Chapter 26 Gabriel
Gabriel
Damien shook his head incredulously as we entered Sophia’s room.
“You know, I was not expecting her to be the one to convince you to come back home. You’re so whipped, dude.”
“What?” I said.
“Whipped. You’re pussy whipped.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Damien rolled his eyes and smiled.
“All of a sudden, a girl you’re in love with wants to do the opposite of what you want to do, and suddenly you’re all for it.”
“You don't know what you’re talking about,” I said, hoping that was the end of the conversation. “And I don’t love her.”
I dropped Sophia off at the hotel I booked for the three of us.
I never should have brought her back to that dump Damien and I were hiding out in.
She didn’t need to see that. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to come back to Henry’s for her things, but I couldn’t help but feel like I made a mistake leaving her alone again.
Damien picked up a painting off Sophia's desk.
“Aww, look, it's you.” He showed me the painting—a perfect portrait of me in the coffee shop stared back at me.
“I have to admit, your girlfriend is good with her hands.”
“Put it down,” I said with a tired voice.
Damien admired the painting one more time, then put it back where he found it.
“You think she’s different, but let me tell you something about women. They are all the same. At first, they're all smiles and cuteness, but as time goes on, they become vicious and cruel. They use what they learn about you to land blows they're physically incapable of.”
“Damien, that only happens to you because you’re an asshole.”
“I’m not an asshole. I’m a realist,” he said, puffing up his chest.
His absolute belief in his own wisdom astonished me sometimes.
I crouched down and gathered up paintbrushes strewn across the floor and noticed a crumpled pamphlet for an art school. An art school in New York. I flipped it open, then tossed it into the container we were using to gather Sophia’s things, unsure of what to make of it.
“No, really, you are an asshole. I’ve seen all of your relationships turn to shit just as you described. It’s always been your doing,” I said.
“Well, I’ll be sure to remind you of this conversation when it all comes crashing down for you.” Damien studied the camera in the wall, then turned toward the room, studying the view the camera had.
“So, have you decided what you want to do with Henry yet?”
“It doesn’t require much thought,” I said, sharing a wicked smile with my brother.
“Have you told Sophia?” he asked.
“No. She wouldn’t be able to handle that.”
“Yet you’re bringing her to a lion's den where what we are going to do to Henry is normal? She’s going to break in New York if she can’t handle the fact that we’re going to kill Henry.”
“She is strong; she will be fine. It’s just too personal with Henry. She’s lived with him for years. It’s better this way. She has no illusions about what awaits her in New York.”
Damien snickered.
“Yeah, sure. I’m sure she’ll run at the first sign of trouble. You're forgetting—she's just a naive girl with a big heart. She won’t last a day.”
“She will be fine. Enough talking. We’re just here to get her valuables.”
“All right, all right,” Damien muttered.
We continued gathering Sophia's things. It was surreal, gathering her drawings, her clothes, the tiny trinkets she'd collected over the years. They all reflected a person I was still getting to know but felt so much for—a person whose heart felt closer to me than my own.
“So anyway, I heard back from the pilot. The jet will be here in two days.”
“Good,” was all I said. I was done talking to him. As if sensing my irritation, he continued,
“How long did you last at that job you forged your way into anyway? A few weeks?” He laughed.
“Things changed,” I said through gritted teeth.
He smiled, and I could tell he was about to make a joke when I heard the chime from the gallery’s door below us. I signaled for my brother to be silent and shot him a glance as I listened more intently. We waited in silence for minutes, not moving a muscle.
Creak.
I looked toward the bedroom door. We left it open, and someone was silently making their way up the stairs.
Damien slithered under Sophia’s bed, and I hid in her bathroom, leaving the door cracked.
Watching. Waiting. I heard another creak from the stairs.
I found myself clenching my jaw, unable to suppress the ravenous hatred I felt for Henry.
I stared through the crack in the door, waiting for that little freak to appear in front of me.
Dry blood caked his nose and trailed across his face.
His throat was red and purple from my iron grip.
He looked around the room as if he smelled something unfamiliar, then walked toward the camera in the wall and cleared his throat before working to conceal his twisted nature.
The sound of pliers clicking, wire snapping, tools chipping drywall, and Henry’s weak grunts filled the silence.
I used the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and silently approach.
I felt a smile forming on my face as I stood there, breathing down his neck.
Finally, he yanked his contraption from the wall.
“I’m going to turn you into a modern art masterpiece,” I said, letting his death sentence linger in the air.
Henry whipped around, falling back into the wall.
His eyes widened as he looked up at me, his face holding the primal visage of pure, animalistic terror.
They shifted toward the door, where Damien now leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
Henry fell to his knees, clasping his hands together in a pitiful plea for mercy.
His mouth twitched open, and his lips quivered as he tried to find the right combination of words to save himself.
But he said nothing. Deep down, he knew, just as I did, that nothing could change what was about to happen.
Crack.
I punched him in the mouth, launching him backward into the wall headfirst. I grabbed Henry—my flesh canvas, flowing with fresh blood—and set about my work.
Crack.
His jaw dangled from his face, worthless. Broken. He squealed like a pig as I forced him back to his feet and pinned him against the wall.
Red is a beautiful color. So vibrant.
I hit him again, flattening his nose; again, a black eye, surrounded by crushed bone.
A new color on the canvas.
“Pleeease,” he gurgled, tongue flapping, unable to beg properly without the use of his jaw.
“Shut the fuck up!”
He didn’t have a choice, really, considering both of my hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. His good eye fluttered, closing for a moment before bulging open wider than before. He seemed to understand now that he was going to die.
Snap.
His head slumped sideways, then tilted backwards much further than any head should, neck skin stretching to its limit. I dragged my lifeless creation down to the gallery, wondering if I should hang it up or throw it away, when I noticed a row of pottery along the top of a display rack.
“Damien, see if there’s a kiln here somewhere.”
“A what?”
“It’s a furnace, for pottery.”
Damien smirked, shaking his head.
"You're really getting into the spirit of this art thing, huh?" He gave Henry’s corpse a dismissive kick before heading toward a back room.
I paused, taking in the quiet stillness of the gallery. The walls were lined with Sophia’s vibrant, expressive artwork—so full of life and innocent passion, a stark contrast to the violence I’d just unleashed.
“Found it! But there’s no way he’s gonna fit,” Damien’s voice echoed from the back.
Perfect.
I dragged Henry’s body toward the sound, his weight scraping across the floor.
In the corner of the room sat a small kiln.
“He doesn’t need to fit,” I muttered. I positioned Henry's head beneath the kiln, switched on the heat, and opened the hatch. With a swift motion, I tipped the heavy furnace over. The impact was quick and brutal.
I stared at the aftermath—his head crushed, the body limp. Accidents happen all the time. Once the fire burned out, it would look like he was victim to one.
Sophia would never have to know what really happened here. This wasn’t just revenge—it was protection. For her.
Damien wiped his hands on his pants, glancing at Henry's body with a smirk.
“Let’s grab her things and go. No point sticking around for the fireworks.”
I glanced once more at Henry’s lifeless form, now nothing more than another corpse for the mental pile.
I was back to shedding blood—stepping deeper into the life I once thought I could leave behind.
There was no denying it now. I could hear the flames crackling in the backroom as we gathered the last of Sophia’s belongings.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice low.
“Let’s get out of here.”