With Love (Letters in Blood series Book 2) Page 3

  A loud bang sounds outside my little window, startling me upright.

  My chest seizes… He’s here.

  I press my back up against the wall. My breathing becomes hard, as if there’s a weight resting on my ribcage. Another bang sounds, only this time it’s from within the house. My eyes stay trained on the bars of my cell, waiting for those black daggers to appear.

  I don’t have to wait long before they make their arrival. I follow each and every one of his movements. He walks backward and forward in front of the bars, watching me.

  “What do you want?” I sneer at him, unable to help myself.

  He stops and stands still. The silence is killing me right now. An eerie stillness lurks within these walls. What is he going to do? Is this it? My time to die?

  I get up onto my throbbing feet. “What are you waiting for?” I scream at him.

  He stands there and doesn’t even flinch at the sudden screeching of my voice.

  His hands dig into the pockets of his black pants. He only ever wears black attire. I fold my arms across my chest, panting at the effort it took for me to raise my voice. I watch his eyes crinkle at the sides, as if he’s smiling. The mask covers his mouth, so I’m unsure.

  Slowly, he pulls his hand from his pocket. Something’s clutched in his fist. He releases a pin and throws it in my cell. I watch in horror as it rolls along the floor. Seconds later, a burst of smoke explodes from the device. The room fills, and when it hits me, I cry out in pain.

  Tear gas! The stinging in my eyes feels as though acid has been poured over them. I begin coughing. Heaving. With each breath, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. I collapse to the floor, attempting to cover my face with clothing, but it’s to no avail.

  Gloved hands roughly grip my upper arm, pulling me out of the room once again and up the stairs. Each bruise he gave me last time is hit all over again, only this time he’s not as rough. It still doesn’t stop me from stumbling and coughing. My leg gives out beneath me, and I’m unable to get up again.

  My eyes continue to burn with the unbearable pain. Squinting through slits, I feel the fresh air hit my exposed skin. I suck in a deep breath as the scent of pine fills my senses once again. Tears continue to pour down my cheeks, which makes the breeze colder on my skin.

  Too bad I don’t get to enjoy the moment any longer before I’m being dragged back to that familiar spot outside in the field. He throws me to the ground.

  This is it. I’m going to die.

  “Get up,” he says with no emotion.

  “I can’t. My leg and feet hurt,” I cry, and now I’m crying real tears—the kind that fear gives you, the kind I’ve cried before.

  I hear a crunch then I’m heaved to my feet. I wobble when I’m placed down again, sure I’m going to topple over. I attempt to open my eyes without too much luck, because all I can see is blurry blobs.

  “You’re going to run again, and this time I won’t miss.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can, and you will.” He raises the volume in his voice at the end of the sentence.

  “No.”

  I don’t care. If this is my time to die, I’m going to stand my ground.

  “If you want to kill me, do it while you look at my face, not while I’m running away with my back to you.” My eyes remain shut and watering, but my other senses are heightened. I can hear his steady breathing, the shuffle of his feet, and even a bird or something swooping over the top of us.

  “Run… dammit!” he shouts. I fall back with fright.

  This time, I manage to get to my feet myself. “No!” I shout back as loudly as I can.

  His heavy footsteps move toward to me, and I sense his closeness as goose bumps kiss my skin.

  I try again to open my eyes. This time it’s manageable, but my vision is still not good. He’s a blurry blob, but now my captor’s standing directly in front of me. The moonlight lighting his figure up. He’s close enough for his breath to brush against my cheek. My heart hammers in my chest so fast I fear it might jump out of my throat and slam him in the face. Here’s hoping anyway.

  Seconds later, his knuckles smash against the side of my face. “Wipe that smirk off your face and run!”

  My hand falls to my face that now pounds. This brings back so many memories for me. The father who disciplined me with the back and front of his hands pretty much every day of the week.

  “This is nothing new. Keep going if it makes you feel better.” I do one thing that I know will piss him off—I full-on grin. I wait for the second blow to come, but it doesn’t. I can still hear his breathing before me, and I know I’ve stirred something inside him.

  Within a moment, both his hands grip each side of my face. “You’ll regret this.” He breathes against my lips. Seconds later, something smashes against my lips, and only when he forces his tongue into my mouth do I realize he’s kissing me.

  I actually lean into him, pressing my body against his, kissing him back.

  If this is how I survive, I’ll do it.

  Her lips are soft, luscious, and inviting. Pushing into her mouth, I devour her unique flavor. The shocking part is… she presses her body against mine, causing a moan to escape my throat. Her hands come up to touch my face, but I stop her.

  I don’t know what’s come over me. I shift her hands back to her sides, holding them there. Her body feels so good so close to mine. My hands want to wander around each and every one of her curves. If my father saw me now…

  With that thought, I jerk back and shove her to the ground, pulling the mask over the lower part of my face again.

  What have I done? My father would slash the ever-loving hell out of my back with his belt if he saw this.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, cowering away and not looking up at me.

  My hard stare falls upon her. Stepping into her space I tower over her. I whip my hand back. Leaning over, I strike her across the face. Her soft flesh stings against the palm of my hand. The joy it once held for me is still there, but not as strong. She cries out in pain, but she’s not distraught like other girls would be.

  What am I saying? By now, if it were any other girl she’d be dead in a ditch, and I’d be relishing in the chase, the escape, being able to live a life where no one knows who I am.

  “This is all your fault,” I bellow out into the night air. I’m not sure if my outburst is aimed at her, me, or my father.

  Her small voice starts to speak, pulling me back to her. “Please let me go.”

  I let her words mull in my head for a few seconds before I draw my hand back and hit her again, this time harder. “Get up!” I growl.

  Without a word, she slowly pulls herself off the ground. She’s still coughing from the tear gas I threw into her cell. Once she’s upright, she stands before me with her arms wide open, ready and waiting for what though? For me to kill her or kiss her again? This girl has such strength. I’ve never witnessed this in any of the girls before her. A part of me wants to find out more about her, but the other part, the family tradition-focused part, wants me to inflict more pain upon her.

  “Do it,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. She takes a hesitant step closer and continues until she sways in front of me. She squints, and I catch the glistening of tears on her cheeks. These aren’t tears of fear or sadness—they’re from what I inflicted on her. Her body moves closer, and I fight the urge that burns within me to take her, all of her, and have my way with her.

  “Do it, kill me,” she whispers again.

  I shove her back. She falls again. The struggle raging inside my head continues.

  Why can’t I pull the trigger?

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I rub my forehead. My feet move as I pace the rocky ground. I have no choice. I have to be true to my family, my roots, my living essence. I retrieve the gun tucked in the back of my jeans.

  “You have till the count of twenty to run. So get up.” The roughness I usually hold in my voice now falters. Quickly clearing my throa
t, I flick the mental switch, the one that makes me inhumane.

  “One, two, three, four…” I count, and again, she manages to pull herself up. This time she stands there watching me, a puzzled look on her porcelain face. The dirt which smears over it is my doing, and I actually hate myself because of it. I want to see her face clear and bright once again.

  “Five, six, seven, eight… You need to run,” I push.

  With my gun in one hand, I take the pocket knife from my jacket. When I look up, she has her back to me and is walking.

  Seriously!

  Walking!

  What game is she playing at?

  In a rage, I take two large strides and push the blade I’m holding down her back, cutting through the thin material of her dress and slicing into her unmarred skin. She screams. My song of the night. It’s back. My heart races with pleasure. My stomach twists with excitement. This is what I need.

  The more pain I inflict, the better I deal with my mess of emotions.

  I remember when my father delivered my first girl to me. I was eighteen. It was like an induction into the family tradition. I remember her blood-stained platinum blonde hair, her eyes bloodshot from crying and begging. My father had her lying on the exact same gurney that I use today. The words he spoke to me ring loud and clear in my mind every time I have a new girl. “Inflict pain, Son. Once you do it, it’ll be the only kind of pleasure that really makes you happy.”

  I’d taken the blade from his hand; mine had been shaking. I’d been conditioned for this family tradition, as my father and grandfather called it. Enrolled in every form of self-defense class, taught by my father how to handle the girls. He was my idol, or so I’d thought.

  That day, I took the blade for the very first time and sliced her feet. Her screams still haunt me every night—no one else’s but hers. She was my first. Blood had slowly trickled from the cuts, and by the time I’d finished, the girl had passed out. I actually threw up after that.

  “Don’t worry, Son. I was sick my first time as well. It gets easier, and you’ll get more enjoyment out of it each time.”

  He was right. It has become easier, but why is this girl affecting me so much now? Her limp body now lies unmoving on the filthy ground.

  I should finish her. But something holds me back.

  “Get up!” I kick her in the ribs and hear a huff of a breath escape from her mouth.

  This girl, Elenore, raises her head, looking at me with pleading eyes. Her head falls, and again, she ever-so-slowly gets up. I could run a lap around this paddock before she’s even finished rising. As she stands, her rag falls from her body. I suck in my lip and bite it, restraining myself from reaching out and touching her flesh. Caressing it.

  Hell! I’m done for.

  Again, she turns and begins walking away from me. I watch streaks of blood trickle down her back, forming rivulets and soaking into the edge of her panties. Guilt grips my gut, and I can’t take this battle within me anymore.

  I raise my gun. Taking aim.

  This is it.

  This is her death… finally.

  The pain burns down my spine. I thought something within him was changing. Now I understand he has something he’s fighting against—himself. He’s his own worst enemy. Inflicting pain must help him feel better about something. I only wish I knew what.

  Is he afraid to hold some feelings for me?

  While I walk, the warmth of the blood on my back doesn’t go unnoticed. As much as it hurts, I don’t want him to see me weak. The tears want to fall, but I won’t allow them to. My eyes already sting from the tear gas. Early on in my life, I learnt not to show weakness—it only makes you more of a target for those who seek enjoyment from your pain. I learned to stand firm in the face of danger. It took me a long time to find my backbone, but when I did, I held strong, and I’m not letting that go.

  A lightheaded sensation settles behind my eyes. Bright spots begin to dance in my vision, but I push on. I’ll keep walking until he pulls that trigger as he so desperately wants to. Behind me, I hear it click.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Inch by inch, I keep walking.

  “Just do it already,” I whisper to myself. I know he can’t hear me, though. Even the sharp rocks and sticks that have been digging into my now open wounds haven’t bothered me. I know my strength. I’ll keep going until my last breath.

  BANG!

  The gun rings out into the night, but nothing new hurts. Spinning around, I’m faced with those eyes. They’ll haunt me forever. Ever so gently, he scoops me up in his arms. If I weren’t in pain, I’d probably kick and scream, fighting him each step of the way but instead, I collapse into his embrace willingly.

  I need to play my cards right, though.

  “What are you doing to me?” he whispers.

  There’s something I notice about his voice—it’s familiar.

  No. I don’t believe anyone I know would cause me this much pain. Well, except for my own parents. My mind must be playing tricks on me.

  I respond to him drowsily, “I don’t know what you mean. I need to sleep now.”

  “No, you can’t.” His panicked voice startles me awake, only for a brief moment. My eyelids feel like lead.

  “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “If you shut them you might not wake up. Is that want you want?”

  “No, it’s what you want, though. Me gone.”

  With those final words, blackness takes over, all pain floating away.

  Brightness surrounds me.

  Am I dead? Is this what Heaven looks like?

  I’m in a floating cloud with a white haziness encircling me.

  “Hello, beautiful girl.” That angelic voice embraces me like a warm hug.

  My spine tingles. “Who’s there?” I call out, unable to see anyone in the thick white fogginess.

  When I turn around, I’m confronted with a foggy memory of some sort. It flashes up on the clouds like a projector. A young woman, her dark hair high up in a messy bun. Her arms are outstretched waiting for something when a little chubby little girl bounces into her arms.

  This looks familiar. I remember something like this.

  The bright green grass and swing-set are in the yard as the young woman chases the little girl around and they giggle with each other.

  I’m sure if my parents ever played with me like this I’d remember. I only remember the bad with them—every cut, every bruise they laid upon my skin.

  I shiver simply thinking about it. The scars are permanent reminders of what I never wanted to happen to me again. Yet, here I am, floating in what looks like the in between, but I’m not sure. One thing I do know is that I’ll be waking up in that stale-smelling cell again.

  “Mommy’s coming to get you,” the young woman calls to the little one, who lets the happiest squeal go before running and hiding behind a yellow rose bush.

  “Where’s my princess?” the mother calls after her child.

  I watch this play out before me, and before it happens, I already know the little girl is going to get a thorn in her hand. Seconds later, a cry of terror screams out. The mother’s face turns to one of panic. She follows the cries and finds her little girl on the ground nursing her hand, blood dripping from it.

  “Oh baby, Mommy’s got you. Let’s go get that cleaned up. Did the rose bush bite you?” The way she talks to her toddler soothes her—actually, it soothes me. The toddler nods and continues to cry. I watch the mother take her inside and clean her up, dressing the wound and placing a kiss on her daughter’s temple. I recall a very thin memory like the one playing out before me.

  My gaze fall to my hands, and there’s blood all over them. Tears prick my eyes when I see the end of thorns poking out from my fingertips. It doesn’t hurt, but the blood keeps coming. I frantically try pulling out the thorns, only for more to grow on my skin on a different part of my body. My stomach. My arms. My feet. My body is a thorny pincushion with red liquid seeping from
each puncture.

  What’s happening? Dread fills every inch of me.

  A black fog takes over the beautiful white space.

  “No! Please no,” I call out, pure fear in my words. Not knowing what’s going to happen is my greatest fear. I stand stock-still as the thorns invade every part of me.

  Why aren’t they hurting me?

  My blood pours from the thorny holes in my skin.

  What’s happening? A terrifying scream bellows from my chest. Why am I not waking up?

  I fall to the grass beneath me. “What is this place? Hell?” I call again while waiting for someone to answer me. Please answer me. The heaviness in my chest fills my entire body until breathing becomes the greatest challenge. When I lift my head toward where I last saw the mother looking after her child, she’s gone, and those black eyes are back, pouring their hatred for me into my body.

  Dear Diary,

  Today I spent my day locked in the dark room. Since I’m no longer at school, the monsters punish me more. Why am I being punished? Did I do something wrong in another life?

  I sat in that hell hole, listening to a tap drip all day. I had my stash of food and water, which was my lifesaver because they never brought me anything to eat. I’m surprised my stomach and body still function, and that I’m not shutting down after the way I’ve been treated.

  I can’t wait to get out of this house. As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m gone. I could leave now, but where would I go?

  Last night, Suzie left me a new notebook, pen and some sweets in our secret spot. It fits my lunches in there perfectly, and anything else she gets me. Since our house is low-set, I climb out my window when I know the monsters are in bed. Sometimes, Suzie is up waiting for me, and she’ll give me a plate of food to eat. Her roasts are the best; her homemade gravy is mouthwatering.

  I’ve decided to not dwell too much on the hell I’m living in, but to look to my future. I want a bright one, one where I’m in charge of everything. I can’t wait to get a job and make my own money. I could look for a job now, but maybe that’s not a good idea when I’d be turning up with bruises or not at all when I’m locked away like I am today.