Sinner
I watch from the sidelines as the asshole touches her. I wish I could see his face, but I can’t. His voice sounds familiar, but it could be anyone’s. My hands ball into fists as I bite back the urge to go over there and break every bone in his body for hurting her. He will die by my hands, I determine then.
My heart pounds in my chest like a wild drum, matching the rhythm of the barely suppressed rage that threatens to burst forth from within me. But she holds her own. My little demon spits in his face and doesn’t yield. Deadly fucking angel.
I can almost taste the metallic tang of my vengeance, a bitter cocktail of fury and protectiveness. But I’m trapped, rooted to the spot like some cowardly bystander. A sick knot forms in my stomach, like I’ve swallowed a cannonball whole. Yet my girl fights him as he walks her back to the compound. I’ll kill them all.
Walking around the woods, I scan the perimeter, making sure I memorize the layout. For what I have in store, I need to ensure we can make it out alive with those who are innocent.
As the chill of the night wind seeps into my bones, I feel my resolve hardening like forged steel. Silently, I move through the dense undergrowth, taking note of deadfalls and patches of loose ground—potential traps for the unwary, but a golden opportunity for those who know of their existence. My main priority is having access to the maidens, especially if she is going to be here. I take a deep breath in. Blowing this shithole to the ground is the best possible outcome. Burn it all, bring them hell on earth—that’s what they deserve.
My thoughts race through a thousand strategies, discarding most as too risky or unlikely to succeed. Stealth is my ally here, the guile of the hunted fox turning upon the hounds. I have no illusions about the odds stacked against me, but I keep moving and plotting.
Moonlight dapples the forest floor, casting eerie shadows that play tricks on my eyes. I’m grateful for the darkness; if anyone spots me now, it could blow all my carefully laid plans to smithereens. I can’t risk that. I throw my head back, taking in the night sky. Soon I’ll free her from these demons and show her true salvation. True worship .
I follow the sound of voices, leading me to the men in white robes from earlier. They talk amongst themselves, celebrating their blessing—Marisol’s purification, their gift for their undying loyalty or stupidity. I seethe as I count the men not that it mattered, they are dead.
I clench my fists, the veins throbbing under my skin. Their laughter pierces the night, a sickening revelry that will soon be drowned in their own blood. Rage boils within me, a volcano waiting to unleash its wrath.
I move closer, careful to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. Fuck it. One of them is dying tonight, and unfortunately for him, this asshole, who moved from the group, will do. I creep behind him as he pulls out his cock to piss behind a tree. Poor bastard doesn’t hear me until my blade pierces his throat.
His sudden gasp is swallowed by the night, and the soft thump of his body falling doesn’t reach the ears of his comrades. For a moment, I stand over his quickly cooling form, my heart pounding with a sickening thrill. The smell of spent urine mixes with the coppery tang of his blood.
Blood spurts from the fatal wound, warm and pulsating, coloring his white robe a shocking scarlet. Terror hangs in his eyes as he grasps at the knife, clawing futilely as he chokes on his own blood. I tsk, and with one swift yank, free my blade from his throat, wiping the blood on my pants. Another idiot stumbles upon me— this poor soul will visit hell before the grand finale.
With a swift, brutal swing of my blade, I plunge it into the man’s larynx before he can even register my presence. A harsh gurgle emerges from his throat, his hands clutching at the wound as life drains from his eyes in mere seconds. His body collapses onto the bloody grass, his hands still clawing at his throat in a futile attempt to staunch the flow.
I watch as life flees from him, the world narrowing to the red creeping on his robe and the bitter smell of death .
I leave him there and move back into the shadows—there’s more to go. But I stop in my tracks as I watch Victor come out with Marisol, whispering something in her ear. She is still dressed in that hideous white dress. Once she’s rescued from this fucking shithole, white is a color she will never wear again. Victor strokes her cheek, his thumb tracing over the soft skin beneath her eyes. I see her shudder and pull away slightly, but he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. She looks deathly pale in the moonlight, like a ghost from a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
I want nothing more than to end him right there where he stands, but that would be suicide, and God would frown upon that. I’m desperate, but not suicidal. With one last lingering glance at Marisol, I retreat into the shadows. She is strong; she will hold on a little longer. Every nerve in my body screams to charge, to end Victor in a pool of his own blood, but I hold back. Patience is a virtue rarely found in my line of work.
I make my way out of the compound and toward Zia’s bike. The asshole didn’t even try to hide it—her bike was left out here for all to see, and yet no arrest, nothing. I approach the abandoned all-black Yamaha. I found it shortly after she died, abandoned. One night, I hot-wired it and took it out and started taking it on joy rides—especially when coming to the compound. I could have used the car that the church supplied me with, but that would put my cover at risk.
I straddle the motorcycle, and with a quick jerk, the engine roars to life. The sound echoes ominously through the abandoned part of the compound. I kick the ground with force, and the bike responds instantaneously, tearing through the empty road like a ghost.
The chill night air stings my skin as I speed further into the darkness, passing the border of the compound’s grounds and heading back to town. Thankfully, it’s late, so the town is quiet as I approach the spot where I hide the bike. The last thing I want is for these assholes to find the one thing that belonged to Zia and destroy it like they did to her .
I pull up to the entrance of an old, decrepit warehouse hidden from the main roads by overgrown trees and vines. The place has been abandoned for years, its crumbling exterior a perfect disguise for my hideout. I push Zia’s bike into an old shipping container, taking care to cover it with a weathered tarp.
Once I’m sure the bike is hidden, I walk back to town, avoiding the bar where I met and fucked Zia, as I head back to the motel room. I could go back to the church and get some sleep, but the town of Taos doesn’t look for redemption or salvation. My church is the last place where they would go; the town crawls with Victor’s followers, believers of his cause, his false prophecies.
I enter the motel room, the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne wafting over me. Each step forward is a monumental effort, my muscles protesting every movement. I’m tired, both physically and emotionally drained from the day’s events. A hot shower is tempting, but that will have to wait. I need sleep.
Once inside the comfort of the room, I fall face-first onto the cheap mattress. The springs whine in protest, sending a small puff of dust into the stale air. I’m too tired to care, and the thought of pulling off my boots or changing out of my dusty clothes seems as monumental as climbing Everest right now. The rough woolen blanket smells of mothballs and old sweat.
The coarse fabric of the motel bedspread scratches against my unshaven cheek, and I have to stifle a groan. The room is dark except for a single, dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long, flickering shadows on the tired wallpaper. For the first time in days, I’m finally relaxed enough to sleep.
I shut my eyes tight and let the darkness consume me, sinking deeper into the mattress. My thoughts drift back to Marisol, but despite the tension in my body, exhaustion finally claims me, pulling me down into a restless sleep full of ghostly faces and screams of anguish.