Cherry Pie

"You know how to use that thing?" he pants, his breaths coming out in hot, rancid puffs that permeate the warehouse. It makes the room seem that much smaller, hotter, vile.

Blood drips from my arm. Thick crimson ribbons of blood trickle down to my wrist, coating the handle of the Katana sword. It makes my grip slippery. Loose. Too loose.

"I've been waiting a long time for this, sweetheart." He snarls, knowing damn well I don't appreciate the familiarity of his term of endearment. He paces slowly around me. Taking me all in. His eyes leer too long on my heaving red-stained breasts. My flat exposed stomach is streaked with blood which makes him lick his lips.

As he stalks towards me my grip on the sword tightens. I'm unsure as to why I let him get close to me, but as he stalks to my side I remain firmly rooted in place. His nose grazes my neck and he sniffs. He inhales deeply, as if he's trying to commit my scent to memory.

He takes a few steps back and smiles. "It’s taken eight years to find you and still smell like sweet cherry pie."

The sound that claws its way from my throat is foreign to me. Sword in hand, I charge at him. He easily sidesteps and laughs as I fall to the floor. My grip already slick, the sword slides across the floor and stops at his feet.

He kicks it back to me. Grinning. The sonofabitch is always grinning.

I'm hurt worse than I'd like to admit. It takes too long to pick myself off the ground. Too long. He waits patiently while I try to pull myself together.

What a gentleman.

I leave the sword at my feet. His weapons have always been his fists. Let's make it a fair fight. Weakened and nearly defeated, my punch lacks any true power.

He grabs both my wrists with one hand. Uses his other to wrap his calloused sausage fingers around my throat. He squeezes tightly. Loosens his grip. Pulls my face close to his and mashes his lips against mine. I fight back and bite down hard, drawing blood. He pulls back and I spit the frothy mixture of saliva and blood in his face. He smiles and tightens his grip.

The warehouse door opens.

Venus herself has come down from Olympus and practically floats into the room. She says nothing, but the look of perverse pleasure on her face is unmistakable.

"Have you met your thieving cunt of a daughter?" he asks, his rancid breath curling the hairs on my head.

The woman, this vision of beauty, this goddess doesn't respond. She glides—practically glides across the floor. Picks up the blood-soaked Katana.

He loosens his grip from my neck and I fall into a heap on the floor.

The Venus stands over me. She raises the sword with reverence above her head. Well-earned disappointment, disdain, and hatred flood her eyes. I know what I should do. I should beg her forgiveness. I should tell her that I'm sorry. I should tell her that I love her.

But those words would all be lies. Instead, I simply say, "Mother."

She plunges the sword into my heart.