Week Ten: The Pontianak Part Five
1005 Words
Same warning as the last two weeks.
The Pontianak swallowed, and Jackson could breathe again, gasping against all odds. The Pontianak just smiled. “That is the pain Lucille felt when you hit her for the first time.”
Jackson shook his head. The pain of a slap was nothing compared to this. Even when Jackson accidentally broke Lucille’s arm, she didn’t feel like this. That pain could be put into words, and this couldn’t be.
Don’t tell him that the sting of flesh against flesh was nothing compared to the wrath of a lover. I think he’d explode.
The Pontianak just rolled her eyes and grabbed the next smallest piece. “This is how Lucille felt when you lied to her again and again.” She placed the chunk of heart on her tongue and bit down.
The next wave of pain was even worse as it shot through like scorching lava, setting everything in its wake aflame. Jackson burned as the Pontianak chewed slowly, thoughtfully even. She loved hearing his breaths come out in blood-splattered wheezes. She loved watching his limbs go entirely rigid, shaking under the weight of paint that made his consciousness melt. She loved knowing that he wanted to die, but wouldn’t, couldn’t until she let him.
The Pontianak felt fulfilled. This was her purpose. This is what Lucille would want if she weren’t bound by humanity. No matter. The Pontianak would just have to make it so.
She swallowed. Jackson lay on his couch, going completely limp. He had finally stopped bleeding, though only because there was no more blood inside of him to bleed. Everything around him was drenched in metallic red, Jackson’s own tongue covered with a thin film that tasted of pennies and papercuts.
The Pontianak grinned, the blood on her teeth dribbling down her chin. She was starting to feel satisfied. “Halfway done.”
Jackson felt immense relief at that. He’s almost dead. Almost free of the demon and her claws.
“This is what Lucille felt when you killed her.” The Pontianak licked the third piece, making Jackson cry out in agony before finally placing it in her mouth and biting down. This next wave felt like every single one of Jackson’s bones was shattering, the serrated chunks exploding into his skin like metal shrapnel. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe through his phantom lungs.
By the time The Pontianak swallowed, Jackson should’ve died from asphyxiation. But, instead, he gasped for breath again, his face an impressive shade of blue. I kind of liked it on him. It was suiting, at least.
The Pontianak grabbed the last piece, the biggest one. It kept pounding in her hand, even without the rest of the heart to sustain it. It was almost pathetic, really, how it struggled against the laws of nature only to be soon devoured by the very thing preserving it.
Or maybe it was just pathetic that it belonged to Jackson Ebony.
Either way, the Pontianak stroked in gently again, watching Jackson’s back arch. “And this last piece will kill you.”
Jackson swallowed. Good. That was good. Jackson wanted to die. He needed to die! Because Death would stroke his hair and tell him that he didn’t deserve it. Death would hear of the horrors of the Pontianak and set up a special place of torture. He would be just fine once he died!
The Pontianak squeezed the chunk in her hands. Jackson spasmed. “And this piece doesn’t do Lucille justice.”
Jackson doubted that. He never did anything this terrible to Lucy. He was good to Lucy. She loved him, and he loved her. If Lucille died because she couldn’t take a punch, then that was her problem! What was he supposed to do about it? The nerve of this Pontianak to burst into his house and act like he was some rotten killer just like the jury did was sickening. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t-!
The Pontianak slammed the piece into the table so hard the faux wood shattered. “This how it felt when you killed her ability to dream!”
Jackson choked on the pain, spasming again in a pool of his blood.
“This is the pain she felt when you, Jackson Ebony, killed her child!” She tore the piece in half with her teeth, chewing viciously on the piece in her mouth.
And there were no words to describe Jackson’s pain. Just as there were no words to describe the agony of the person you love the most killing the most precious thing in your life. When the Pontianak shoved the second piece in her mouth, the pain only grew.
Lucille Ebony had died in her living room, right beside the stairwell. She had been carrying a dinner tray to Jackson when she tripped. She caught herself but spilled the food. She had already been flustered enough, but once Jackson marched up at her, she was doomed.
She was used to the way he would slap her, palm biting into cheek. She was used to the way his hand would move down to her neck as he lifted her just slightly into the air.
She was not used to how he slammed her backward into the wall. Once for a cry of pain. Twice for a wave of dizziness. Thrice for a sickening crunch and a body gone limp.
Jackson was dying on his blood-soaked couch. One swallow to teach him. Two for punishment. Three for vengeance. And four for death.
As the Pontianak swallowed, Jackson’s vision started to blacken. His phantom wheezes slowed until they came to a painful stop. His hands fell limp by his side. He died in the middle of the most ruinous bout of pain. Right before he completely faded, he spotted Death in the corner. Death looked like they always did when picking up the soul of a wretched beast: nothing but smoke in the shape of a vague creature, one glowing red eye on each palm. Jackson felt no ease in slipping away, but that is Death’s story. The Pontianak did not follow him into death.
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