I swear, with every answer I get, I find five new questions. The most pressing, at this moment, what the hell will my life be now that I’ve been selected?
KARL
“No, please, stop.” My hands are tied behind my back. The men never listen to my pleas. Why hasn’t my dad come for me? I’ve been here for five days, each day worse than the day before.
“Shut the fuck up, kid. Do what you’re told, or you know what happens next.”
I try to stifle my cries. Each kick to my back cracks my ribs. I can barely catch my breath. I dig my nails into the bare skin of my legs, hoping to refocus the pain. That’s what Daddy told me to do if this ever happened. But it isn’t working. Streams of tears flow down my face, mixing with the dirt and old, caked blood.
The whirring of a whip zings through the air, connecting with my bare bottom, tearing at the already blistering skin.
I can’t hold it back. I wail out a cry.
“What did I say, you little shit,” the disgusting, sloppy one says. He always smells like old used kitty litter and stale beer.
I know what’s coming next. He loosens his belt buckle, and pops the button of his three sizes too-small pants.
I sob uncontrollably, sucking in stucco breaths. My stomach roils as he approaches.”Noooo, pleaseee. I’ll be good. I promise.”
I know it won’t matter. His grubby hands reach for my face. I won’t open my mouth otherwise.
“Open up, you rich piece of shit. If your father did what he was told, you wouldn’t be here now.”
* * *
Gasping for air, I catapult out of my sleep. The dreams are back. Cool air hits my feverish skin as pools of sweat roll off me.
It has to be the fucking selection. Stress is the only thing that brings on the dreams. I’ve worked hard to forget that week of my life. The intricate tattoos lining my skin mask the scars, the feel of my blade slicing through skin feeds the monster, and the cries of people’s pain soothe my soul. It’s my version of therapy.
Climbing out of bed, I head to the bathroom and wash my face. I need therapy.
Fine. Throwing on a pair of gray lounge pants, I grab my case of knives and head to my basement.
Entering the code, I pull open the door. Whimpers greet me as I flick on the lights. A row of bright beams illuminate the concrete walls and the metal slab the whining woman is strapped to currently.
“Did you miss me, Pamela?” I beam down at her prone form.
She struggles with her bindings, but she can’t get out. Her arms and legs are locked within metal restraints. There’s only one way she’s leaving here, and it won’t be on two legs.
“It’s not what you think. Please let me go.”
“And, pray tell, what do I think it is exactly?” I ask, setting down my knives on the stand next to her head. Bloodshot eyes leak, her pale skin splotchy. She’s going to be so beautiful when I’m done with her.
“I-I didn’t send he-her the h-hand.” She finally gets out, between her mewling.
I take in her missing left hand. A pity I wasn’t the one to take it off, though a missing hand is the least of her worries.
“Tut tut Pammy.” I pat her cheek. “We never thought you’d cut off your own hand and send it to our Angel.” She whips her head away from my palm and begins her waterworks again.
My dream is still riding me hard, so I can only imagine the manic look I must have.
Turning, I unzip my case, opening up ten gleaming blades of varying lengths and thicknesses. As I pull out my thirteen-inch stiletto knife, I call out, “Alexa, play Metallica,
Until It Sleeps, and turn the volume up.”
Liam spent a great deal of time fortifying our houses, ensuring privacy from any spyware or silly AI from listening in.
Can’t have Alexa dialing 911 before I can release my demons.
As the drums beat through the speakers, I place the knife down and pick up the shearing scissors.
“You won’t be needing these,” I say to her and begin cutting off the leggings and t-shirt she’s been wearing for the last couple of days.
We found her trying to board a flight to Bora Bora. As if a flight would keep her safe. We’re everywhere.
Now that she’s naked, I can begin my work.
“
Open wide bitch boy.”
I shake my head, clearing that fuck’s voice from my mind. If I ever get my hands on the fat fuck, he’ll be opening more than wide.
Gritting my teeth, annoyed at my inability to clear my mind, I grab the knife from the stand. Usually, I would ask her more questions, but I’m more interested in her screams.
I plunge the aluminum blade into her right thigh and drag it down to her knee. The scream she emits causes a release of dopamine throughout my brain.
“That’s it, Pamela, sing for me.” I drag the knife back up until I reach her hip.
Remembering that I still need answers from her, I pull the knife out. She’s bleeding too much. I might have nicked something important.
Groaning, I grab the portable blow torch from the side of the stand. It seems it’s time to cauterize the wound.
Her cries paint the room as the smell of burning flesh, like a BBQ, permeates the air. I feel my dick grow in my pants. Fuck it’s been too long since I got to play, but I only want to play with my Angel.
Growling out my frustration I say, “Now, where were we?” When I hear nothing, I look up and see she’s passed out. We can’t have that. What fun would that be?
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.