Blood Right

"And with the blood of a virgin, the ritual is complete."

A deep voice boomed out, echoing off the packed earth lining the basement of an abandoned shack. The ground level already sat partially collapsed, the elements taking their toll on the termite-infested planks that once held it all together. Pitch blackness surrounded it in the dead of night. Trees of an unkempt forest locked away its secrets deep within their scraggly folds.

In the basement, candles burned, dripping wax like a torrential waterfall in slow motion while hooded, cloaked figures moved in from the shadows, encircling a girl bound and gagged in the center of a chalk pentagram. Her navy pleated skirt rode up her thighs, baby blue panties peeking out underneath the hem. Arms tied in front, legs bound tightly together; white collared dress shirt pressed tight, buttons threatening to burst over her breasts--her innocent doe eyes quivered at the metallic glint of a knife catching the flickering candlelight.

She tried to scream, but only muffles escaped her school uniform's tie, the maroon-tinted fabric stuffed unceremoniously between her delicate cherry-red lips. One of the figures, black muslin flowing shapelessly around their body read out from a leather-bound book--the Sanguinomicon. Gold embossed letters worn with years, no, centuries of use lined its thick spine.

Struggling against her restraints, she tried to crawl out of the pentagram, but dark figures blocked her. The knife drew nearer. Tears streamed down her face while she felt helpless, trapped.

The sharp edge grazed her cheek. Stormy grey eyes gazed emotionless from underneath the black hood of the knife-wielder, eyes that she knew. Sobbing, she replayed her short life through her head, bracing for the worst. The knife drew back, point directly over her chest. Silently, she tried to beg for her life. Her whole body trembled. She shut her eyes and prayed.

Her prayers were answered.

Above them, heavy footsteps could be heard. The Master of Ritual closed the Sanguinomicon's yellowed pages to see who invaded their sacred place of worship. Pounding on the basement door caused the other cloaked attendees to stop and stare, all eyes glued to the entrance of their holy ground.

With a bang, the basement door swung open. Strobe lights flooded the room while police sirens blared outside. Officers in SWAT gear, guns out, hands on the trigger, rushed into the basement of the dilapidated shack shouting:

"Drop it!"

"Hands up!"

Chaos ensued as the ritual stopped interrupted and incomplete. Candle stands toppled, extinguishing on the packed earth floor in plumes of smoke. Many hooded figures escaped into the night, pushing past officers in a flutter of shapeless black with the Sanguinomicon dropped in the confusion.

"Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt?" An officer removed the girl's gag making her cough and sputter.

"What's your name? Who did this to you?" Another officer cut the twine rope binding her and offered her a bottle of water. After catching her breath, she finally spoke simply and straightforwardly.

"I'm fine."

"Can we get your name for the record?" An officer in a bulletproof vest took out a tape recorder.

"Melissa," she said, once again, simply.

"Care to tell us why there's a Satanic ritual going on here?" Two more officers surrounded her now, helping her to her feet.

"I need to go home," she said, once again, straightforwardly.

"Give us a statement," the officer pleaded from behind his helmet.

"Am I free to leave?"

"Legally, yes, but--"

"Then I'm going home." And with that, Melissa simply stood up, straightened her skirt, and walked off into the night, rope burns on her wrists, ignoring the officer's requests for her statement. She was a very straightforward girl.

~

Three in the morning. At least, that's what time Melissa thought it was. Her birth-donors banned her from owning a cellphone, even a shit one. Unlocking the front door, Melissa entered her quiet suburban home. Tiptoeing up the stairs, she treaded over the carpet, careful not to wake her sleeping parents. In small towns like hers, news spread fast. In her backpack, she carried the Sanguinomicon, saved (barely) from police custody.

Entering her bedroom, she locked the door behind her. Well, technically she wasn't allowed to lock her door either, but fuck the rules. Pagan trinkets adorned her shelves, draped with black satin. Skulls harvested from roadkill, quartz crystals, and tarot cards filled every available space. And, of course, in the center of her teenage bedroom, a bright pink bed complete with pastel pillows and excessive frills sat smack dab in the center, standing out like a sore thumb. She hated her bed, but her mom insisted, and it wasn't like she had the money to buy bedding that suited her eccentric tastes anyway.

Having celebrated her eighteenth birthday just a week prior, Melissa felt very grown-up. Adults wouldn't understand. Fiddling with her lambert lip piercing with her tongue, she unbuttoned her blouse and lay down on the bed. She rustled through the musty Sanguinomicon, yellowed pages inked with calligraphy and occult symbols, cryptic and vast. A silver pentagram pendant on a chain hung from her neck, dangling between her cleavage while she perused the black magic between its leather covers.

The Blood Rite: the ritual that was supposed to happen that night. Melissa didn't think they'd actually try to sacrifice her. She would have slept with Fred if she knew they'd hold her at knifepoint. Running her fingers over the vellum, probably made from sacrificed goats, she read and reread the ancient runes before drifting off into a troubled sleep.

~

In her angsty teenage dreams, images flitted across the great plane of her adolescent mind.

From the depths of her subconscious, a giant clawed hand with pointed nails burst forth, enveloping her, crushing her until she felt her breath leave her lungs. Pentagrams dripping with blood melted off the walls while the room shrank and shrank into nothingness, taking her with it.

Reduced to a speck, Melissa floated through the void. Ancient voices speaking in tongues teased her ears. She felt a tugging on her piercing, stretching her lower lip outwards and lengthwise until it stretched across the blackness, pinning itself to a pike in the distance. Being a dream, she accepted her new warped reality.

The clawed hand returned, dwarfing her in its presence. With a single flick of its gnarled index finger, her baby blue panties shredded, exposing her rounded buttocks. With lip pinned in the distance, she gasped as one giant demonic digit rubbed up and down the outside of her virgin slit. Flashes of goats with four horns and owls with six beaks taunted her eyes which were now sewn open, lids embedded in her skull.

The rubbing on her pussy became vigorous. Her clit swelled larger and larger like a balloon, expanding with each stroke of the hellish hand, the hard nub jutting out like a small dick. Young hormonal juices trickled down her legs. Moaning, she felt herself reach the edge in the most fucked up wet dream she ever had. The demonic hand sensed it too and stopped teasing. Fingers curled, sharp nails on point, the hand grabbed Melissa whole, sinking into her flesh. She felt no pain, but she felt something stir inside her womb while continuing to sail through dreamland on turbulent waves.

~

The next morning, Melissa awoke tired and disheveled. Running a hand under her panties, she felt soaked. Her pungent arousal stuck to the inside of her thighs and stained her sheets.

"That was trippy."

Usually, she forgot her dreams, but she remembered this one in vivid detail. Something about a giant hand merging into her--she yawned. Saturdays were family fun time. A term coined by her dad, and a term she hated with a passion like her hot pink bedsheets.

Shuffling down the stairs in a jet-black bathrobe, she followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen.

"Rise and shine, bubbly-kins," Her mother greeted her with a warm smile while piling never-ending eggs and bacon onto a plate with a spatula.

Melissa grumbled, "You know I hate when you call me that, mom."

"Would you like ketchup with that?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Melissa tousled her already ruffled hair before slumping down at the kitchen table in front of her dad.

"Morning, honey pumpkin," He beamed at her while skimming over his newspaper in his daily ritual. She growled in response.

This morning, everything ticked Melissa off. The stupid pet names, the stupid decaffeinated coffee in her stupid pink cup, and especially the stupid smile of the stupid ketchup face her stupid mom squirted over her stupid eggs and bacon.

"Fuck this. I'm going back to bed."

"Nah-ah-ah, no you don't, sweet pea babycakes. It's family fun time, and we are going to family fun watch the news." Her father wagged his finger at her.

"Listen to your daddy, darling angel muffin."

"Ugh, fine. I'll watch the lame-ass news, but that's it."

"Good." With a sip of decaffeinated organic coffee, he turned on the tv with a remote.

Channel Nine news flickered onscreen. A middle-aged reporter lady appeared flustered in a burgundy suit jacket, holding a microphone to her lips, badly permed hair windswept. Behind her, the abandoned shack Melissa almost died in not twenty-four hours earlier sat surrounded by scraggly trees and shrubbery.

"Hello, Maplewood, this is Angie with your morning news. Breaking story just in, police say they raided a dangerous Satanic ritual last night that sent shockwaves through the sheriff's office. Cloaked figures wearing black tunics were spotted running away into the woods. Eyewitness reports state seeing smoke rising out of this very shack."

Melissa's father raised an eyebrow and set down his paper. Her mother stopped squirting ketchup onto her breakfast spread, ears perking up in interest. The special report continued:

"Inside the basement, SWAT team members found a girl bound and gagged, but unharmed in the middle of what appeared to be a demonic pentagram. Police also discovered remnants of animal blood at the scene. Unable to confirm if the victim was a minor, police are keeping her identity secret at this time. If you or anyone you know have any leads, please call the station at 555-JUST-NO-SATAN. To repeat, that's 555-JUST-NO-SATAN."

"Oh dear, Jeebus Fishsticks," Melissa's father gasped, clutching his hand to his heart. Being a good Christian, he never used the Lord's name in vain.

"Oh dear, hubby bubby! Take deep breaths and pray, just like the good doctor told you." Her mother went to comfort him, but her own mouth no longer closed properly on its hinges.

Melissa sighed loudly and rolled her eyes while the reporter wrapped up her fear-mongering.

"Until more is confirmed, stay safe, stay inside and keep Jesus close. This is Angie with your morning news. Now back to you, Robert, with the weather..."

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..." mumbled her father incoherently.

"We told you this witchy stuff of yours was no good, bubbly-kins. Letting you decorate your room was a mistake. Now young girls are being kidnapped, and worse, being turned into..." her mother whispered the last part, "... atheists! Oh, pray to Jesus, honey bumpkin."

"Jesus god damn it, mom, I'll be fine." Melissa suddenly felt constipated, pain welling up in her lower abdomen. Too much bacon grease, she thought, gritting her teeth in frustration.

"You're going to church tomorrow, young lady. We're gonna wash the sin right out of you," spewed her father, eyes nearly bulging out of his sockets.

"No, anything but that," begged Melissa.

"Our house, our rules. Thou shall obey thy mother and thy father. You will go to church tomorrow and you will like it until you accept Jesus as your Lord and savior. Until then, you're grounded until this Satanism you kids are doing is gone from our god-fearing town." Tears welled up in her mother's eyes. Her word was final.

"I'm eighteen now. I don't have to listen to you anymore."

"Honey dearest, I think it's time we get the padlocks," suggested her father.

"The padlocks?" Melissa's eyes widened with fear.

"The padlocks. Go to your room. Now." Her mother, and once again, her word was final.

"But mommmmm..."

"You and your demon friends will not wreak havoc on our good Christain neighborhood. Now go upstairs to your room, and don't come out until dinner," said her mother.

"Fuck you." Begrudgingly, Melissa stomped upstairs, slamming the door behind her. To be honest, she felt a little clammy and a little bed rest wouldn't hurt. At least her parents didn't discover the Sanguinomicon. Chains clinked unceremoniously outside her room while her overzealous parents locked her away in her personal prison.

~

Melissa felt woozy. Fatigue took over as she collapsed defeated on her bed, pink frills framing her youthful face. She planned to go out with Fred on a date later that night, but after him trying to kill her, she wasn't sure she trusted him anymore. Anyway, it wasn't like she could go out seeing that her parents locked her inside with padlocks.

"Ugh..."

Pressure welled up in her stomach again. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, the translucent drops glistening like dew. The bacon grease really did a number on her. Groaning, she shifted onto all fours to try and relieve herself of the discomfort. Her pentagram pendant dangled precariously over her shoulders.

"It's just gas. Should've eaten more veg."

But it wasn't gas. In the moment of realization, her face dropped in horror. How could she forget her period was due?

"Fuck." She knew only a small window of opportunity existed before the cramps overpowered her, but the pain meds sat downstairs in the kitchen. Thinking quickly on her feet, she ruffled through her drawers for a pair of underwear she didn't care about.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." Most of her clothes lay dirty in a neglected laundry heap, leaving only untarnished, white cotton panties. Her mom would know, and then she would--Melissa knotted her brow in frustration. She didn't want to think about that.

And the pain! Searing, throbbing pain. It didn't matter who knew she was on the rag. She pounded on the door, chains rattling outside.

"Mom! Dad! I need to use the bathroom!" No response.

She placed her ear over the wall bordering the hallway. Muffled voices could be heard. The terms 'reformatory school' and 'Christian values' floated through the plaster, stinging her ears with venom.

"I'm eighteen. They can't send me off without my consent," she scoffed. Then with more desperation in her voice, "Mom! Dad! Mom! Dad! Let me out! Let me out!" Still nothing.

Dropping to her knees crying, Melissa sobbed great big tears. Neglected in her overbearing household, she felt trapped and hopeless. Her parents weren't coming for her. She didn't even know if they loved her.

Along with her agonizing tears, a solitary ruby-red drop trickled down her leg. "If I'm gonna be stuck here on my period, I might as well free bleed all over those stupid bedsheets. Fuck them."

With labored breaths she removed her bathrobe and laid splayed out naked on the bed, mounting pressure pulsing from her insides. Next to her, the Sanguinomicon stared at her enticingly, its pages fluttering open of their own accord.

The Blood Rite:

Be one of willing soul to part from thy lips,

Virgin ruby most sanguine.

Give unto me your devotion,

Centered on the five-pointed star sublime.

Merge with me as one in bath of blood.

Before one knows, it shall be done.

At least, that's how she and her pagan friends shoddily translated the Latin. Mulling over the black magic, throbbing pain dulling her senses, her heavy lids threatened to pull her into a restless sleep.

Tap... tap... tap...

Grumbling, she propped up her head, looking for the source of the rapping on her window pane.

Tap... tap... thunk!

"What the hell?" Something hard bounced off her window with a clunk.

Slipping on a pair of white cotton panties and an oversized band t-shirt, she opened her curtains and peered outside. It was Fred, at his feet a pile of twigs and rocks. A stone from the garden sat clutched in his left hand, waiting to be thrown at the unsuspecting glass pane.

"God damn it, Fred. What are you doing here?" She yelled down at him while sliding open the window.

Standing there in khaki board shorts and faded graphic tee, he looked up at her, grey eyes bloodshot. Unkempt stubble stuck out from his nineteen-year-old chin in an edgy goatee. In a scratchy stoner voice he yelled back, "Yo, Mel, we need to talk."

"Well, I don't want to talk to you anymore, Frederic, you fucking dingus."

"Hey, don't call me that! Frederic is a prep name. But, no, really, it's important. I'm sorry about what happened last night." He grabbed two blunts from his back pocket and waved them at her. "Wanna smoke a joint? I got the good stuff."

Melissa usually didn't smoke dank weed, but she did hear on the internet once (a trustful source of information) that marijuana works as a painkiller. Looking behind her to make sure her parents didn't barge in, she contemplated how to climb out the window to her sort-of-maybe boyfriend.

Being on the second floor meant she couldn't just hop out so she needed something like a rope. Her pagan paraphernalia would be no good, and she quite liked her gothic garb in the dirty clothes pile,  but there were those bedsheets--those ugly, stupid hot pink bedsheets. Already stained with blood, cutting them up would make a good 'fuck you' message. Hopefully, they could also hold her body weight.

"Okay, give me a moment."

As much as she seethed with anger over Fred trying to kill her, the devil's lettuce, tempting her with escape from reality, convinced her to risk her parents' wrath. It wasn't like they could do much worse.

Gleefully ripping up her bedsheets with a pair of scissors, she knotted the strips together before securing the makeshift escape device to the railing of her bed. It looked long enough to get the job done. Shifting her body around, she felt a gush of hot viscous liquid slip out, smearing into her panties.

There was no time to be picky. She either left now or potentially got sent to a culty reformation school for young adults. Only one thing remained before she shimmied down to the waiting Fred. Slipping her panties down, a long strand of period-goo trailing behind, she grabbed one of the pastel pillows off her bed and rubbed it over her bloody pussy, staining it with unadulterated teenage angst.

"That'll show my parents who's boss, bitch."

The band shirt stopped just above her kneecaps, legal enough to leave the house in, and, of course, she hastily grabbed the Sanguinomicon, her state id card and all five dollars in change she owned. With a final check to her bedroom door, she gathered her few worldly possessions in her backpack, threw the rope out the window and prayed.

As a child, she prayed to god, but now she prayed to Satan--may he damn her soul.

Dried blood sticking to her thighs, cramps feeling like they were scraping her insides with an ice cream scooper; she carefully put her legs over the window ledge and slid down the rope with the grace of a dying antelope.

Halfway down, feet dangling over the first-floor window, the rope lurched.

"Uh oh."

Melissa's eyes widened. Her knuckles white while she clutched the bedsheets, holding on for dear life. The bed scraped against the floor like a train slowly going off the rails. Her body weight forced the bed towards the window, lowering her at an alarming rate. Screaming out, the bed crashed into the window, sending her flying into the perfectly manicured bushes lining her small town, suburban home.