Dead By Dusk

32. Who Did This Silene

32

Who Did This: Silene

T he first thing I notice is the sharp coppery scent that permeates the air. The long dining table has been removed, and in its place is Ronan’s limp, bloody body, bound to a wooden chair. The sight of him feels as if the ground tilts beneath my feet. Everything is unstable, as if the world unraveled and wrapped itself around my legs, bringing me to my knees. The blood—mine mixed with his—mingles as I trace the wounds on his mangled body.

“Who did this to you?” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer me. His head hangs low as his lashes kiss pale, freckled cheeks. A broken sob leaves my body as my mind conjures up the comparison of him to his brother who lays dead on the other side of the building. A brother who he doesn’t realize died a traitor and liar.

His heartbeat is weak under the pads of my fingers, body damp with not just blood, but the sweat that drips from his pores. Lashes whip across his back in jagged lines, tearing through layers of skin. Multiple bruises cover his face and abdomen, and lacerations cover his chest. Patches of skin here and there have been peeled from his body, including the area where there used to be black ink covering his thumb.

Even if he lives, there may be no coming back from the torture he’s been subjected to.

A door opens further into the room, and when I flick my gaze toward the sound, I watch as four more men enter, followed closely by a dead man walking. His laugh sends waves of fury prickling through every bone in my body as the sound of my metal axe dragging across the tile flooring fills the dining hall. His laughter eases down before he scratches his chin as if observing a piece of artwork that had been delicately created.

“Do you like what I’ve done with him?” he asks, taking note of my trembling hands and scowl etched onto my features.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit. You and I both know you’re too much of a bitch to have done this yourself,” I retort, watching as his smile drops.

“You wound me, Ms. Dimitriou. I could have easily done this. It honestly would have been my pleasure after all the trouble you’ve caused me this week. Burning the house down, smoking out my tunnels, killing most of my men.” He sighs as if it’s been a great pain, but the boredom in his voice and body language is clearly feigned. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, shrugging before looking at the men around him.

I can’t help but think about how exhausting it must be to keep up the facade, pretending to not be terrified of what awaits you when he is nothing but a byproduct of his own fear.

“But you didn’t do it,” I state plainly, gaze traveling over each man currently in the way of my target. “So, which one of your little bitch boys did?”

The two men to his right pale as a toothy grin appears on my face knowing their association alone has marked them with a death sentence, and I commend them for their willingness to show how they really feel. A feral type of joy fills me as their acknowledgment of what I signify to the two of them. The one who stands to the left smirks right back at me though, an undermining and arrogant gesture that only has me more excited to continue.

Bringing one of my hands up, I aim my weapon at the man on the far left. “You.” His smirk widens just a hair, and I know I’m correct. It’s always the arrogant assholes that make the easiest targets. Only the narcissistic feel as if their size makes them a predator to fear.

As I begin my approach, they all grab machetes and daggers, readying for the fight. I keep my eyes on the one man who I know inflicted all the damage that will never fully heal upon Ronan’s body. He will not die first, but he will hurt worse than he ever thought imaginable. However, unlike the man who sits unconscious behind me, no one will come to save him. He will burn with everything else and be nothing more than a forgotten memory.

A scream tears through my throat as I begin to fight the three men in front of me. More skilled than the other fighters I’ve been through, it takes far more effort than I’d like to admit keeping track of each and every one of their movements. I suppose it makes sense though, keeping the best nearby in the off chance I make it through everyone else. A last ditch effort to survive. I get one knocked to the ground at the same time as two swing their blades at me. One aims for my head in front of me while the other aims at my lower back. I throw my body to the side in order to dodge both blows at the same time.

They realize far too late just how much momentum has been put behind their swings as their blades lodge into each other’s bodies. The one that had been behind me dies instantly as the blade slides right through his throat. The one in front of me looks down at the blade that pierces his abdomen. He goes to grab the handle with shaky hands, removing it from himself. Dropping to his knees, he watches the blood that pours from the wound before looking back to where I stand.

“Please,” he whispers, and in that one word I know what he’s asking of me.

Mercy. A swift, easy death. I offer a small tilt of my lips, and he closes his eyes. His head tips back as shaky breaths escape him. Swiftly, I swing an axe back, and it slices through his neck with butter like ease. His body remains upright for a second before falling to the ground, his head rolling several feet away.

I’ve taken too much time focusing on him though, and I forgot there was one last man standing until I hear the sound of his long machete swinging through the air. My body turns on instinct, an ill attempt to dodge at the last second as his blade slices through the side of my waist, just above the hip bone, and I immediately drop one of my weapons in favor of clutching my side. Hot liquid steadily flows through my fingertips as I look down at the clean cut wound that is sure to scar. Slowly, I raise my head, staring at the man in front of me. His ego seems to have inflated at the fact he was able to get a single hit in despite the fact I had been out numbered at the start.

“Aw, look at you getting a good hit in,” I coo, and I can’t help but find myself amused at the flush that covers his ruddy face as his grip on his weapon tightens. For the first time, I see the fear in Mr. Delgado’s eyes just beyond where this man stands, and watch as he backs away into his office. He’s shutting and locking the door behind him as one last safety measure, leaving his last line of defense to fend for himself. I don’t mind, though. Not when I would like to take my time picking his body apart as he so callously did to Ronan.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we? I have better things to do than stare at you all day,” he says, words dripping disgust as he takes me in.

“If your plans involve dying, then I would like to agree.”

An annoyed grunts leaves his throat as he lunges his body at me and my axe meets the metal of his machete—his weapon slides off my rounded axe, his body pushing forward as it follows the momentum. I use his momentary imbalance to send my axe cutting the length of his back. From shoulder to waist, his skin is torn open, and an excruciating yell fills the large, empty space we occupy. His legs give out from beneath him, as his confident facade crumbles.

“Get up and fight,” I demand as I slowly stalk toward his cowering body. His retreating form stops before I watch his arm try to push his body up. When he finally makes his way to his feet, he’s fuming as he studies me. “Don’t look at me like that, now,” I tsk. “I at least had the decency to leave your strong side unharmed,” I add with a snicker. He listens, unamused before swinging at me once again, but his movements are choppy and predictable now that he’s injured. With almost no effort, I ensure with each missed mark on his part, another wound is inflicted upon him.

“This is boring me,” I state when the whole left side of his body is battered and covered in wounds that bleed so much, I can no longer see where they are. Through it all, I left his right side completely unharmed, adding unnecessary comments—fueling his rage further while keeping the sorry excuse of a man on his feet and fighting. But the win feels too easy now, and I myself am losing enough blood that exhaustion has begun weighing on me as well.

“I would say this has been fun, but you have been about as disappointing as a stale bread sandwich.” An exasperated huff of disagreement weakly makes its way to my ears, but before he can argue anything, I deftly throw the bloody hatchet, burrowing it deep within his stomach. He sinks to his knees, mouth gaping wide open while metal clatters loudly on the ground before he throws me the same look as the last man.

A plea for mercy. One that will go unanswered.

He will receive no quick relief from the pain I’m sure wreaks havoc upon his body.

“Only a coward inflicts pain on someone who can do nothing to defend himself,” I start, speaking over his gurgled and laborious breaths before kicking him down on the mutilated side of his body, eliciting another cry of agony. “You will feel every bit of pain possible until you die.” Then, I’m stepping away from his body, red blood coating the ground around him, mixing with those he had fought alongside.

His groans continue in waves. Inevitability pulled each one forward as another died on his lips. It’s then that Adonis enters the room. He had created a makeshift wrap around his shoulder and arm, helping keep the damaged limb in place. His gaze travels over the scene that I have created. A painting of pain, despair, mercy, and grief.

“Take Ronan to the medical room,” I call out, and his gaze snaps to me. But he doesn’t look like he understands what I’m requesting of him. He looks down right appalled that I even suggested such a thing.

“Si—” he starts, but I cut a murderous glare in his direction and he falls silent.

“Take him. Start preparing pain meds, antibiotics, anything that can be used to disinfect his wounds. Both of you need it. Don’t fight me on this.” He stands still, a debate playing out in his mind over what he should or shouldn’t do. Whatever argument he had for staying, dies on his lips though as he cuts a glance at Ronan.

“Give him hell,” he says, his deep voice holding its own command, but the look we share—one of dark intensity—speaks volumes. Everything that we could say but refuse to.

“Keep him alive for me, will you?” I request, and he dips his head, eyes full of sincerity before he turns away from me.

His large muscled legs make the trek to the center of the room where Ronan still lies unconscious before dipping his chin at me. A small, sure gesture that comforts me as I turn back to the locked door. Subconsciously, my hand drifts back to the throbbing cut above my hip and the blood that stains my skin when I pull away. I search the room for anything that could be used as a makeshift bandage, ultimately cutting a strip of fabric from one of the dead men’s shirts. I tie the fabric around my waist, tightly knotting it and wincing at the new pressure.

I grab the dropped axe before stalking back to the final man. Surprised as I may have been, he is still breathing. His skin is a sickly pale color, and as I grip the handle of my secondary weapon still lodged in his stomach, I let him lay unaware that I am even here. Then, I rip the rounded blade out and relish in the sharp intake of breath he takes as the blood begins flowing freely—faster and unrestrained.

“Oh, Robert,” I call out, loud and playfully as I approach the door. “I have a bone to pick with you.” My foot slams into the newly painted wood of his office door. The lock breaks beneath my force, and the door opens.

He sits behind his polished wooden desk. Papers litter the entire surface, save for where his desktop and mouse sit. There are no family photos that line the walls, no drawings or letters like the ones I’d kept in the room of mine and Ronan’s apartment. There is nothing indicating he had ever been anything other than alone.

He clicks and slides the barrel forward as he points a gun at me, but he’s shaking too much for a steady shot. His chances of hitting me—even at a distance this short—is slim and he knows it.

“Now now, there’s no need for that. I just want to talk. I know how much you love hearing the sound of your own voice,” I say as I approach him with my hands up in a surrender we both know doesn’t mean shit while my fingers still loosely grip my weapons.

He doesn’t have a retort for me. No smart remarks or volatile thoughts to send my way. He doesn’t have to have any, I suppose. He knows what his fate has become.

“I thought that if I took everything away from you that you would finally stop fighting,” he shakily admits, a thoughtless chuckle immediately following. Beads of sweat fall down his forehead as he fumbles for the next thing to say. “I thought I figured it out.”

“You were never very good at the whole thinking thing,” I say, closing the distance with another step, and he monitors the movement. His eyes take notice of every step that I take before frantically looking around the room as if there’s someone else here that might still save him.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says and I laugh humorlessly.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say, removing another foot of distance, immediately marked by the monster in front of me. “Maybe your brain isn’t completely fucking useless after all…but I will be doing much more than just killing you.”

Time seems to slow as the aim of his weapon changes. No longer at me, but at himself. Just before he can pull the trigger, I react, sending my axe soaring through the air, completely severing his hand from his body. His screams surround me, deafening cries that almost make me wonder if I’m the same as him. Just a bloodthirsty monster, who gets off on the suffering of others.

But the man who was tortured within an inch of his life would disagree. The disbelief that would mar the delicate features of a dreamer would convince me I could never be such a thing. The woman who risked her life to warn me knowing what it would cost, would be ashamed to know I thought myself the same as him when she had given everything for me to end this all. Every single one of them knew, and I let that thought carry me through as time speeds up, and I do to him what he had tried to do to us—had done to so many others.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” he questions, his voice strained as I begin to wrap his severed limb before he has the chance to bleed out. His face scrunches as I tighten a discarded jacket around the butchered area. A smirk lifts my face at the sign of his discomfort.

“Mercy…I want to see you beg for it first,” I reply while moving to stand and walking around the spacious area of his office. Scanning the area, I pluck random objects from their spots. A stapler, pocketknife, some pens, and my axe from where it lodged into the wall.

“I hate to inform you that this will be quite unsatisfactory for you then. I don’t beg anyone for anything,” he replies as he tracks my every movement. With pallid skin and sweat beading at his forehead, I know I need to begin now before his death ruins the punishment he should suffer.

“Oh, but you will,” I singsong in response as I set everything out in front of me and pretend to take my time choosing how I would like this to play out. I brush the pads of my fingers against a dagger before moving back to the stapler and taking it into my grip. Walking toward his body, I enjoy the way he tries to back away before a wall stops his retreat.

“Now, now, stop trying to run away from this,” I start as I crouch down to his level and gaze at him. I release a deep sigh before reaching toward his face, but his free hand comes to stop me. Swiftly, I grab his wrist and twist his arm as far as I can. His deep grunt that follows, is almost as satisfying as the small cry he releases when I crush his hand beneath my foot, pinning him in place. “Oh, come on now, Robert. Don’t be such a bitch. Sit back, and enjoy the show,” I say as I go back to my original task of stapling his eyelids open. “I know how much you love a good show.”

His cries and whimpers last longer than I’d hoped as I skin back layers and layers of his arms.

“Do you want mercy yet?” I ask, staring into his cold eyes, but he shakes his head no. Even as snot falls from his nose—as blood, sweat and tears drip from everywhere on his body, he still refuses to beg. “What a pity,” I murmur as I tighten my hold on my dagger and force it into his wrist and twist the blade over and over again.

Muscles, tendons, and veins are ruined from the action, but so is his ability to fight back.

“Mercy?” I question, once again.

“No,” he grits out, but his voice is much weaker. His surety, wavering.

“Hmmm, as you wish.” Then I’m grabbing a pen and forcing it into one of his ears. He screams, loud and alive once again, as he attempts to bring his hand up to his head, but it’s just another painful reminder of how useless I have rendered him. “I shall ask you one last time. That’s it, Robert. How you live or die will be determined by this decision that you make. Mercy? Beg and die a basic human being, or say no and keep being treated like the monster that you are.”

His steely eyes carry so much all-consuming rage, but his body tells a different story. Torn to shreds, bruised and battered, I see the desire for everything to end.

“Please,” he forces the word out like it pains him more than anything else. One single syllable, and he spit it out like venom on his tongue. I lean forward, to the ear I know still works to say one last thing to him.

“I just don’t believe you mean it,” I whisper as I bring my hand up to his skinless shoulder and pat at the disgustingly wet and sticky blood that covers the area and squeeze, relishing the way his sob breaks through. And no matter what I do to him from that point on, I don’t listen to his cries. I just continue, the same we they had done to Ronan.

I reduce him to nothing more than the embodiment of agonizing misery. And soon, everything he is will be reduced to what he always tried to run from becoming.

Weak. Coward. Nothing.

* * *

Blood covers the entire length of my body as I walk to the medical wing. When I arrive, I’m surprised to find him stitching together some of the deeper wounds on Ronan’s body. Ronan is clean of excess blood as Adonis tended to most of the inflicted damage.

“I’m almost done with all that can be fixed,” he states as his gaze flits to my body. “You should probably clean yourself up.”

I release a grunt in agreement as I walk to the large sink against the back wall and scrub my hands clean before moving up to the rest of my arms. I note all the bruises that pepper my skin, as well as some smaller scratches I’ve accumulated. Then I’m splashing water onto my face, relishing how clean it feels as I watch red and pink swirl in the sink before disappearing down the drain.

Dragging my tired body to the station where Adonis is working, I grab a spare needle and thread, as well as rubbing alcohol and as much tissue as can be spared. I don’t hear a word or receive any odd looks as I slink into a chair across the room and untie the makeshift bandage I’d made for myself and douse the cut in alcohol.

Once I know it’s completely clean, I clench my jaw, preparing for the sting that will follow as I insert the needle. Using the curve of the needle, I pass the suture through the entrance of the wound before pulling the edges of the cut together and loop it through either side of my skin. Each time, I tie knots at the end of the process, ensuring that the wound stays closed as tears well in my eyes. Soon after, Adonis rises to his feet, all but carrying Ronan on his uninjured side.

“Get to the garage. The largest vehicle you can find. I have something I need to do first,” I state, as I watch the last golden and orange rays of light flitter in from the windows. Two things, actually, I think to myself.

He watches me, hesitant to leave me behind, but ultimately gives in to my request as he stumbles away. I then turn and walk to the study I had woken in. My eyes immediately narrow on the box in the middle of the room as I walk over to it and begin to push. The wheels squeak with every foot of distance I close, and when I make it to the door that will lead us out, I find it already open—Adonis looking around mindlessly at the choices he has while Ronan’s body is slumped in a chair.

When he sees me with the box though, his features soften, even if only for a minute before walking over to where I stand, and cradling her into his arms. Even with the tension coiling in his body, begging him to take it easy, he walks confidently to a van. He sets her down long enough to open the hatch and gather a tarp that lay discarded on the ground before laying it down on the carpeted area of the trunk. He picks her up again, setting her body on top, before covering her with the rest of the tarp.

It’s then that I grab a full gas can, turn away and continue, ignoring the way Adonis yells after me.

I stalk through every room of the estate, laying trails of paper everywhere that can be found. I leave small streams of gas here and there—not too much to run out too soon, but just enough to ensure fire catches everywhere. The bedrooms, offices, dining hall, study, and even the library. As I go to leave, I notice the worn book sitting on the bench next to one of the windows where Carmen always loved to read.

Without thinking, I grab it, shoving it into one of my pockets, and then walk through the length of the house. Once I’m halfway to the garage, I pull out the old lighter I’d found at the old house and light it, watching as small flames catch here and there.

Everything must burn. I think to myself one last time as I quickly make my way through the last hall. Everything he has done, must burn.

It’s my last thought before I make it to the garage and hop in the backseat, keeping a watchful eye on Ronan. I lay his head in my lap and feel the way his pulse thrums beneath my fingertips, a heavenly beat my heart echoes as I look out the window. I watch darkness descend upon us. With every mile through forests, forgotten memories whisper stories of the past in my ears. I relive the tales of lost loves—the ghosts of friends that had occupied the space around us only a week ago. Friends that are now held in the arms of death herself, only residing in the house of wishes created from the despairing truth that they no longer live, while we do.

“Did you read the note?” Ronan’s groggy and pained voice interrupts the trance I’d fallen into while staring at the passing trees as I meet his stormy gaze. He forces his eyes shut with furrowed brows and tensed muscles before bringing his hand to hold the one I have rested against his chest.

“What? Ronan, what are you even—” My question trails off as I catch sight of his bandaged hand that holds mine, tracing circles over my knuckles.

“The note that was…” His muscles tighten further, and he clears his throat before continuing. “It was under the dagger.”

“No, I—” The question catches me off guard, stumbling over words. I’ve never been the best at them, and they never came easily to me like they did for him. “I didn’t want to intrude,” I finish solemnly, allowing my other hand to brush through his dark wavy locks.

“It’s yours.”

Breathless, I allow silence to stretch around us as I think about the implication.

“What do you me—” I slowly start, but he interrupts my question.

“It was a gift. It was with the dag—” His deep voice trails off as his muscles relax once again, and sleep pulls him deep within its clutches. My lungs are greedy for air, but with each inhale, I feel as if I’m choking until I cautiously check his pulse.

Weak, but stronger than it had been earlier now that the bleeding has stopped.

Slowly, I reach into the pocket where I had placed the folded piece of paper. It’s covered in dirt, blood, and God knows what else. I open it and see two words written next to a poorly doodled knife and ribbon.

“ Look Inside ”