23. Ren
23
REN
“ A re you ready to admit what you’ve done?”
I’m so sleepy. I can barely hold my head up, but I can’t let it drop. He’ll hurt me if I let it drop.
I’m not supposed to go to sleep until I tell him what I did. Only I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
It’s so dark in here. So cold. We’re alone.
Nobody’s going to help me. My chin quivers when I remember that.
“You know what you’ve done.” He bends down, hands on his knees, and stares at me. I have seen his face like this so many times. “God knows what you’ve done. And most important, Joseph knows.” The mention of his name gets my chin quivering again.
“I didn’t do anything.” I can hardly talk; I’m so tired and hungry. Pain gnaws at me. I wish I could sleep because then I wouldn’t feel it.
My head snaps to the side, and I know I shouldn’t cry when he slaps me, but I always do. It hurts so much. I can taste blood.
I don’t know what he wants me to say. I didn’t do anything bad. I didn’t take extra food at breakfast yesterday. Somebody else must have done it.
My head snaps to the other side as pain explodes in that side of my face, too. The baby’s in the other room but must feel how much I’m hurting. “Look what your lies have done,” he grunts. “You made the baby cry. You’re hurting everybody in your life with your lies.”
He always says that just like he always sounds so calm when he’s hurting me. That’s what he does. It’s his job.
“You know it pains me to punish you, but your mother and father know it needs to be done, so they called me in.” He stands up straight, sighing—and he starts unbuckling his belt. He’s so tall, like a giant next to me.
I know what’s coming, and tears fill my eyes, but he won’t stop if I cry. He might hit me harder like he did last time.
I hate him.
I fucking hate him.
So many years have passed, and I still hate him. I hate him for what he did to all those kids, for what he did to my family. But most of all, I hate how my fingers are shaking. Even now, he has that power over me. A fear that’s seated so deeply, it has become a permanent part of me.
I peek over my shoulder, making sure Scarlet listened. I can’t do this if I worry she’s in danger.
My feet are heavy as I drag them to the house, knowing my worst nightmare lies behind those walls. Most people would turn back, letting their fears dictate their actions. I let them fuel me.
Moving faster than before, I make my way around the corner of the brick house. I stay in the shadows, letting darkness camouflage me. My breathing is calm, my heartbeat even. My fingers brush against the gun inside my waistband. I hope not to use it. I’d rather make it slow and painful. Maybe a knife or some other sharp tool. A saw would be nice as well. I could cut off a limb and watch him bleed out.
Instead of going into the front door, where Scarlet can see, I head for the back. A single, bare bulb hangs over the door, which I reach up and unscrew. I doubt the fucker would be able to recognize me all these years later, but I don't want to take a chance. All I need is for him to open the door to me.
Taking the gun in hand, I hold it close to my side before knocking. He's in there. I hear him, and my heart pounds as I wait. Come on, Christian. Let's catch up.
His shadow fills the window beside the door, the curtains parting slightly for him to look out. Come on, come on, don't keep me waiting. “I need help,” I mutter in a last-ditch effort to get him to open the door. “Please, I'm lost. I just need help finding my way.”
He moves away from the window—only to flip the lock. Stupid bastard.
The moment it's open a crack, I force my way in, shoving him into the kitchen table. “Hi, Christian,” I grunt, grabbing him by the back of the neck and holding him bent over the table when he tries to run. “We need to talk.”
“Who are you? What do you want? I don’t have?—”
“Shut up.” I smash the side of his head against the wood beneath him. “You have what I want. It’s not money. It’s information.”
“What sort of information?” He’s already on the verge of tears, his eyes glued to the gun I’m holding close to his face. It takes nothing to break a weak man.
“Information on New Haven.” Leaning down, I ask, “You don’t recognize me, do you? I guess time has changed me. But I recognize you, even with the extra pounds and thinning hair. Time hasn’t been your friend.”
“Wh-Who are you?”
“I’ll give you a hint, though I doubt you’ll be able to pick one kid out from so many you tortured.” I raise my pitch and make my voice breathy. “Please, Christian, let me out. I didn’t do anything wrong. I promise. Stop beating me. Stop locking me in the fucking dark.”
He whimpers when I press the gun to his temple. “Ring a bell? It doesn’t matter. You’re going to tell me what I need to know, or I’m going to blow your fucking head off. Now. Show me where to find duct tape around here and remember there’s a gun to your head.”
By the time I have his hands and ankles bound, he’s sweating like a pig, blubbering and whimpering when I throw him onto his leather sofa. “I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Just please, don't hurt me.”
“Wrong choice of words.” I bring the part of the gun down in a wide arc and smash it against his cheekbone. Like magic, the skin splits and blood begins to run down his face. “How many fucking times did I beg you not to hurt me? To please, stop hurting me?”
“I'm sorry!” All that earns him is another hit, another, until hardly any clean skin is left on his face.
“Now.” I crouch in front of him, waiting for him to lift his head. His eyes are already swelling, and blood dribbles down his chin thanks to split lips. “You're going to give me the codes to access the security gates at New Haven. I'm driving out there tonight, and I'm leaving you here, like this, while I do. If they work, I’ll call the cops and have them come out here to help you.”
I pause, smiling at the spark of hope in his eyes. “If they don't work, I will return, and I will paint the wall with your brains. Do you understand me?”
“What are you going to do there?”
“It’s none of your fucking business, is it?” I pull back my hand, prepared to strike him again, but his miserable whining stops me.
He must buy my bluff because he blurts out, “I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I'll give you the codes for the gates. Just please, please stop hurting me...” He trails off with a miserable sob that reminds me I’m here to get information. Otherwise I’d put a bullet in his head simply to shut him up.
Ten minutes later, I have what I need. A list of codes, including the code for the shed where the weapons are kept. The guard schedule, even the specifics of where Rebecca and her son sleep. Because I'll be paying them a visit, as well.
By the time I'm finished, Christian is on the floor, unconscious, the growing wet stain on the front of his gray sweatpants evidence of his terror before he lost consciousness—before I lost my temper.
I have to believe he believes me. That I will come back here and kill him if I find out he crossed me.
He doesn't know I have no intention of returning any more than I intend to let him see the next sunrise.
He's so pitiful now, but then he always was. It was only because I was smaller that he seemed larger than life, looming over me, wearing that patented bland expression. Telling me he took no pleasure in punishing me when I suspected even then, as a child, that he enjoyed it.
Now I’m in control. And I have everything I need. “Goodbye, Christian,” I whisper, standing above him with the gun in my hand.
This is it. All I have to do is pull the trigger to end his misery and mine. Call it closure.
I wrap my index finger around the trigger, my hand steady, my aim true. A single bullet to the head. That's it.
All I have to do is squeeze, even if my finger doesn’t seem up to it.
Why the fuck can I do it?
The muscles in my arms flex, and my finger twitches on the trigger, but not enough to fire the gun.
“I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to go through with it.”
I'm so startled, I almost lose my grip on the gun. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I whisper to my brother, slouched in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “How did you get in?”
River brushes dark hair away from his forehead, giving me a clear look at the way he rolls his eyes. “How do you think? The same way you did.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward the back door I never closed.
“You thought you had to follow me here? You didn't think I could handle it? I got everything I came for.”
“Not everything, evidently.” His arms folded, he nods at Christian’s crumpled form. “He’s still breathing.”
“I was getting there.”
“Please. I watched you. You were going to puss out.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Fine. Maybe I came all this way because I didn't want to let you have all the fun. You're not the only one this bastard made miserable.”
He walks slowly into the room, snarling at the man on the floor. “Sick, twisted fuck. I would swear he got off on it, all of it.”
“He probably did,” I agree. “And he deserves to die.”
I don't think I have it in me, is the thing. Beating the shit out of him, that I could do. Terrorizing him until he pissed his pants, sure. I can't seem to take the final step.
Which is why I extend my arm, holding the gun out for my brother to use, instead. “You do it. You deserve a little bit of fun, too.”
“I have a better idea.”
My eyes widen at the sight of the knife he pulls from his back pocket. “Where did you get that?”
“Where do you think? The kitchen.” The small blade gleams when he holds it up. A paring knife. “Why give him the mercy of a quick death?”
I was thinking the same thing before I came in here. As always, he's willing to take it that far, when all I do is think about it. I couldn't even pull the fucking trigger.
“Don't worry,” he says with a snide grin. “You don't have to get your hands dirty.”
“I already have,” I remind him. The relief I felt when I first saw him is gone thanks to his attitude. He never knows when to stop. Especially not when there's a chance to make me feel inferior.
“You tied him up and pistol whipped him. Don't expect a medal.” He places the blade of the knife between his teeth before pulling Christian’s sweatpants and shorts down to his ankles. My insides twist up when I realize what he's about to do.
But that's not all I'm feeling. Somehow, this seems right. What he deserves. He shouldn't die quickly. Not after everything he's done. He should bleed out in agony.
“Hey. Hey, Christian. Wake up. You don't want to miss this part.” When Christian doesn't respond, River gives him a vicious backhand that makes his head snap to the side.
That wakes him up. River crouches over him, waving the knife in front of his swollen eyes. “Time to make your outside look like your insides.”
“Wh-What?” he whispers.
“You never had the balls to be a real man, so you had to beat up on kids to make yourself feel good. You obviously don't need these.” He taps the flat of the blade against Christian’s balls.
“No,” he squeaks, twisting in terror, struggling against the duct tape. “No, don't do that. I gave you everything you wanted! I told you everything! I was trying to help you!”
“You gave us information,” River explains, speaking slowly like he would to a kid. “But that's not all we want. Not after all the shit you pulled. And not only with us. How many fucking kids did you torture?”
“I was only doing what was right! Please, don't do this!” His high-pitched pleas only make River laugh while I watch, fascinated.
River turns to me, grinning. “I might need you to hold him down. Wouldn't want to cut myself because he can't stay still.”
Christian fixes his gaze on me, his head swinging back and forth while he flops around like a dying fish. “Don't do this. Please, don't do this!” he pleads, sobbing, sweat soaking through his shirt, tears cutting through the blood drying on his face.
I have nothing more to say to him. River’s right. This is what he deserves, and the symbolism is the cherry on top. When I crouch beside my brother, leaning all my weight against Christian’s legs to pin them to the floor, his sobbing turns into breathless panting. He's too far gone to speak, to plead, anything. Because now he feels the tip of the blade biting into his sack.
“It'll be over soon,” River promises with a soft laugh before he makes the first slice.
And Christian screams. A single, high-pitched scream like a mindless animal gripped in complete terror and unspeakable pain. A scream that cuts off when his voice breaks—but his mouth is still open, his entire body tensed. Blood coats my hands, painting them red the way it paints his thighs and the floor under him. So much blood.
With a satisfied grunt, River tosses the bloody lump on top of Christian's chest. “Now, the score is settled,” he decides as he stands and stares down at the weakening body.
All I can do is watch the life drain from him. He’s still conscious, but it’s fading fast, his silent screams turning to soundless whimpers as he bleeds out on the floor. I hope every single evil act he’s ever committed is playing back in front of him now. One last look at his life before he burns in hell.
River brings me back to my senses after Christian has breathed his last. “We need to get out of here before one of his scum friends comes to check on him.”
I nod in agreement. “Scarlet is outside.”
“Of course, she is.” River rolls his eyes. “You better go and babysit then.”
“Why don’t you come out and meet her? Maybe then you’ll understand.”
River’s gaze is somber. For a second, I think he’ll agree, and for some reason, that leaves me feeling uneasy. “Not today. I’ll meet her when the time is right.”
Relief fills my veins, taking me by surprise. The thought of Scarlet and River meeting is both exciting and terrifying. They have been such a huge part of my life, but they don’t share a single memory. It’s almost like a coin I carry with me. They are both with me but each owns a side of a coin, part of my world yet not meant to ever meet.
I’m about to go to the kitchen to wash my hands when I hear a sound coming from outside the house.
And it could only be one person.
River’s head snaps up, and our eyes meet. His nasty smirk is all I have to see. He knows who’s out there.
Damn her for not listening.