Dexs Revenge

Dex Takes His revenge on Charlize starting with her friends

You can decide if this story is cannon(I've got writers block for the trapped series)

The darkness was a physical presence, a suffocating blanket of filth and agony. I lay where I'd fallen, a discarded thing in the dirt, the only sounds my own ragged, wet breathing and the frantic, useless hammering of my heart against my ribs.

Every beat was a fresh wave of fire. My legs weren't legs anymore; they were two columns of liquid, screaming agony. The femur, a pillar of bone designed to hold up a man, was a mess of jagged shards grinding against each other with every micro-movement. My kneecap was a pulverized bag of bone and tissue. The pain was so complete, so absolute, that it became a new form of sensory input, replacing sight, sound, and touch. There was only pain.

I tried to move. To push myself up with my arms. The muscles in my back and shoulders screamed in protest. My wrists were raw, bloody stumps, the skin shredded to ribbons by the chains. I collapsed back into the dirt, a broken puppet with all its strings cut.

Her face floated in the darkness behind my eyes. Charlize. Holding the sledgehammer. The cold, flat look in her eyes as she swung. The sound of my own bone snapping.

A wet, gurgling sound escaped my throat. It might have been a laugh, or it might have been sob. It didn't matter.

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time had lost its meaning, stretched and compressed by the all consuming fire in my legs. The cold began to seep into my bones, a slow, creeping death that was almost a relief from the agony. I could feel the lifeblood leaking from my ruined limbs, soaking into the dirt floor of the shed. I was becoming one with the filth.

This was it. This was how it ended. Not in a blaze of glory, not with a final, devastating word that twisted the world to my will. But alone, in the dark, wallowing in my own blood and shit, a broken toy abandoned by its new owners.

The thought was so pathetic, so utterly humiliating, that a new emotion cut through the pain. It was small at first, a tiny, flickering spark in the vast, black ocean of my suffering. It was anger.

No. Not anger. Rage.

Pure, unadulterated, white hot rage.

My fingers twitched. My hands. My arms. They still worked. My mind, the weapon I had honed to a razor's edge, was still my own.

"I will not die in the dirt like a dog."

The rage became a fuel. It didn't extinguish the pain; it burned hotter than it, consuming it, transforming it into a new kind of energy. I had to move. I had to get out.

I pushed myself up again, my arms trembling with the effort. The scream that tore from my lungs was inhuman, a sound of pure, undiluted agony as the movement sent shockwaves through my shattered legs. I didn't stop. I dragged myself forward, an inch at a time. My fingernails tore, filling my mouth with dirt and rust. My broken legs dragged behind me like dead weights, leaving a slick, dark trail of blood.

The rage sustained me. I crawled toward the back wall, my hands searching, probing the rotted wood. A slat. A loose one. I put my shoulder to it, and the world exploded in a nova of pain. I screamed again, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the ranch, but I pushed. The wood groaned, splintered, and finally gave way.

I squeezed through the gap, my ruined legs catching on the rough edges, tearing new holes in my flesh. I fell out into the high, dry grass of the ranch, the cold night air a shock against my fevered skin.

I lay there, panting, the stars above a distant, indifferent spectacle. The coyotes would find me soon. I could hear them yipping in the distance, their calls a promise of the feast to come.

I am not their meal.

I began to crawl again. Not with any destination in mind, but away. Away from the shed. Away from the memory of her face. Away from the final, echoing sound of the bolt sliding home.

Each pull was a victory. Each inch was a middle finger to the universe, to Leo, to Charlize, to the whole fucking world that thought it could break me. The pain was a constant companion, a screaming chorus in every nerve ending, but my mind was sharp now, focused.

I crawled through the night, my blood a dark thread stitching me to the earth.

I crawled until the sky began to lighten, the stars fading into the bruised purple of dawn. I found a ditch, a shallow depression filled with damp leaves and mud. I pulled myself into it, covering my body with the debris. It was a pathetic hiding place, but it was all I had.

As the sun rose, casting long shadows across the land, I lay there, my body broken, but my mind intact. The pain was a roaring fire, but in the center of that fire, a single, cold, hard thought formed, solid as a diamond.

They had branded me. They had broken me. They had left me for dead.

But they had made one mistake.

They hadn't taken my eyes.

And I would see them again. I would watch them sleep. I would watch them love.

And then, I would burn it all to the ground.

The ditch was my coffin, but I refused to die in it. The sun climbed, turning the damp leaves into a steaming, foul-smelling blanket. Fever burned through me, a fire fueled by the infection I could feel blooming in the ruined pulp of my legs. Every heartbeat was a fresh agony, every breath a struggle against the encroaching blackness of oblivion.

But the rage held it at bay. The cold, diamond hard rage was the only part of me that wasn't broken.

I thought of Charlize. Not of her face, but of her world. Her friends. The little mice she scurried with, the ones who held her hand and told her everything would be okay. The ones who were probably celebrating her freedom right now, painting their nails and giggling about boys, completely oblivious to the monster they had helped create.

A new target. A new purpose.

If I couldn't have her, I would have her world. I would burn it to the ground and salt the earth.

The thought gave me strength. I pushed myself up again, my vision swimming with black spots. I had to get to one of my stashes. A god always has contingency plans. A god always has resources.

I crawled. Through the ditch, into the brush, my broken legs dragging behind me like a gruesome tail. The sun beat down, and my world shrank to the patch of ground in front of my hands. Time lost all meaning. There was only the pain, the rage, and the next forward movement.

I don't know how long it took. An eternity. But finally, I saw it. A tumbledown section of old barbed wire fence, half swallowed by overgrown bushes. I knew this spot. A quarter mile east, along a dried-up creek bed, there was an old culvert. Inside, wrapped in oilskin and buried in the dirt, was a go bag.

The journey was a masterpiece of agony. I passed out twice from the pain, waking up with my face in the dirt, the coyotes' yips seeming closer each time. But I made it. I wriggled my broken body into the cool darkness of the culvert and clawed at the loose earth until my fingers closed around the slick, heavy bundle.

Inside was everything I could need. A burner phone, a wad of cash, a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a clean, if rusty, .38 revolver. I didn't bother with the pills. I twisted the cap off the whiskey and took a long, burning swallow, the alcohol a welcome fire in my throat. I dry swallowed three pills anyway, then fumbled with the phone.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely dial. It rang once, twice.

"Yeah?" The voice on the other end was rough, suspicious. It belonged to a wiry little weasel named Marco who owed me his life, and more importantly, his freedom.

"Marco," I rasped, my voice a dry, ruined thing. "It's Dex."

Silence. Then, "Dex? Holy shit. The news... they're saying you killed Gantry. That you're on the run."

"They always say that," I coughed, another swallow of whiskey turning the cough into a wet, productive bark. "Listen to me very carefully. I need a favor. A big one."

"Dex, man, the cops are all over..."

"I don't give a fuck about the cops," I snarled, the rage surging. "You owe me. You owe me everything. Are you going to pay your debt or do I need to have a little chat with your parole officer?"

More silence. I could hear him breathing, the gears turning in his pathetic little brain. "What do you need?"

"Medical supplies. And a ride. There's an old abandoned grain silo off Route 9, about ten miles from the Miller ranch. I need you there. In two hours. And Marco?" I paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Don't be late. And don't be stupid."

I hung up before he could answer. I leaned my head back against the cool concrete of the culvert, the whiskey and the promise of relief a temporary balm. I closed my eyes, and I didn't see Charlize's face. I saw her friends.

The pretty one with the blonde hair. Sarah. Always giggling, always touching Charlize's arm. I remembered her from the party, the way she'd looked at me with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. She was the first. I would make her watch. I would make her understand what happens when you touch my property.

Then the other one. The quiet one, with the dark, serious eyes. Emma. She thought she was so smart, so worldly. I'd enjoy breaking her mind more than her body.

I would start with them. I would make them disappear in ways that would terrify the city. I would leave clues that would lead nowhere. I would make Charlize watch her world shrink, her safety net fray, until all she had left was Leo. And then, when she was isolated and terrified, I would come for him.

The plan formed in my fevered mind, a beautiful, symphonic structure of pain and revenge. I couldn't hurt her, not directly. Not yet. But I could hurt everything she loved. I could make her life a living hell, a constant, gnawing fear that would eat away at her "happy ending" until there was nothing left but the terrified little mouse I'd found in the first place.

The whiskey and the pills were kicking in, blurring the edges of the pain, turning the world into a hazy, warm canvas. I smiled, a genuine, chilling smile that split my cracked lips.

Thirteen weeks.

The number echoed in the quiet confines of the rented room, a testament to a slow, agonizing resurrection. My legs were no longer the pulverized stumps of meat I'd dragged through the Miller ranch dirt. They were a roadmap of my survival, crisscrossed with thick, angry scars that pulled tight when I walked. I walked with a limp, a permanent, grinding reminder of Charlize and her sledgehammer, but I walked. The pain was a dull, constant companion, a background hum to the symphony of rage that was my new heartbeat.

Marco had been a good little dog. He'd found me this room, a basement apartment in a forgotten corner of the city, paid for in cash. He'd brought antibiotics, painkillers, and cheap food, his eyes wide with a terror that was more satisfying than any drug. I'd sent him away after the second week.

And now, I had a new routine. Mornings were for physical therapy, forcing my ruined legs back into submission through sheer force of will. Afternoons were for planning. Evenings were for hunting.

Tonight's hunt was named Sarah.

For thirteen weeks, she had been my project. I'd studied her the way a biologist studies a specimen, learning her rhythms, her patterns, her vulnerabilities. She was a creature of habit, a predictable little mouse living in a predictable little world. She went to school, and spent her evenings with her predictable little friends.

Including Charlize.

I'd seen them together twice from a distance. Charlize looked... different. Softer. The haunted, hunted look in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet, contented glow that made my blood boil. She laughed. She leaned into Leo's touch. She was happy.

And that happiness was an insult. It was a desecration of the art I had created in her. I was going to erase it.

But first, Sarah. Tonight was the night, her parents gone for a few days.

I sat in the driver's seat of my sedan, the engine idling softly, a mile from her apartment building. The binoculars felt cold against my eyes. I watched her third floor window, the light from her TV painting the ceiling in shifting blue and purple.

Sarah's light finally went out.

Showtime.

I got out of the car, the night air cool on my skin. I moved through the shadows with a practiced grace, my limp a ghost of the pain I once felt. I knew the building's layout by heart. I knew the rusted fire escape that led to her floor. I knew the faulty lock on their kitchen window.

I was inside her apartment in less than three minutes. The air smelled of her vanilla lotion, fruity shampoo, the lingering scent of the coffee she'd spilled on her shirt. It was the smell of a life I was about to ruin.

I stood in the dark of her living room, a silhouette of death and revenge. I could hear her in the bedroom, humming softly to herself as she got ready for bed. I thought of Charlize, of her smile, of her ring. I thought of Leo, of his hands on her, of his voice whispering promises in her ear.

I was going to make them pay. I was going to make them all pay.

Sarah walked into the living room, her silhouette framed by the bedroom light. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun. She saw me, and her eyes went wide, a small gasp escaping her lips.

"Hello, Sarah," I said, my voice a low, dangerous purr. "We need to have a little chat about your friend."

I didn't give her a chance to scream or run. My hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her startled gasp, and I spun her around, slamming her back against the cold plaster of the hallway wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, but I didn't care. I just needed to move fast.

I spun her to face me, ripping the cuffs from my pocket. I snapped them around her wrists with clinical efficiency, tightening them until her skin turned white.

Sarah looked at the metal biting into her flesh, then up at me, her blue eyes wide with terror. "What... what are you doing? Let me go!"

"Not yet," I said, a cruel smile stretching my lips. I walked her toward the small, kitchenette table in the center of the room. I shoved her down into the hard wood, forcing her to spread her legs to keep her balance. I leaned in close, invading her personal space, breathing in the sweet, terrified scent of her.

"I've been watching you, Sarah," I whispered, my voice low and raspy. "I've been watching every move you make. Every time you laughed with her. Every time you touched her arm. I know what you meant to her."

She tried to pull away, but the cuffs only dug deeper into her wrists. "I didn't do anything! Charlize is happy, she's... she's fine!"

"Is she?" I stepped back, my eyes drinking in the sight of her trembling body. "Is she really? Or is she just pretending?"

I walked to the window and pulled the blinds, shutting out the city lights. The room plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the streetlamps outside and the soft glow of the lamp on the table.

"Now," I said, turning back to her. "It's time for the next chapter of our story. You're going to tell me everything. Everything she said about me. Everything she feels about Leo. And if you're lying... well, that will just make things more interesting."

I pulled a knife from my pocket and clicked it open. The blade caught the light, a silver flash. I knelt before her, my hand on her knee. She flinched, her body tensing. I ignored it and ran my thumb over the rough denim of her shorts.

"Let's get you out of these," I murmured, my voice dropping to a seductive purr. "You're so nervous. So scared. But you should be grateful. I'm going to enjoy undressing you. I'm going to enjoy every inch of you."

I started to unbutton her shorts, my fingers deliberately slow, testing her reactions. She froze, her breath hitching in her throat. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"We'll start with the shorts," I said, pulling them down her legs. She kicked them off, revealing pale, trembling legs. I ran my hand up one, my fingers digging into her thigh, pulling her closer.

"You know," I whispered, my eyes locked on hers. "I'm going to make you scream. I'm going to make you beg. And I'm going to make sure that every time you see Charlize, you'll remember me. You'll remember what I did to you."

I moved my hand to her shirt, the buttons flying off like bullets. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but I pinned them to the table with my free hand. I leaned in, kissing her neck, my tongue tracing the vein thumping in her skin.

"I can smell your fear," I growled, hissing in her ear. "It tastes better than any drug I've ever taken."

I undressed her completely, leaving her naked and shivering on the table, her wrists cuffed to the legs. I stood back and admired my work. She was beautiful. A perfect little doll, broken and waiting to be played with.

"Now," I said, stepping back and unbuckling my own belt. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, Sarah. I'm going to show you exactly what happens when you touch my property."

I stepped forward, my eyes locked on hers, full of predatory intent. "Tell me, Sarah. How much do you love Charlize?"

She shook her head, tears streaming down her other face. "I love her! I do!"

"Then you'll do exactly what I tell you," I said, pulling my shirt off and tossing it aside. "Because I'm going to make you wish you were dead. I'm going to make you wish you had never met me."

I moved between her legs, my hands on her hips, pulling her closer. I looked down at her, my eyes full of malice. "You're going to be my little toy while I wait for her. And when she comes to visit you... she'll find you like this. She'll find you broken, used, and crying."

I positioned myself, ready to enter her. "Do you understand?"

She nodded, her eyes wide with terror. "Yes."

"Good," I said, thrusting forward. "Now, scream for me."

The entry was brutal, a tearing of flesh that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession. I didn't ease into it; I drove myself home, burying myself in her with a force that made her eyes bulge and her back arch off the table. There was no room for gentleness in this room, no room for the slow, delicate dance of love. I was a storm, and she was the tree in the wind, snapping at the seams.

I pulled back and slammed forward again, harder this time. Her breath hitched in a strangled sob, the sound torn from her throat as my hips pistoned against hers. The sound of our flesh meeting wet, slap, skin on skin filled the silent room, a crude percussion to my rage. I watched her face contort, her mouth opening and closing like a fish on a dock, trying to find air, trying to find words, but finding only sound.

"You like this?" I growled, leaning over her, my hands gripping her hips so hard I was leaving bruises that would last for weeks. "You like being used? You like knowing that this isn't love? This is what I do, Sarah. This is how I take what I want."

I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. I kissed her there, licking the salty tears that had started to fall, tasting the pure, unadulterated terror that coated her skin. I nipped at her earlobe, the sharp sting making her shudder violently.

"You're just a warm body to hold me over until she comes back," I whispered, my voice a dark, seductive threat. "And right now, you're nothing but a hole. A convenient place to stick my dick while I wait for the real prize."

I increased my tempo, the table legs creaking in protest, scraping against the floor with a rhythmic screech that matched the rising tempo of my thrusts. I was sweating, my muscles straining with the effort, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The anger was a black hole inside me, and I was feeding it with every violent thrust, with every bruise I left on her pale skin.

I reached down and pinched her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, twisting it cruelly. She cried out, a sharp, piercing sound that echoed off the cheap walls of the apartment. I smiled, feeling a surge of dark satisfaction. Her body was responding to me, her muscles clamping tight around me, squeezing me, drawing me in. She was fighting it, hating it, but her body was betraying her, surrendering to the pleasure that was warring with the pain.

"That's it," I hissed, watching her face twist in a mix of ecstasy and agony. "Feel it. Feel me. I'm inside you. I'm part of you now. You can't get rid of me. You can't go back to Charlize and say you're clean. You're dirty, Sarah. You're mine."

I pulled out suddenly, leaving her gasping, the air cold against her exposed flesh. She looked at me with wide, confused eyes, her chest heaving.

"Not yet," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "We're not done. I'm going to teach you what it means to truly be afraid. I'm going to show you the power I have over you, over her, over the whole world."

I moved to the edge of the table, spreading her legs wider. I didn't use any lube, just the slickness of her own arousal and the friction of my skin. I slammed back into her, and she let out a long, keening moan. I gripped her ankles and pressed them back toward her chest, folding her in half like a ragdoll. The angle changed, and the impact was different, deeper, hitting a spot inside her that made her scream.

"Look at me!" I commanded, my hand coming up to grab her chin, forcing her to look at my face. "Look at who's fucking you. Look at who's going to make you wish you'd never met me."

I drove into her with a relentless, punishing rhythm, my eyes locking onto hers, refusing to let her look away. I saw the fear in her eyes the pure terror, and it only fueled me. I wanted to break her. I wanted to see her completely undone, reduced to a quivering mess of broken nerves and shattered self respect.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," I promised, my voice harsh and raw.

I could feel the end approaching, a white hot explosion of sensation that threatened to consume everything. I didn't slow down. I didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. I pounded into her with everything I had, fueled by the memory of the brand, the sledgehammer, the cage.

"Come for me, Sarah," I snarled, my hand clamping over her mouth to muffle the sound of her impending climax. "Come on my cock. Show me what I've done to you."

She screamed into my palm, her body arching off the table, her muscles convulsing around me. I felt her walls clamp down, milking me, pulling me deeper, harder. I thrust one last time, burying myself to the hilt, and released everything I had left, a hot, sticky river that filled her completely.

I collapsed on top of her, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat and our combined fluids. I looked down at her, her eyes glassy, her body trembling, the aftermath of my violence.

"Good girl," I whispered, kissing her forehead, a mockery of affection. "Good little plaything. Now, stay there. Just stay there and think about me."

I pulled out, the separation feeling like a loss, but it was a necessary loss. I stood up and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I looked in the mirror, saw my reflection, and smiled. I was a monster. I was broken. But I was back. And I was going to make them pay.