Death of the Party-1

AUTHOR’S NOTE: WARNING: This work is DARK. That is, it contains dark elements that may not be to many tastes even to those of my readers who are accustomed to my other works. The most important element of that is the following:

This work contains a graphic rape scene. It’s key to the story and the moral and my position on rape is as always a strongly anti-rape one. Still, since the scene is in there, it behooves me to warn you of it.

That being said, I hope you enjoy reading this work.


Raven Mallard was bored.

That’s a lie.

She was more angry than bored.

That’s not the whole truth.

If she kept up the pace she was downing the brandy, soon she’d be neither angry nor bored.

She poured herself another dram into the crappy red plastic cups that always seem to pollute every college party as an asshole in a penis costume elbowed the back of her skull. She wanted to punch him, but he was already out of range heading off to talk to her roommate Heather in the “Naughty Kitty” costume. A craptastic, unoriginal costume idea that consisted of a blonde trying to wear and all black FUR ensemble and pretend like it worked and didn’t defy logic. Fuck, if she wasn’t stacked like a damn heifer with a size 0 waist, who’d give her the time of day?

She was also the reason Raven was in this Halloween party. Heather had dragged her quite forcibly to this fucking frat house to enjoy the wonderful antics of morons. Actually better than that; these were DRUNK morons. Far dumber, far hornier, and far, far less attractive. She tried to say no, tried to explain that the commercialization and Christianization of Samhain was something she abhorred. She had used too many big words. Thus, the brandy. The brandy was quickly becoming her best friend to keep her from killing her roommate.

Another frat guy far taller than her and dressed comically as a beer can smacked her across the face as he stumbled towards the punch, Raven sullenly thought about bloody murder. As she finished filling up the cup to the brim with hard brandy, another idiot complimented her on her costume for quote-unquote “mocking those stupid fucking Goths.” She DID trod on that fuckers toes.

Stupid fucking Goths. Yeah, she’d been one of those for years now. Ever since she’d been old enough to have attitude, old enough to see how the world of women was stacked towards the Aryan and pretty. Sure, she was dark haired. Sure, she was stockily built. Sure her breasts were ground firmly in reality. Did this make her less than bitches like Heather? Cunts whose skulls you could use to store cereal? Hell fucking no.

She slumped down on a couch, before another idiot dressed in, oh yes, a vampire costume, how original, decided to bump her brandy into her lap. She drank sullenly and took a quick look at her couch companions.

There was a couple making out on her left, but they were about to fall off the couch anyway. Probably wouldn’t remember each other’s names in the morning. On her right, though…on her right was a man in the single best Grim Reaper costume she’d ever seen.

“Hey there.”

“Yes,” the voice was deep, a bit dry, but overall normal, even a little natural to Raven’s booze-enhanced ears.

“Your outfit is perfect.”

“Why thanks. I spent a lot of time on it.”

“So what’re you doing at this shit party?”

“Waiting. I’m supposed to meet somebody here.”

“Ah,” she said, feeling the desire to talk flee her. Raven was hardly social, in fact she usually was able to put anti-social to shame for not devoting enough time to the withering stare. As a result, her propensity for the inane bullshit of all the other drones, the wasted small talks and meaningless nothings was nonexistent. So, sated with her questions answered, she looked around and Mr. Grim went back to waiting.

She spotted Heather talking with three boys, one of them Mr. Beer Can, all of whom would likely be joining her upstairs for a tete a tete on a beer and jizz soaked carpet. And she would brag about it too. For the rest of the week in her perky little voice with her head turned to one side and a finger astride her lip and ask how many Raven had done. Like getting violated by horny morons was the ultimate goal in life.

She took a big swig. Bad idea, she thought sputtering hard. The coughing just wouldn’t end and she could see the frat assholes glancing once at her as if deciding if she was pretty enough to warrant help. Fuck them. Fuck them all to Hell. She pounded her chest as she felt the coughs draw to a close…and turn into nausea. Just fucking great.

She sprinted to the upstairs bathroom, the one that’s always open while everyone waits in an hour-and-a-half long line for the downstairs bathroom, and vomited into the open toilet where apparently a urine-filled fire hose with bad aim had tried to go off. She vomited again and again until all that was left was dry heaves and the steady knowledge that she was going to kill Heather for this night. Some time when she was asleep, Raven thought happily.

There was a click behind her of the door closing. She glanced behind her. Bad fucking idea. Sure enough Monsieur Original, the vampire, was staring directly at her ass as she was bent over the toilet. She could see his Neanderthal brain putting together all the wrong ideas and realized it was a bad time to be in here. She began to get up and heard the click of the lock of the door. Oh, no, he just fucking didn’t.

A hairy hand clamped over her throat as she tried to pierce his toes with her high-heeled black boots. One good thing about Goth fashion is that you always have at least one legal deadly weapon around you at all times. The problem was that she was far too drunk and nauseous to hit him. Especially since Mr. Vampire looked to be soberer than most of his friends. And less scrupulous too. Joy to the fucking world.

A hand latched onto her right breast. She squealed into the hand around her mouth. Fuck, it was bad enough this asshole was trying to molest her, but did he have to be one of those idiots with no clue what to do with a woman? The ones who believed that painful squeezes and yanks were the same as fondling and that screams of pain were squeals of joy? One of those ignorant sadists who always seem to be one step away from massive rape campaigns, yet still keep their records clean? Already, she knew, as she bungled another attempt to pierce his foot, that if she tried to report this to the police afterwards, he’d have at least twelve friends corroborating that she was a kinky slut who demanded a hard fucking and that’d be the end of it. Bloody hell.

His hand on her breast slipped, tearing off a good chunk of her dress. Damnitt, it had taken a lot of work to make it fit her style right. She cursed herself for thinking about that at this time and tried to swing an elbow to his crotch. Damn loss of motor skills.

Nimbly dodging, he spun her around and kneed her as hard as he could in the stomach forcing her to double over and dry heave once again. Not a good position to be in with an asshole with more dick than brains and not much dick at that. Yup, there went the panties. Ripped off of course. Could have easily pulled them down, but no, had to go for the shredding. Yup, it was definitely that type. She heard the zip of his fly and felt a hand smashing, yes SMASHING her face into the ground. She’d only get one chance.

She dolphin-kicked as hard as she could straight backward catching him full in the stomach and freeing herself from his grip. She stumbled upright desperately. The point of her heels should have bought her enough time to reach up and…

She fell back down to the ground, knocking her chin on the door, her desperate hand still held on the lock, but she only had time to turn it before being dragged back and thrust into the porcelain of the toilet. She rubbed her head painfully, but NOT crying. Never crying for the likes of Vampire boy. Shit, it’s sticky. She looked up. Yup, fucking red. Definitely bleeding from the fucking head.

She tried to lift herself up and was treated to a big ass right on her back. She went down again as a hand grabbed her flailing legs and ripped off her heels. Now she truly was weaponless. She could try to call for help, but knowing the crowd at this party, they might just join in instead. Besides, the music was too loud to keep anyone but the people too busy doing it to hear anything. She was truly alone.

Weaponless, helpless, and alone, she stewed. Just about right that this would happen. Perfectly on par with this shit world. She wasn’t a virgin, so she wouldn’t be losing it all, but still an experience like this confirmed all of one’s deepest suspicions about deities and the Universe.

She felt the weight lift up and before she could react she was spun around and slammed back first into the ground. Her legs were forced open and forward. The insertion soon followed, full in and fast. She struggled, sure. She wasn’t one to let bitter crushing hopelessness stop her from a last fuck you to fate, but she was definitely screwed. Literally.

Her legs were forced painfully to her breasts as Vampire Boy’s little piggy eyes glared directly into her own. Filled with all the self-congratulations of the mortally conceited. He was actually proud of being able to rape her as if overcoming her drunken struggles earned him a fucking merit badge. His thrusts were craptacular. His tiny dick just thrusting as hard and fast as it could with no respect for wither rhythm or technique. She’d have laughed if she wasn’t the one being fucked against her will.

Luckily it didn’t last long as he spent his seed deep within her womb, corrupting her from the inside out. Fuck. Definitely, definitely fuck. Fuck with extra fucking sprinkles on the fucking top. Yeah, fate you damn motherfucker. Hope you die in a pitch filled hole with hope and optimism. And kill all the damn “winners” while you’re at it.

He rolled off after making his necessary O-faces and preening like some fucking idol on some sick little reality show.

“Hey, don’t thank me babe, it was no problem,” he said with a shit-eating grin on his face. If Raven’s arms weren’t pinned by his, she’s have gladly smacked it off his face. The boast did bring his face within spitting range though and she wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. This one hit for full spittle points. Chalk one more for futile symbols of eternal resistance.


And there were the consequences, as she shook of the force of the blow. Yeah, he’s got spittle on his face, but Raven was the one with jizz in her cunt and blood matting her hair. A bit more now that he’d smacked it into the tile floor. And people actually wondered why she had a “Fuck the world” attitude all the time. It was because this WAS the world. There were no white knights, no good endings. Only “winners” sinning like hell and getting away with it because they looked “good” and “trustworthy” and “clean-cut”.

The weight was quickly taken off her as he pulled his flaccid dick out of her and begun climbing to his feet. She tried to free a leg to kick him, but he was too fast, throwing her across the tile and then placing a heavy shoe on top of her face. Oh, fucking Big Brother shit now. Raven knew he wasn’t likely to have even snorted coke off the book but he was getting off on the whole show of power trip. He used her as stability as he dug his other knee into her ass and zipped back up his fly.

“Catch ya later, sweets,” he whispered into her ear as he stomped her face once for good measure and began to saunter to the door. Fuck, he wasn’t going to leave her if Raven had anything to do with it.

Her head ached with booze, pain, and loss of blood and she wanted to dry heave until she couldn’t breathe, but she wasn’t the type to let opportunity escape. One of her heels was right next to her. She picked it up and she gathered her strength and she lunged and…

Missed. Smacked right into the floor. Mr. Vampire laughed and laughed and spun on his heels. Right on the spot where his leftover jizz just happened to have spilt. His grin faded as he fell, his ankle buckling under his feet. He could see what was in his line of freefall and had no time to scream. His head rebounded with a crack off the end of the toilet.

He wasn’t stirring. He was completely unconscious. Knocked out.

Raven was ready to start laughing. Damnitt irony, where were you fifteen minutes ago? She heard a handle turn on the door. Oh fucking great, that’s where it’s been. Waiting for her to hope. Now one of Vampire’s little buddies would look on their knocked out friend and at her. They’d blame her and possibly punish her with another round of hide the misogynistic pickle. Lorena Bobbitt had the right idea.

The door swung open and in stepped…

The guy in the Grim Reaper costume.

“You,” she said reverently. “He-“

“Don’t. I know what happened.”

“You do?”

“It’s fairly obvious. Come on, you need to take care of that cranial laceration. I can take you an empty bedroom and treat it if you wish it.”


“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Raven shrugged. She was feeling sleepy anyways. Blood loss, inebriation, and complete overexertion were taking their exacting toll on her senses. Probably why she bothered saying, “What about him?”

“He can wait. I’ll take care of him later.”

Raven was picked up in weak and thin arms. There was so little muscle mass that she could feel the bones poking into her back. Yet, still the guy was able to carry her with only a moderate amount of strain and grunts. He was tall, she noted dreamily. Had to be tall. Short people couldn’t pull of a Grim Reaper right. And if you were going to do something as common as a Grim Reaper as a costume, you had to pull it off RIGHT.

Fuck, she thought. All she could think of was respecting this man’s style. No critical thought. No cynicism. What the fuck? Here she was being carried nearly unconscious into one of the “get together” rooms with this man. How the hell did she know he was going to bother to help her once he got her in there? Still, she didn’t feel like struggling. Something just felt right about him. Like, he was one of her kind or something. It was complicated probably. Something to do with Freud or Gothic female obsession with lanky men with deep voices who dress like DEATH. Who knew? And more importantly, who really cared? Might as well take a chance, since she was too out of it to mount any real resistance to it.

Besides, she could always track him down and kill him later.

Careful he opened the door with his burdened hand and took her in. Quell surprise; the room was dank, smelling of cheap perfume, jock straps, booze, and jizm. Kurt would have laughed, definitely the smell of teen fuckin’ spirit kept alive by sad early twenty-somethings. She was laid on the bed cautiously as Mr. Grim pulled out some medical supplies that he’d lifted from the bathroom. Fucking bathroom. She could still smell that asshole on herself, feel his stench corrupting every portion of her body. What if she got pregnant? She shivered. A cold wet washcloth slapped her forehead.

Mr. Grim must have been pre-med, because he was quick and he was skilled. He cleaned off the wound with the washcloth and before she could note how cold it was, she was already having a bandage wrapped around it. True it made her look like some freaky accident victim, but hell, it was Halloween. She’d be able to get away with it. He gave her something to drink as well “for her strength”. It tasted a bit like caffeine. Probably some coffee-tea mixture to keep her from dozing off. All clean and Mr. Grim was trying hard not to notice that his patient was naked as he cleaned some of her other bruises and cuts.

“Why are you helping me,” she asked of him once he was finished.

“One reason is because you talked with me,” he answered.


“That and there always needs to be a balance of karma.”

“You believe in that bullshit.”


“No accounting for taste.”

Mr. Grim shrugged. Like her opinion didn’t really matter to him. She’d have gotten upset if she actually believed her views worthy of defending. She didn’t really think much of anybody’s views were worth as much shit as people put behind them. What good was a philosophy when the world strove to break it? Better off to just survive with pure vehemence and vitriol.

“That should take care of you medically,” Mr. Grim said standing up.

“No,” Raven shouted and grabbed his arm. Why the fuck did she do that? Was it a fear of being left alone after what happened? Was it she needed someone to be there? Was it the need for a protector? A Guardian? Or perhaps it was the way he didn’t look down on her. Perhaps, she wanted him to cure her. To…yeah.

He looked deeply into her eyes. For the first time in years, she blushed. She always thought blushing was for the weak, the submissive. The pathetic reactions of those giggling geisha girls you see in Japanese movies. Still, she was blushing.

“You do not cry,” he said bluntly. “You are scarred, but you won’t cry.”

Raven’s blush grew and her jaw dropped. How could he have fucking known?

“I don’t believe in crying for shit happening. Else, I’d be crying every day.”

“That’s a good philosophy.”

“People usually call it callous.”

Mr. Grim shrugged.

“You know, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with someone in years.”

“It is the same for me.”

Silence. Like a big fucking black-clad hand choking out the noise. But not like black leather or something, more like black lace. Silencing all the crap so what was real could get transmitted. So all the crappy pop hits faded out of its thumping craptasm and the orgiastic screams of the drunk and stupid became nothing of import. There was just Raven, Mr. Grim and a silent bedroom.

Bastard heart fluttering in her breast, she knew what the fuck she wanted from him. A total cleansing. An act of love to erase the shame. A person to cling to as the waters of the standard shitty life tried to pull her under. Someone with which to last out the night.


“I believe I understand.”


“What you want. But you must be willing and ready.”

“Gods yes. Please cleanse me,” she choked out as a single betraying tear trickled down her cheek.

He reached to touch her and she did not flinch. Any sane person coming out of what she had would not just have flinched, but run and curl themselves into a ball in the corner as well. Instead, she embraced it. Let the touch happen and lead into embrace. It was because the other was expected, not horrifying, the product of a world too often letting down in promises. This however was real because she let her heart feel it. For the first time in years, she was letting her heart feel. Opening it up truly to the possibility of betrayal.

Mr. Grim accepted it and kissed her lips. It was bony.



She jumped back.

“Yeah, of course that’s not a mask,” she muttered.

“I assumed you knew,” Death said.

“I probably did.”

The skull moved into a wry grin.

“So am I,” Raven asked curiously.

“Not at this moment.”

Raven thought about it. Death, before her. The true Grim Reaper. What she could learn. What she could explore. The answers she could divine about the universe. About the afterlife. About the nature of eternal justice. Do the “winners” finally “lose” in the end? Ah, fuck it all. If Death was in the habit of giving out those secrets to the living, they wouldn’t be secrets. Besides, she really wanted to do what she was about to do.

She shrugged. “Shall we get on with it?”

Death seemed taken aback, but gave a full grin with his bony head. He moved in to kiss her but she stopped him with her hand.

“One question though. Is it all…er…bony?”

“That part is flesh as there is no actual bone there. Or rather, it has the appearance and function of flesh, but is rather an extension of will and necessity.”

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