Chapter 9 Murder By Apathy
Murder By Apathy
RIPLEY
It feels like I got run over by a truck.
Twice. You know, just in case the first time didn’t take.
At this point, all of my pain has melded together and it feels like my whole body is on the verge of breaking down completely.
I don’t even have the strength to push myself up off the floor; the second I try, my arms give out, and my chin collides with the ground.
“Fuuuuuck.”
Every time I try to breathe, it feels like I’m being stabbed in the lungs by a hot poker, but I still manage to hear something buzzing above me. Electricity? A bug? It’s hard to identify because my ears are ringing so loud that any noise makes me want to vomit.
I force my eyes open, coming face to face with a pair of black cowboy boots with shiny brass toes, and finding myself recoiling involuntarily.
Something metal drags along the concrete.
And it’s attached to my ankle.
“Been waitin’ for you to wake up, rabbit.”
If his voice weren’t so bone chilling, he’d sound kind of sexy, like he’s been locked in a dark room, forced to smoke cigarettes and eat gravel his whole life.
I manage to find the strength to lift my head, looking up at the shadowy figure, and trying to take in as much information as quickly as I can: broad shoulders, bulging forearms, and he smells like sweat, cigarettes, and leather.
Then everything comes screaming back to me.
The bag of body parts.
The crowbar.
The fight…
I’m going to die here, aren’t I?
I glance down, getting a good look at the thick metal cuff around my ankle, attached to a big, rusted chain.
Yep, I’m definitely dying down here.
My eyes dart around the room, fear’s long fingers wrapping around my throat and squeezing tight as I struggle to find something, anything to help me. But it’s no use, even the crowbar I tried to hit him with is long gone. It’s just me, my brand new ankle accessory, and this… dude.
“Let me guess, you’re gonna kill me.”
I practically spit the words out at him, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing broken glass, trapped somewhere between violent and deeply desperate.
I expect him to start a monologue or some shit, but he just ignores my question, sucking on a cigarette before blowing a cloud of smoke right into my face.
I try my best not to give him the satisfaction of reacting, despite all the fear that’s pumping through my veins right now.
When the smoke clears I finally get a good look at him: dark hair, olive eyes, and a long straight nose that’s slightly bruised, possibly in our little tussle.
Very little out of the ordinary, but the thing I find myself focused on is the intricate tattoo splayed across his throat.
I trace as many of the lines as I can with my eyes before my vision starts to blur again, but it’s enough to recognize the shape of a butterfly.
“How’d you get here?” He growls.
My brain is rushed into panic mode:
Be a good girl.
Play nice.
Submit.
And then, when I get my chance, I’ll tear into his chest with my bare hands and eat his fucking heart. He might have me chained to the floor, but he doesn’t know what kind of animal I am.
“I used my legs, dipshit.”
He sighs.
“I meant how’d you get into this cellar, specifically.”
I look up at him, a little smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth in spite of all my better judgement.
“Well, people usually attach their locks to their doors before they leave for the day.”
Just as I feel like I’m making the tiniest bit of headway in our little battle of wits, the nauseating smell from his cigarette spikes my senses, and the room starts to spin again.
I can feel my body lurch forward, completely out of my control, and I double over as I gag, trying a little too late to cover my mouth.
The man lets out another deep and heavy sigh.
“Jesus tit-fuckin’ Christ, you’re a mess.”
I’m on all fours, heaving like a cat struggling to puke up a hairball.
What an attractive image, maybe he’ll take pity on me.
“I need a doc—” I hiccup, trying to wipe away the spittle that’s running down my chin. “A fucking doctor.”
“No. You don’t.”
Tears rush down my face, but it’s not from fear. I’m angry. So overwhelmingly angry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to start a brand new life.
“Fuck, just let me go!”
I can feel the veins pulse in my neck as I struggle to regain my composure, and he takes the opportunity to crouch down in front of me. I spot a pointed silver canine that sends a chill down my spine. There’s an intensity to his stare that leaves me both unsettled and…
Aroused?
Okay, how hard did I hit my head?
I know how this game goes: I should look away, or smile, at least answer his question politely— submissive gestures that I know all too well.
In most primates, eye contact is a silent signal of a threat or aggression, but I refuse to take my eyes off of him.
I’m fucking bored of submission. When I plunged that knife into Gabriel’s chest, I swore I’d never be a victim again, so if this Dollarama Lone Ranger is going to kill me, he’s gonna end up learning just how crazy I really am.
“I know what you did,” I rasp. “I saw you drag that guy into your barn, you fucking freak.”
The man pulls something out of his pocket and drops it on the floor, but I refuse to look. I’m not playing into whatever sick, twisted game he’s got planned for me.
“Well good for you, seems like you have two functioning eyes after all. But I think what’s more important is I know what you did to wind up here.” His eyes flick down to the ground. “Look at it.”
When I refuse to follow his command, he grabs me by the hair, shoving my face down until I’m forced to confront my recent-past, still wrapped in plastic.
“Found that in your car, along with a bunch of other little goodies. You’ve been busy, haven’t you, little rabbit?”
“You don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“I know you were drivin’ around with that tongue packed up safe like a trophy. Why don’t you tell me where you got it?”
Is he mafia or some shit? Hell’s Angels? Just curious? Regardless, I’m not telling him anything.
“That’s not mine—”
“Obviously,” he laughs. “You’ve still got one flapping around in that mouth of yours. Now, tell me the truth.”
I take a breath, tilting my head with a cocky grin. Deny, deny, deny, that’s the first rule of doing anything wrong. I’ve cultivated the skill over the years; learned to lie my way out of everything. Some people are born with a silver tongue, I used alchemy for mine.
“What will you give me if I do?”
I’m not really in a position to be bargaining with anyone, let alone a man who’s already got me chained up, but at this point I’ll try anything.
“You need to be patched up, clothed, and fed. I can do that, but only if you cooperate.”
“So I’m a prisoner, then?”
He doesn’t answer, pushing himself to his feet instead, and my eyes slip down to the big brass toes on his cowboy boots, a bull skull engraved on each of them.
“Did you like how it felt?”
I frown.
“What are you, a shrink or something?”
He snorts.
“You tell me.”
“Well, if we’re being honest with each other, I think you look like you stole a cowboy costume from Party City,” I snarl. “But anything’s possible. You could be a cop for all I know.”
This whole thing could be some kind of elaborate ruse to get me to confess. Maybe the cops in Jericho found Gabriel’s body faster than I thought. I have every reason to be paranoid, and every reason not to trust this asshole.
“Okay, you wanna play shrink?” His tone is mocking and dripping with malice. “You had a bad childhood. Bad father, maybe?”
“Jesus Christ, is that the best you’ve got?”
He snickers, cocking his head to one side. I’m about two seconds away from slapping that smirk right off his face.
“Yeah, definitely a bad father. The older you got, the angrier you got, but you kept quiet because you didn’t want things to get worse. When you were finally able to get the fuck outta there, you picked someone exactly like your daddy—”
“I’m not being psycho-analyzed by some hillbilly motherfucker who looks like he takes Deliverance as gospel,” I growl.
“Ohh, she’s feisty,” he purrs. “What are you gonna do chained to that floor?”
A pit forms in my stomach, but I can’t tell if it’s rage or fear.
“That’s what I thought. So, did you enjoy it?” His gaze is hardened, but I see a glimmer of curiosity behind it all. “Was it as rewarding as you thought it would be?”
The chain around my ankle grows heavier, and I’m getting pretty certain that I’ve seen this movie before: just as I learn to fly, a man clips my wings and stuffs me in another goddamn cage.
He stands back up, drawing himself up to his full height after a few moments of my silence, all power and confidence. He’s exuding a dominant energy that keeps my eyes glued to each and every one of his movements.
“Alright, so let’s start again. You were about to tell me why you’ve got a human tongue in your car, along with a mess of other shit that makes you look real damn guilty. Deal hasn’t changed: you tell me the truth, I’ll patch you up. Hell, I might even bring you into the house.”
“Oh, goody. I can’t wait to see your fine collection of human lampshades and skin curtains. Are you gonna make me crawl around like a fucking dog, too?”
He clicks his tongue, running a hand through his hair.
“Alright, you wanna be like that? It’ll be about three days before you’re so dehydrated your organs start to shut down— actually, it might only be two given how beat up you are.”
“So what’s stopping you from just killing me?” I ask, trying to ignore the growing pain in my skull. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t take kindly to witnesses.”
He stares me down, his eyes glittering with a practiced malice. He reminds me of a lion, calm and powerful, only striking when he deems fit. I can’t help but wonder how fast his heart is beating, because mine hasn’t stopped its chaotic rhythm since I woke up.
“I don’t generally tell my deepest darkest secrets to men I know nothing about.”
He smiles.
“I’m the man in charge of your fate, little rabbit.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. That nickname is really starting to grate on my nerves.
“Just tell me your name, you drama queen. The least you can do is give me that.”
He arches a brow. I know I’m not getting anywhere calling him names, but after everything Gabriel put me through, whatever he could do to me would probably be a blessing. Besides, I think it’s working.
“You think I have to give you anything in this exchange? The medical attention is generosity on my part, but if you just want to sit down here—”
“But you’re curious, aren’t you?” I grin, cutting him off. “About me? About what you found in that car?”
He lets out an irritated grunt, tongueing at his silver canine.
“Your name is Christine Annabelle Winter. Your birthday is October 15, 1996, which makes you 29 years old, you have an Alberta ID— oh, and you’re probably wanted for murder. Sound about right?”
I knew I should have cut that damn card up.
“Fuck you.”
The man only smiles, back in the saddle again.
“Well Christine, you’ve put me in a real shit position, because now I have to decide if I’m going to strip the meat off your bones, or if I need a little… pet.”
Pet?
Did he just call me a fucking pet?
“I’d rather die.”
He draws in another long breath, a contemplative look on his face for a couple moments before he shrugs, scoops up the tongue, and gets to his feet.
“If that’s your choice. It’ll be slow and it’ll be painful; not the way I’d want to go out, but I won’t stand in the way.”
He strides up toward the exit, the wooden steps whining beneath his massive frame. As he pushes the door open a beam of sunlight shines through, carving him out like a macabre and terrifying statue for just a moment before it slams shut, leaving me cold, and in the dark.
So I guess that’s it.
Murder by apathy.