Chapter 12 Tati
Tati
“You sick twisted piece of shit,” I yell, biting the inside of my cheek to prevent the flood of tears I can feel welling in my eyes.
“What you did to my family.” I can’t even finish.
Images of Leigh, Foster, Laurel, Mikayla, and Evander flash before me—their bodies, resembling nothing of their childish innocence.
Leigh. Her little broken body, lying on the floor, as blood pooled from every identifiable part of her.
The coroner’s report detailed the work required to match limbs to the correct child.
“They were fucking children—we were fucking innocent children,” I snarl. “And you—all of you destroyed that with your depravity.”
Anger radiates off me in an endless wave—powerful and destructive. Blow after blow, I pummel Fredrick’s head until his face is missing. But I don’t stop—I can’t stop. “You selfish pieces of shit,” I scream, letting everything out.
Eighteen years of rage steady my grip on Guilie, even as blood slithers down the handle, my hold never slips—ten years of watching as they all brutalized men, women, and children indiscriminately.
None of these fuckers should’ve been born.
Their moms should’ve been bitches that only swallowed, and their dads should’ve had their nuts snipped.
Evil this bad isn’t just nature or nurture’s fuck up. It’s the toxic marriage of the two—a twisted blend, molding their psychopathy.
And all four of the scum said, “I do,” enthusiastically.
I remember playing dead, lucky that they didn’t attempt to do what they did to my siblings, as I listened to them brutalize Mikah’s parents.
At five, I didn’t understand the evil I was living with.
I didn’t know the role they played in my parents’ disappearance and murder.
I didn’t know they planned it from the start. But I learned quickly.
“Ahhh,” I shout, dropping my bat and grabbing the hunting knife in my hip holster. “I wish I could kill all of you over and over again.”
Heaving, I kneel over Fredrick’s dead body, far from satisfied with just pounding his face until it caved in. He deserves to feel what they did.
I squat, starting with his hands. “You can’t harm anyone else, Freddy,” I mutter, moving to the next one. “I’m going to scatter your body so you’ll never reincarnate.”
Refusing to touch his disgusting dick, I grab my torch and aim. Satisfaction fills me as his skin crackles, and it shrivels.
Burn all of him.
The irony of burning Fredrick, given his choice of wearing a Freddy Krueger mask, is too poetic to pass up.
Standing, I kick his leg, and it rolls, hitting the annoying idiot who thought she was special.
Goal.
I laugh. I obviously missed my calling as a soccer player, though I’m much better at baseball.
Spinning, I look around the room. I know this fuck has to have gasoline in here somewhere. It takes three twirls before I notice it, a cabinet filled with axes, some medieval torture devices, and other shit I can’t identify.
I make a mental note to look up some of these tools. They’ll be perfect for my collection. Then, I stride back to where Fredrick lies.
Well, what’s left of him.
Uncapping the red gasoline container, I pour it all over him, enjoying the mush pile made of half of his body, laughing when remnants of his tissue dissolve and float away.
From the torso up, Freddy looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. The imagery that thought leaves when I recall the video of him grilling the breast of a girlfriend he’d murdered after she’d dyed her hair blonde.
“What the fuck, Patrica?” Freddy sneers, catapulting from the recliner in the living room.
“Don’t you like it, Freds?”
I remember shaking my head at the terrible nickname and gawking at her striking resemblance. She could easily have been my twin.
“No,” he snaps. “Now go dye it back.”
The command bounced off the walls, and the joy on Patrica’s face melted away. Her nostrils flared, and I knew what was coming. I begged the woman on the screen to dye it back and not barrel down the path of no return. She didn’t fucking listen.
“What?” Patrica shrieks, “I’m not dying shit back.”
The idiot couldn’t read the room. She couldn’t sense the danger breathing down her neck as it wrapped its hands around her throat.
They say trauma makes you vigilant, almost to an extreme point. I could easily tell when someone’s life hadn’t been touched by evil—never tainted by its rancid stench. They were always more carefree, unguarded, and gullible.
Freddy shot across the room, slamming her so hard into the door she just stepped through that she passed out.
That didn’t stop him from banging her repeatedly until she went completely limp.
She wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t truly alive either.
One of the sick bastard’s favorite types of people to play with.
I cut the video once he stripped her of her clothes, tearing off her panties and cutting off her bra. I read the report and have seen his depravity enough times to know what happened next. Patrica was raped, gutted while he was still brutally slamming inside of her.
What I was less prepared for were the photos of him barbecuing parts of her on his custom grill. He was butt naked, blood still marring his body, and his dick still hard and covered in her cum. A sign he waited until she came on his dick before ending her.
The saddest part is that what he did to Patrica wasn’t even close to the horrific things he’s done since then. It was like she became his gateway. After that day, the number of people he murdered and ate was too many to count.
Fucking scum.
If his mouth weren’t missing, I’d feed the cannibalistic fuck his own dick.
He’d enjoy that.
Tucking his mask into the belt, I peer into the room a final time. My only regret was how quick this kill was. If I weren’t working against time, I would’ve made his death take months.
He deserves it.
They all do.
Stepping through the side door I entered earlier, I spark up the blowtorch.
“May you burn in hell,” I hiss. “And don’t you worry, the last of the assholes will join you soon.
” Then I toss it inside and walk away, enjoying the crackle of the fire tearing through the room.
I wish I could watch the flames engulf the whole thing, but there’s an asshole “adopted big brother” I have to spend quality time with.
Tapping the earpiece, I gloat, wishing Brax could see my face as I say this. “That’s two for me. I get twenty points for creativity and thirty for execution. Pun definitely intended.”
“Just remember, little fox, if I catch you before you capture your brother, I’m going to fuck you while he watches,” Brax states, his gravelly tone sounding more of a promise than a threat before he cuts the line.