25. Hotaru
I turn off the headlights a kilometer away from his uncle’s house, pull into a wooded lot in easy reach, and kill the engine.
We talked over the plan for the rest of the ride. Over and over it, we went. Still, my guts are in knots, as I suppose they should be. I’m about to kill a man, though I don’t qualify him as a human man. He’s more Oni, a demon, than anything.
When I look at Arlo, he nods once, his face pulled into a tight mask of certainty. He’s more sure than I’ve seen him, maybe ever. It settles the quaking inside. He exits the car, and I follow. We leave the doors cracked open, the interior light long dead, and head for the back of the house.
I follow his lead now. This is his nightmare. I’m just here to help.
We skirt the perimeter, still hidden in the brush. No lights are on inside. The house rises three stories into the night sky, scraping the moon with its spired roofline.
The waxing gibbous moon gives us enough illumination to measure our steps over fallen limbs and avoid divots. When we circle to the back, we pull on our gloves without a word and lift our hoods.
Together, we press forward, not touching but close enough to move as one. The back door looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed approximately one hundred and fifty years ago.
Arlo turns the knob. It gives with a low groan that makes my stomach bottom out. He gives a flit of his wrist and a small purse of his lips, telling me it doesn’t matter. I trust him with my life, but my insides aren’t buying it just yet. They rattle and rumble as I follow him inside and close the door behind us, soundlessly. Thank goodness.
As soon as the door meets the frame, the weight of this place presses onto my shoulders. It’s as if my body knows evil resides here. From the darkness clinging to every corner to the mildew polluting the air, this place is inhospitable.
Bottles of cheap beer and liquor litter the counter and table in an old cook’s kitchen that’s seen better days.
My guts twist even tighter.
My friend goes rigid as if the memories of this place are trying to drown him.
I step close to his side and just a little bit in front, careful not to block his view of the room and large archway beyond it. I hold my palm out between us and hold my breath.
His gaze slices to it. His gaze meets mine. He blinks several times. I watch him pull himself back from the monsters inside his head.
Arlo’s gloved fingers flex, then form fists. He rolls his shoulders, nods in acknowledgment of my gesture, then hurries into the hallway.
Rejection stings like a backhand.
I let it fuel my determination to end the motherfucker who lives here. The motherfucker who will die here. Tonight.
By the time I catch up with Arlo, he’s at the base of the wide stairs. He points toward the side near the wall and ascends them on silent, fast feet. I follow close, up them and to another level.
It’s dank and somehow darker here. It’s because I know what happened on this floor in this house. It’s where my love was ripped apart. Emotionally and physically.
To my surprise, he hurries through the door of his haunted room. He rushes to the chains that held him prisoner and crouches low. I unzip the bag across my body and hand him the bolt cutters. The fucking metal is looped through a radiator that was built into the goddamned wall ages ago.
Arlo maneuvers the claws around the first lock. I grab either side of the chain. He wrenches the long handles together and snaps the metal apart.
Air whooshes in and out of his lungs for a few seconds while I carefully extricate the first chain from its anchor. What sounds like a soft sob is caught in his glove.
My heart aches. I give him a second to collect himself and pull two fresh locks from the bag. I place one in each pocket of my pants. Still, my friend shakes.
I lean close and put my lips near his covered ear. “You are the strongest person I know. You are setting yourself free.”
He nods frantically and grabs the cutters once more.
Quietly, we remove the second chain. We coil them in dangling loops around our arms, taking great care that the sides don’t touch. Arlo flips off the room and heads for the stairs.
One level down and past several nearly empty rooms, I hear the lull of a fan.
Arlo points at the closed door a little way from the end of the corridor, and I know that’s his uncle’s bedroom. I nod, having never been more ready for something in my life.
I’m ready to free Arlo from his nightmare.
He has to be the one to do it, though, and I hate it.
My friend twists the knob and soundlessly opens the door into a massive bedroom with one dresser vomiting its contents, peeling wallpaper, crooked paintings, and a bed that looks far too small for the space. It’s made of wrought iron that’s twisted into ornate loops. At the center of it lies a man. An evil man, but simply a man.
Demons don’t snore.
An old-timey box fan is propped on a chair a few feet from the head of the bed. It blows a steady stream of filthy air onto the man’s face, creating quite the racket.
The grin suddenly tugging at my lips is a shock.
Eight months ago, this man terrified me. Now, he is the rodent that needs extermination.
I move on sure feet toward him and meticulously lay the chain perpendicular to the bed. Arlo moves a little more slowly, his gaze on the bed for a long time, but he does the same.
Mine is even with the man’s chest, while Arlo’s is even with his thighs.
I drop my bag to the floor near the foot of the bed, then drop myself on it next to the bed. I grab one end of the chain in both hands, making sure they’re spaced out enough that the tip won’t drag along the wooden floor. Arlo supports the other end, pulling it taut. Then I crawl backward under the bed.
The movement is awkward, shuffling my toes, hips, and elbows an inch at a time like a centipede, only slower. Sweat slicks my belly, soaking my shirt by the time I exit the other side.
We settle the chain onto the ground, and before I can take a full breath, crawl back for the other chain. I can’t wait to see his face when he wakes chained to his fucking bed. What’s more, I can’t wait until he realizes how doomed he is.
I’m square to the middle of the bed when the springs groan right above my head.
It sounds like a bomb being detonated, though I know it’s not. I know it’s a sound he is used to while sleeping. I’m certain he’s just rolling over.
I can barely make out the edges of Arlo’s black shoes. The ones I bought him for this event. They backpedal toward the door.
“Huh?” A groggy and gruff voice echoes in the room.
Every ounce of oxygen in my body evaporates.
Arlo stays perfectly still as though his uncle is a fucking T-Rex and can’t see him if he doesn’t move. I hope to hell it’s true. If Arlo is as frozen with fear as I am, we’re screwed.
I cling to hope with both hands, willing him to be a chronic sleep talker. Hell, I’d even take bedwetter right now.
The springs groan again. “Who’s there?” his uncle rasps.
My body goes cold. The sweat slicking my skin turns to ice.
A click reverberates for a split second before dull light blinds me. I blink furiously against the strain.
“What the fuck?” the demon barks. Over me, the springs cry like I long to.
No. No. No. No. It isn’t supposed to happen this way.
“Come back for more, twat?” Two gigantic feet plop onto the floor inches in front of my face. “I’ll give it to ya.”
He stands, and I swear the man’s bare calves are as wide as my thighs. Terror clamps around my already useless throat.
Run! Arlo! Run!
“You even brought me your chains. What a good little?—”
“I brought them to tie you up and kill you.” Arlo’s voice is bombastic and heavy with rage. It boasts confidence and a fight I haven’t seen in him, not ever.
“Y…You can’t talk,” his uncle mutters.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
The demon stands and spreads his feet in a self-assured posture. “You’re pretty good at choking on my prick.”
His words light a rage so deep inside my bones, I didn’t know it existed. It warms me from the inside out. Its roar deafens every worry and kills my panic. Something inside me shifts from a fucked-up young man to a ruthless predator.
He doesn’t know I’m here. A sinister grin pulls at my lips. I shimmy to the edge of the bed, where I can see all of Arlo and his tormentor’s wide back. He’s in nothing but threadbare boxers. The man isn’t muscled as much as he is just big.
“Tonight.” Arlo’s stance goes loose like a wrestler’s. “Tonight we’ll see how well you choke on your cock.”
“On your fucking knees,” his uncle barks. Uncertainty wavers his voice even as he grabs his junk and shakes it.
“No,” Arlo growls. “But I’ll see you on yours.”
His uncle rushes him, a bull set on demolishing the china.
I can read Arlo’s movements. Before he does it, I know he’s going low. I’m a trained wrestler, and he’s not. Neither is his uncle. Thank goodness.
As his uncle gets insanely close with his big arms wide and his shoulders down, Arlo drops into a low crouch and launches all his weight at his attacker’s calf, executing a perfect low single.
On the mats, a wrestler will press in just below the knee and push it sideways, forcing the opponent to the ground ‘cause knees don’t bend sideways.
We’re not on the mats. This is not for points. This is for freedom.
A crack splits the night as the tendons and cartilage holding the horrible man’s knee in place give way.
The big man screams and tumbles sideways to the ground. I don’t worry about the sound drawing attention. Arlo has told me too many stories about his cries for help and how they all went unanswered. Tonight, they don’t. Tonight, we answer.
Momentum and weight, along with Arlo’s death grip on his leg, fold the appendage in a wholly unnatural state.
Two years ago, a kid broke his leg at a tournament on the mat next to mine. The sound made my stomach curl. Now, it’s the sound of victory.
No matter how short-lived.
“You fucking shite!” he yells, reaching for Arlo, who scrambles back just in time to evade his uncle’s grip. But the big man lunges, using his hand and one good leg.
He catches Arlo’s ankle, which throws him off balance. My friend tips to the side and falls onto his ass.
The ruthless man crawls up his body, snarling, “I’m going to fucking kill you for this. You worthless piece of trash.”
I launch from under the bed in one swift motion, grab the chain, and loop it around his uncle’s neck before he’s even registered the obnoxious rattling.
“What the—” My shoe planted on the back of his neck cuts off his confusion.
I’m careful not to break his fucking neck. Though I’d love nothing more than to have the honor. This is not my show. I hold enough pressure that when he thrashes, it doesn’t release my grip on the chain or the back of his head.
Pathetic gasps stumble from between his lips.
Arlo shoves his way out from beneath his uncle.
“Get the tarp,” I bark, just to have the satisfaction of scaring the man who clings to consciousness.
His body jerks. His hands grasp at the chain, tugging.
If he’d only rotate, he could free himself. But panic is a deadly thing. It makes the smartest among us do stupid shit. And this man is nowhere near smart. If he were, he’d have realized how precious Arlo is and would have treated him accordingly.
His limbs go slack. I hold a little bit longer, just in case.
The flap of the tarp pulls my gaze around to where Arlo methodically spreads the twelve-by-twelve black fabric.
Reluctantly, I loosen my hold on the chain, and when I’m sure he’s out, I remove my foot when all I want to do is stomp hard.
With furtive glances and nods, we move him to the center of the protective square. We pull his hands behind his back, weave the chain around them, and lock them in place. We do the same to his feet and rig a nice hogtie between them. Moving his shattered knee rouses several grunts and groans from the lump of shit.
It takes another full minute until he wiggles and thrashes in an attempt to get free.
Arlo stands beside me in a stone form. His gaze never leaves his uncle. As if he doesn’t believe the chains will hold him. As if he’s still scared of the man on the floor.
When I laugh, the demon stills.
“What, you thought we left?” I step around to his front so he can see me. “No. We’re not done just yet. It won’t be long, though.” I head over to the bag.
“If you think this changes anything, you’re wrong. Sure, you got me tonight, but I’ve had you so many times,” he grouses. “I’ll get you again.”
At that, Arlo walks until his feet are inches from his uncle’s face, and he crouches low.
“This ends tonight. You end tonight.” He grins, and it’s haunting because it’s hollow. “My voice will be the last thing you ever hear besides the rattle of your last breath.”
I pull out my grandfather’s wakizashi. When my father announced that I’d be going to boarding school, a similar place to the one where my mother had been assaulted repeatedly, I nicked it from the study and hid it in the bottom of my bag for protection.
And this, this is protection.
I remove it from the sheathe and hand it to Arlo by the handle.
Our fingers brush. Even his gloved touch makes my heart skip a beat. His eyes go wide while his lips press into a line. He nods his thanks at about the same time his uncle’s gaze finds the blade.
He dances, trying his best to wiggle out of the way.
I set the sheathe on the bag, then hoist his uncle to his knees. The shriek he lets loose rattles my eardrums.
Arlo sets it to the side and kneels in front of his tormentor. They’re eye to eye. At that moment, I realize how much Arlo has grown in the past few months. He reaches and jerks his uncle's boxers down without looking away from the demon’s eyes.
When Arlo reaches for the short sword, his uncle sobs.
“What did you tell me?” Arlo whispers. “Open wide, or I’ll make it hurt?”
Though my hands are full of hot, sweaty skin, chills race up my spine. The Arlo I knew, the scared and traumatized boy, has been replaced by a commanding and ferocious man.
“Please, I won’t contact you ever again.” His head shakes violently back and forth. “You’ll never see me again.”
“You had your chance to do that and didn’t take it. I didn’t care about the money. All I wanted was my freedom from you.” Arlo’s head does a slow back and forth. “You didn’t give it to me. I’m taking it.”
The menace in Arlo’s eyes and the calm precision of his wrist should terrify me. The blood that pours from his uncle’s body should revolt me. The severed dick he places in his uncle’s screaming mouth should make my own shrivel. The sounds of gagging and choking, the flail for oxygen, should make me puke.
My gaze slides off the macabre and lifts. I focus on Arlo.
His shoulders are back. His chin is up. As his uncle fights harder against my hold and the chains, as he struggles for breath and loses the battle, the corners of Arlo’s mouth lift.
“I took your grubby pecker. I’m taking your miserable fucking life. You will be no more because you fucked with the wrong guy. You’re dying because you’re a blight to this world. No one will miss you.”
Arlo sets the sword beside him. His fingers twist a hunk of the man’s hair at the top of his head. He grabs his uncle’s chin with his other hand, uses all the strength he’s gained, and presses the two tight.
The wet gargling sounds stop. The thrashes crescendo.
“Die, motherfucker.”
Pride plumps my veins. Hope mends my heart.
Sure as shit, there will be demons to follow him. There will be an ugly fallout from this trauma we’re subjecting ourselves to. The nightmares won’t vanish because his uncle is no more.
But with his uncle dead, hope is a beacon. It shines bright in this gritty darkness. Winding and scary paths exist between us and the destination. And there’s no one else I’d willingly travel that road with.