Chapter 12 Royce #2
Then, just as Prince releases Beckham’s throat, I notice something peeking out of the collar of his suit, just under his hairline at the back of his neck.
It is an obvious addition next to his white blond hair because dark long lashes are connected to electrifying purple eyes…
my fucking eyes. Without a doubt in my mind, I know they are mine.
Sparkle has been added, giving them more life than the set I live with each day.
He is sick. Fucking unwell.
Reaching into his pant pocket, Prince pulls out a string of black beads.
Confused, I wait. This man does nothing at random; everything is always carefully plotted with purpose.
Instead of turning away and returning his focus to Agatha, who is still floating in the living room, his hand moves rapidly. Sizzle and smoke follow.
Beckham screams in agony. His eyes squeeze shut while his body twitches, trying to break free from the hold Prince has over him.
As Prince’s hand falls back, the clear imprint of a crucifix is etched into Beckham’s face.
The skin is blistering and bright red, and it doesn’t fucking end.
Prince has a rosary in his hands, and he will use it until it’s no longer fun.
Slamming my feet into the wooden door of the cold storage, I can’t sit and watch this any further. He is torturing us both and reveling in it.
I am not a strong person, physically and mentally, most of the time, so with one hard kick, the door doesn’t fly off. Repeatedly, I use all my might. The lock jingles while the hinges creak.
“Baby, I’m coming. I promise,” I murmur to myself with each strike.
Breathlessly, my chest heaves, and my mouth becomes parched. My brain is losing the will to continue this tedious task, but my body and heart will not give up on him.
With each kick of my boot, I hear parts of the hinge rattling. And I hope it’s been poorly screwed in and is on the verge of popping off.
A thunderous roar erupts from me. Giving it my fucking all, I muster every ounce of energy I can find in my final attempt at escape. My feet surge forward as the screws of the thin metal hinge fly off and the door swings open.
Coughing, my throat is dry, but I attempt to catch my breath.
Meanwhile, Prince’s head turns. He’s heard me.
Excitement turns to dread.
In one brisk movement, I roll over onto my stomach, my nose brushing against the dusty, cool floor. I hold my breath to stop a sneeze, then push myself up into a squat before gripping the edge above me and hoisting my frail, aching body up.
With my eyes still forced closed, I use my hands to feel around the room I am currently standing in, and my worst worry is falling ass over feet back into that fucking hole.
Therefore, standing is not an option. Sliding my feet in short spurts is the only way.
My heart beats rapidly under my chest as time is racing against me.
Then, Beckham’s burning face returns before me. You can no longer tell it’s a crucifix destroying him; it’s all blending into one large wound.
“Take me. Hurt me. Hate me!” I scream. “Let me take his pain, please!”
Prince’s head whips around, his deranged eyes looking back at me. “Never.”
If he can hear me, he knows I’m coming and won’t be able to stop me.
Nothing with him is easy.
Dread falls over me because I know it’s only going to get worse.
My hands find the single doorknob, and I attempt to turn it, but it doesn’t budge. He has me locked in.
Adrenaline begins to take over. I am so close.
Putting all my momentum behind it, I slam my body into the door separating us.
Prince drops the rosary at the exact same time, and it slowly falls to his feet.
I slam my body once more.
With shrugging shoulders, he casually says, “Fuck it.”
Confused, I pause and watch.
Prince hops down the steps and saunters over to the record player.
What is he doing?
Kicking the leg out of the wooden record player stand, it flies off, and the records crash to the floor.
Kneeling, Prince takes the broken leg into his hand and spins around on the balls of his black dress shoes.
A renewed sense of urgency washes over me. Don’t you fucking dare!
This time Prince doesn’t respond to me.
Reaching the banister, he twirls with joy, a state I have never seen him in before, and I want to be sick. My stomach turns as I bash the door down and fall on top of it, hitting the ground.
Scrambling, I get to my feet, and I think my vision has returned, because before me is the fallen record player stand.
Wasting no time, I run to Beckham. But it’s too late. I am too fucking late.
The knife, which was once floating millimeters from penetrating his heart, is gone and it has been replaced with Prince’s hand and the wooden stake.
Prince looks over to me and winks as Beckham’s hand takes his spot.
Frantic, I think, what is he doing?
I try to get to him, but I find myself only able to run in one place.
Why is this happening?
Prince holds both hands up in the air as Beckham’s arm reaches out, still holding the sharp piece of wood at chest level.
It happens in slow motion.
Denial and disbelief wash over me.
My mate slams the stake into his own heart, and by default, my own.
Breaking it into a million unfixable pieces.
Crippled, my lifeless body collapses to my knees.
A familiar feminine voice is screeching around us. It seems so far away, like a haunting soundtrack playing while my heart breaks.
Perhaps it’s me, but I can’t tell because I am numb.
Beckham’s body crumbles down the stairs, his eyes still open, but the vivid red is now dull. His skin has gone from a beautiful, pale white with exposed, shimmery tattoos to a deathly gray.
“But I’m not done yet, sweet girl.” I hate him.
My mind tells me the only way to feel better, or to not feel at all, is to join him.
Because the only person to make me feel whole since my moms passed, was him, Beckham. My vampire boy.
Fading away, I lie here lifelessly. Until I am forced to move.
Prince.
The front door is still open, and I am tossed through it and lifted two stories to the roof. And instead of dropping me, Prince forces my legs to straighten, but I fight him until the very end. I will not make anything easy for him. With tense muscles, my teeth grit.
Dark clouds still circle overhead, and moths flutter around my lifeless body, tickling my bare skin with their wings and antennas.
Then, all at once, they leave me, revealing my worst nightmare come to life.
“So beautiful, just like my mama in the garden.”
Looking over to the devil beside me, his eyes, still bright white, are in a trancelike state.
Swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobs, and his face radiates happiness.
He must feel me focusing on him because I am just as quickly forced back to seeing the heartache in the garden. Beckham.
Maggots and centipedes wiggle and crawl over his body.
Dead, brown, brittle shrubs surround him, attempting to steal his light and his beauty.
But they can’t have it. No one can. I want to fight the brown vines intertwining around his limbs, but I know it’s of no use. Prince would stop me from jumping.
The stake is missing. Instead, cockroaches climb out of the vacant hole.
Please, make it stop, I plead internally.
And I think Prince can hear me because slowly, he turns his head. And with mischief in his voice, he asks, “Are you ready for the ghost story?”