couldn’t scrub off after so long. Hot tears burned in her eyes as she kissed him. Tears which he would come to lick, like a dog, at yet whilst purring as innocently as a cat over.

   With a thrust of his hips, things escalated from just kissing and near wrestling in some feeble attempt to escape him and this dream. His legs slotted in between hers, so perfectly and in the high thread count cotton. He held her down, she didn’t know how. It was a dream, after all. It didn’t have to make sense; it just had to make her do things she didn’t want to do and would never want to do. He grabbed at that Gucci belt around his waist; ripping it out from around him and he cracked it out, whipped it against some chair or something and it terrified Helena.

   It nearly woke her. She wished that it had woken her. Instead, she grunted. She wanted more. She wanted to be pain and to feel the sting of leather against her naked, enraptured body but Victor would never give her such satisfaction.

   So, in the wake of such a wince inducing and thunderous crack, Helena was thrust against once more and she was let go of. For moment, she felt as though she had defied all gravity, that her hair was flying and that her back was arching, but she tore back. Ripped back. She grabbed at Victor’s chest, clutching at his ugly stripy shirt and snarling. She kissed him, teeth gnashing, and all her nerves alight with adrenaline.

   His trousers around his toned, scarred thighs, crumpled, and his cock on full display. Helena was disgusted. She didn’t want to see it but alas. She did. It was terrible, hideous, etched with scars symbolising people who must have been really special to him if he was willing to memorialise them on his revolting manhood as exaggerated by all these feelings that Helena had unto the visage and ghost of Victor Zsasz.

   Fuck, she thought. It was big. And he could use it well. She wouldn’t know. She had never seen it before, and she had never known anyone carnally before either. But Helena was still certain that Victor would be sporting big equipment which he could deftly wield with the delusion that his victim would “like” it all.

   It felt like her body burned when he put his hands on her hips and made love to her against her will. He painted, hard, as he buried his cock to its hilt inside of her. Helena gasped, moaned and more as she cursed his very name again and again; just like she did from the very moment she had learned what names to add to a list of people to fuck over with a crossbow.

   She shivered as she arched her back, legs awkwardly spreading so she could let him go in deeper still. She may not want him or his haunting grey blue eyes, fingers, stripes, everything about him near her but she could try to find some semblance of control in this vaguely, loosely lucid dream. Nightmare.

   “I hadn’t killed any kids until I was contracted to be a member of the firing squad which massacred your family, Crossbow Killer.” Victor told her, breathy, lusting.

   “They don’t,” Helena snapped back, voice riddled with grunted frustration, thrusting back against him, “they don’t call me that.” she insisted. “They call me Huntress.”

   “I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.” Victor snarled. “Kitten? Baby? Honey?”

   “Shut the fuck up, Zsasz.” Helena barked.

   “Whatever, you frigid bitch.” Victor rolled his eyes. He grunted, momentarily quickening the pace in which he thrust and ground against her. Preparing himself and only himself for his selfish and sadistic climax. “Anyway, killing your family, to date, has been my favourite fucking contract hit. Killing that clown slut would have been up here but because of you, and it’s almost poetic to me, but because of you, I never got that far. Wasted perfectly good prime territory on that useless shit. But I put a special mark on myself for you Helena. I really thought I killed you, kitten.”

   Helena panted. She was close. Closer than she wanted to be. She grimaced as she drew a big breath and the room felt so claustrophobic from beneath Zsasz.

   “Where?” she asked, quieted than intended. “Where did you put that mark, Zsasz?”

   Victor smiled a cheeky smile.

   “That’s not an answer, Zsasz.” Helena said, stern, as she fucked back as hard as she could against this man whom she had no words to convey the depths of hatred unto. “Where the fuck is it?”

   “Wouldn’t you like to know…?”

   His voice trailed off and turned into a fever pitch. Cautiously, Helena looked up and somewhere in his list, the veil of her mind misted the exact moment in which he came. His pale body writhed, and he made this disgusting noise. It horrified Helena beyond her core, rocking her as she was besieged with this sensation of what she thought having a man would feel like. It felt like everything she thought it would save for the actual insemination itself. Her body recoiled in disgust.

   In the midst of this drawn out orgasm, that dreamy veil which had nearly protected her fell away and for the worse.

   He was a man. He was a ghost. He was a corpse. She was fucking him and being fucked by regardless.

   The entry point of her arrow in his neck gaped. Blood, brown and murky, dripped from that rancid wound. Rot had eaten away at his face, revealing the bone beneath. Maggots made a home in the viscera which had been revealed in his decomposition. The hands on her hips were skeletal and decayed. Even his clothes weren’t even safe from the ravaging of time his lifeless body had faced. The vibrancy of his shirt diminished. The neatness of his trousers now ragged with how they had deteriorated with the impression of being seven feet underground without the cushioning of a casket. And Helena could swear that she could taste his stench; no longer masked by those informed scents of gin and cologne.

   Helena took simpering breaths. She shuddered. Her body unbearably hot. His decidedly cold. He was laughing. She thinks that he was laughing. High and maniacal, revelling in his rotten pleasure as she languished with disgust. His voice echoed in her head, mixing up, mouldy and distant.

   “I think it’s only right if we do this twice. Don’t you think?”

   His musings were suddenly excruciatingly loud in her head. Nigh inescapable. Helena gritted her teeth as she prepared herself for whatever it was that Victor was ready to share with her between his cackling and howling. His laughter was painfully full-bellied. She didn’t want. She wanted off this goddamn ride.

   She felt his hips against hers. He held her down again, his nails on her skin like claws sinking into the flesh. She could feel it. She could feel it as if were real but as an experienced fighter, she knew whatever it was she was feeling was only the shallowest and hollowed out sensation of what it ought to be like in full. In the waking world.

   Just as Victor plunged against her, ripping a reluctant moan from Helena’s throat, she awoke. Her spine tingled as Helena pulled herself out of her messed up sheets. Her hair stuck out at funny angles as she took gulping breaths. She felt as though she had been drowning or suffocating and only now was there air to be breathed. She was slick with sweat as she stared, frantically, through the lifeless darkness around her.

   She was alone. She was untouched. She was still petrified from the events of her dream. She hadn’t even come from her dream, but she was still there. Right at the brink and it pissed her off something bad and stupid.

   He was ugly. He was disgusting. She had killed him but fingered herself to him anyway. Maybe she could finish him off right this time. Already, just from roughly gouging at her pussy in a wrathful lust, Helena came. Her orgasm jerked her about and she closed her eyes to it, consoling herself as she rode out what little pleasure she could get from it as her mind was clogged with all these jumbled thoughts and what remained from her dream which had begun to dissipate. Only knowing the ghostly violation; already forgetting the rags she had been clad in and that supremely holy room...

   Panting, Helena sat in her bed, in her haphazard and shapeless bedclothes. Still staring at the walls and thinking. Trying to untangle her thoughts from herself. She didn’t understand as she choked back on hard sobs. Why the fuck did she have this dream? Why did all her issues have to manifest like this? She slowly keeled over, face to her chest, one hand on her pussy, still, and the other on her face, trying to hide her breaking emotions.

   God, fuck, was Victor still there? Slumped on a lounge in an abandoned amusement park ride? Or was he still here? Watching, voyeuristic, behind her, invisible but still felt?

   Helena didn’t know. She didn’t think that she wanted to know. He would be just another pauper’s grave that she couldn’t bear to visit for some semblance of closure either way, no different to her dead and dear family.

   She took another gulping breath and continued to masturbate. Closing her eyes, gasping, praying to her God above for some earthly pleasure in her turmoil whilst her demon watched or so she hoped and feared.