Ed. Note: I wrote this nearly twenty years ago in memory of my time in San Francisco. It’s the second of a trilogy, and I had a lot of fun writing it. Let’s see how well it’s aged, shall we?
Chapter One; Part One
Paris runs his hands down my body, taking his time. He stares in adoration at my generous curves, even though he usually prefers his women a bit more waifish. I’m short, which he likes, but curvier than his usual suspects. He licks his lips in anticipation as he peels off each piece of my clothing until he finally uncovers my naked body which is waiting for him to touch me. Every nerve is crying out to him as he lovingly picks up the chainsaw resting by his hand. My eyes widen as he starts it. I try to move, but my arms are tied to the bed. He turns on the chainsaw and raises it high in the air. He is grinning savagely as he lowers the chainsaw, his wide-set green eyes dancing with maniacal glee. My struggles increase as the chainsaw bypasses my head and nears my breasts.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout at Paris, my best friend, only the words are stuck in my throat and can’t be heard. I scream as the blade bites into my left breast. Paris acts as if he hasn’t heard me, so intent is he on the task at hand. I cannot believe he is doing this to me; we have been best friends for fourteen years, and he’s going to hack me apart with a chainsaw? He pauses, lifting the chainsaw. Chocolate syrup is oozing out of the wound. He leans close to my ear.
“Rayne, Rayne, wake the fuck up.” What? Why is he saying that? I struggle to get away from his hot breath, but he won’t leave me alone. “You’re having a bad dream. Wake up!” I listen to what he’s saying, but it makes no sense. He is shaking me, leaving the chainsaw to the side. I slowly realize that I’ve been dreaming, and I allow myself to be roused from my sleep.
“Paris?” I open one eye and see my best friend’s face filled with concern. “What time is it? What day is it?”
“It’s six in the morning. Saturday morning. February. You were screaming so loud, I could hear you from my room.” His green eyes, the same ones that had tormented me in my dream, gaze at me with concern. I stare at him, his eyes, the blond hair, the muscular frame, as if I’ve never seen him before. He sits on the edge of my bed and gathers me in his arms. We have done this nightmare things so many times, we have it down to a science. He has to repeat the same information to me after each episode. Time of day, what day, what month.
“Paris, it was horrible. You had me tied down and were cutting me apart with a chainsaw.” I huddle against his muscular body, feeling the fear I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in the dream. He is almost a foot taller than I, and I take comfort in his bulk. It’s been this way for the last month, ever since I almost lost my life to a killer with nothing to lose and everything to gain by killing me. Paris is a part-time personal trainer, and one of his client’s girlfriends was killed at a party Paris and I attended. The client herself was killed shortly after. Paris and I were suspects until I cleared our names, almost losing my life and my faith in humanity at the same time. A month later, I am nowhere near recovered.