Bones (La Douleur Folle #1)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The inside of my mouth is dry and rotting as I pull on my second cigarette of the day. I’m sure this is some kind of record for me as I’m not much of a smoker. This moment requires a minor sedation, and I happily indulge the need.

But I’m not really happy right now; I’m confused. Confused as to why Verona is still screaming and struggling in the harness. Confused as to how Mother is still alive and not realizing what’s happened yet.

Perhaps if I put the baby back inside of her and sew her up somehow, it will be enough of a redeeming act that it won’t haunt me for the next few days.

The acts never stayed burned in my mind for too long, but just enough to make me sit and reflect on what I’ve done. A good man would care, but I’m not a good man.

I have to stop her screaming, it’s giving me a headache.

I get to my feet and look around the room. There had to be something I could shove into her mouth that would silence her but not kill her. My plan is to save her for last, so that she can savor the destruction of her family and know that her hatred is what brought them to me.

My eyes drift toward the broken body of the baby boy. I see something just beneath him that I can use. I got to the bed and move his body aside retrieving my new prize and turn toward Verona.

She’s screaming louder now that she sees what I’m holding, and I put the cigarette in between my lips. This will have to do.

“Open your mouth, please,” I say, now standing in front of her.

“Fuck you!” she screams back, trying to kick me.

“Verona, I need you to stop screaming. Stop fighting the inevitable. You wanted your family dead, didn’t you? I saw it in your posture when I first came in, and I obliged. But you have to stop screaming or I’ll snap your neck, and that just won’t do. Now, please open your mouth,” I say tiredly.

She spits on me instead of complying, and as I wipe it off the side of my face, I become ungodly angry. I’ve never been spit on before, and I don’t appreciate the act. I use every ounce of my strength and punch her in the jaw as hard as I can, continuing violently until I hear the snapping sound that tells me that her bone is broken.

“Thank you,” I say, as she begins to cry. In pain, frustration? I don’t care; at this point her mouth is hanging open and it’s what I needed. Of course, I have to find a way to keep her jaw closed, but that’s not going to be a difficult task.

I grunt as I push the bloody placenta into her mouth. Far enough inside to make her gag, but not to obstruct her airway. Choking to death would be too easy, and her little act of defiance has earned her a more glorious death than that.

I use one hand to keep it in place, then reach around her, blindly feeling the shelves in the armoire until my hand closes around a strap of leather. I pull it out and use it to make a tourniquet. It’s long enough to wrap around her head at least once, and I step back satisfied that it’s done the job quite nicely.

“I imagine that’s what a brain with the spine still attached looks like,” I muse more to myself than her. Part of the umbilical cord is still attached to the afterbirth and it’s swaying softly as she tries to swipe at it.

I raise an eyebrow and watch for a moment. If she pulls it out of her mouth that won’t do, but the pain from a broken jaw is restricting her movements, and the most she’s been able to do so far is cradle the sides of her face.

“Leave it in,” I warn as I pull deeply on the cigarette. “If you pull it out, I’ll impale your hands against the door.”

Her rage leaves her eyes. It’s all replaced by a small, fragile girl terrified of what’s unfolding in front of her; resigned to the fate that she so desperately wished secretly upon her mother.

I know girls like Verona; I see them on the streets, and I’ve had them in my room. In the end, I make them realize that they are worth only the sum of their thoughts. But none of them are ever enough for me because they’re not her.

Verona begins to gag, and I smile as she brings my attention back to where it belongs—this moment. It snaps me back to the task at hand, and I turn back toward the bed. The boy belongs back inside of his mother; in the warm safe place that so many of us take for granted.

Once we’re brought into this world, we’re under the weight of our mothers’ sins for seven years, then we’re on our own. I hadn’t afforded him seven minutes before saving him from the hell I knew he had been destined for.

She moans on the bed, her head turning slowly to the right, and I climb on resting next to her. I want her to see my face, my eyes, to remember her last moments with me and no one else. The child will have to wait; this woman has clearly suffered enough in her life that it would be an unnecessary cruelty to sew her child back into her while she was still alive.

I caress the side of her face gently as she blinks slowly. She’ll be gone soon enough, and this charade of emotion has to last much longer.

The only sounds in the room are the sounds of Verona whimpering, this dying woman next to me taking slow, shuddering breaths and my own breathing slowing to match hers.

It’s a comfort I’ve learned to give those that don’t walk out of my room; to falsify my own death so they don’t feel as if they’re going into the unknown alone.

She opens her eyes widely and looks into mine one last time, before they shut. Her breathing becomes less and less labored, and I find my hand has moved from her face to her stomach. It’s not as firm as it was before, and it’s not as majestic when not filled with life, but I gently rub in circular motions.

Death comes to us all .

Is she afraid? Is she accepting of her fate? I don’t know. To be honest, I only try to ease her passing as a solace more to myself than her. It quiets the demons that try to revive themselves after the deeds are done.

One last warm breath against the side of my face and she’s no more.

I gently lean forward and kiss her forehead before I move myself up to a seated position. Verona is still now, weeping genuine tears as she realizes what’s happened.

But does she cry for her family or for herself? A child such as herself would surely not feel any pain at the passing of her mother and brother, would she?

“Look away,” I say to her as I get to my feet. I wait until she closes her eyes tightly and reach for the baby boy.

With a deep breath, I pull open the massive wound in their mother’s abdomen and begin to cram him back inside of her. I don’t care if he’s comfortable or if I’m putting him back in the right place, so long as he’s inside of her where he belongs. They’ll be buried together; I’ll make sure of it with Priscilla.