The one who had no say

A short story about a killer

I use to be cheered on, I use to be glorified. I used to bring fans to their feet, cheering his name. Not anymore.He says yes. She screams no. I am silent with the inability to protest, or cheer on, either way it’s nothing, I’m nothing. Just a tool for hitting, bludgeoning, and beating. He grips harder, wrapping each finger individually around me. With each finger comes a surge of anger and power. With each whip of me a defining crack of skull resonates in the still air. I feel her sticky warm blood running down my body. She keeps screaming, until,  one hit to the side of her head silences her. I felt every blow to her head, arms and body. I could feel it all with such intensity that my hollow heart aches. I sympathize with his victims, because I am his victim. This one was blonde, the last was brunet. At least they get to die, how I wish I could die, instead I must relive each crippling blow, each breaking of the neck, each death. I yearn to die, I ache to be finished. I always think it will be over when he gently wipes away the blood and when he places me over the mantle, my place of former glory. I think it’s over until a red head walks through the door, with hopes of meeting a player. Then they say to see the bat, and he says ok, and I’m the one with no say.