42. Brody
brODY
I must look like something out of a horror show, strung up for their sick amusement. Shirtless, ribs a mess of bruises, skin splotched in black and blue and rot. Wrists tied above my head.
This must be the universe punishing me for how I treated Lola. I deserve this. I’m a monster, and she is the thing that used to tame the darkness within me.
It didn’t help that I was using drugs when I had her kidnapped. There were some days, I didn’t even remember what I did to her. I know now I was having some sort of fucking psychotic break.
How could I treat her like that?
My father made me believe that she is the enemy. He made me believe she deserves pain and terror. I will make Richard pay for brainwashing me, I will avenge Lola.
She must hate me for how I acted.
They keep the room cold. My skin is pebbled, teeth chattering in my head, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. Won’t bend for these fucking animals. Just dangle, counting heartbeats, counting shadows.
Everything comes in flashes.
A guard’s fat fist, lodged in my ribs. Hard enough my lungs seize. Another man behind him. They rotate every hour or so, never alone, never letting me slump. If I start to sag, the first man props me up by the hair, cranking my neck back.
The handler’s in the corner. Lean, silver-haired, arms folded. Never blinks. Always watching the guards work, making notes on a battered clipboard.
There’s a shock collar around my neck. Fuckers wrapped it around my throat, snapped tight. The first time, I screamed. Not from pain, but surprise. Electricity bites harder than any fist. Second time, and every time after, I bite down. Ride the pain, grit and bear it.
They want a show.
I give them blank eyes, breathing deep, letting my head loll forward like I’m about to pass out.
They switch to water. Next guard, arms like clubs, hauls a freezing bucket over my head. Glacial shock. My nerves burn. I gasp. They love that. They wait until I’m shivering hard, then manacle my face, fingers in my jaw, and jam my head into the waiting barrel.
Water rushes up my nose, in my ears. Panic comes at first, the instinct to fight, to breathe. Every cell is screaming. They hold me down till the black creeps in, then wrench me out. I vomit all over their boots. They hit me again, for the mess. All part of the routine.
Flashing bright lights are aimed straight at my eyes. My head cracks back; I can’t blink. They shout in my ears, loud, senseless, overlapping voices. “Hey, fuckhead, you still alive?!” and “Break his fucking teeth, I dare you.” The handler never yells; he doesn’t have to.
When the light gets too bright, everything goes white. I float. Not far, just to the inside of my head.
Lola. Always Lola. I picture her face, that little dent between her eyebrows when she’s worried. I pretend she’s watching. I want her to see I never quit. Never beg.
One guard carves a slice into my forearm, just below the elbow.
Thick blade, serrated, like something they’d use to butcher livestock.
It’s a messy cut. Blood spills from parted flesh.
It hurts, but nothing new. I laugh at them.
They look confused, angry, then satisfied when they pour clear alcohol right into the gash, and that’s when it burns.
They want to see me convulse, see something break open in my eyes. “That all you’ve got?”
They up the ante. Next time, a switchblade at my groin.
Cold steel. They don’t actually cut. They don’t have the balls.
They just threaten and pretend. The guard pushes it against the seam of my jeans, hard enough to threaten skin.
“You want to talk now, big man?” I spit at him. They slap me until my ears ring.
They take Polaroids.
Fucking Polaroids. White frame, perfect snapshot of each new wound, each bruise, each red stripe across my chest. They hold the photos up, show me. “Smile for the lady.” Flash. “Maybe she’ll keep these for her scrapbook.”
The thought of Lola getting those photos—it should kill me. It doesn’t. Just sharpens something inside, makes everything focused and clear.
They don’t know about the blade.
I snagged it three days ago, or maybe less. Time is dead here. Tiny shard, edge sharp enough to fillet a finger, hidden under the waistband of my jeans. I wedge it deeper every time they haul me up, let it bite my hip.
It’ll be worth it.
Every hour, same routine. Beat, water, light. Scream in my face. Sometimes they take turns; sometimes, I think they bet on what will make me howl.
I never howl.
Once I’m clear, I’ll hunt every one of them down and return the favor, piece by piece.
At some point, I lose track. The world gets blurry. Maybe they drugged me, maybe it’s hypothermia creeping in. Skin’s purpled over my ribs, frost starting along my collarbone. My mouth is cut and swollen. My hands feel numb, except where the chain bites so deep I can feel my own pulse.
Night comes. Someone shoves a bag over my head and unlock my hands. I drop, legs too weak to hold my weight. They barely catch me before my knees hit the cement, then drag me across the puddles of the floor. My heels leave streaks of blood and dirty water.
A loading dock. Too-bright lights, snow blowing sideways, wind loud enough to cover any scream. They hustle me fast. I hear the supervisor behind, maybe a gun cocked, just in case. They want me alive, for now. For her.
The van is reinforced. All steel, no windows, metal bench coated with old stains. They cuff my hands in front, zip ties biting into skin already cut open. My clothes are soaked. The air inside is colder than outside. Ice is on the floor, black and filthy.
The guard shoves me down but stays with me in the back, his boots on my knee to keep me from kicking. He says nothing. Another man up front, driver, nervous, fingers drumming the dash. I hear the click of a handgun shifting on the seat beside him.
My hood comes off for a second, causing blinding pain from the overhead light. The driver leans over, pokes my face. “Still breathing? Don’t want him dead yet.” He has wolfish eyes, pale and glassy. I memorize them.
The rear guard’s thumb digs into the back of my neck. “He’s fine. Let’s go before he pisses himself again.”
The van lurches forward. Back in the darkness, I keep my head down, eyes half-closed. Feigning gone, feigning broken.
All the while, the blade in my jeans presses against my skin, burning cold.
The driver and rear guard talk, just loud enough for me to catch snatches. “Drop him off north, out past the private road. Keep his hands tied. If he starts shit, dump it in the woods. The boss won’t care as long as he’s dead.”
The “it.” Not a man, just a thing to be erased.
That means they won’t expect me to fight.
Snow makes the road a deathtrap. The van swerves, tires struggling for grip. Every time we turn, every rut or pothole, I memorize the pattern. The way the driver lets the speed drop, the twitch of the wheel, the curse under his breath.
I start working the blade at my wrist. I can’t see, but I feel the bite of the plastic strips at the skin with every sawing motion. Hurts like hell. I cut flesh before I cut the tie, but I keep going. The pain is fuel. Each slice is a piece of the future I want.
The van hits the worst stretch of road. Suddenly, the rear guard shifts, bracing a hand to the wall. His balance is off. The second the tie weakens, I snap my wrist free.
And lunge.
With the blade up, I slam it straight into the softness of his neck. Warm spray, all arterial, coats my knuckles. He tries to yell but only gurgles, blood pooling in his mouth. I slam his head back against the wall, twice, three times, until his skull cracks. He slumps.
The driver yells, fumbles for the gun. I seize the guard’s body, using it as a shield, and crash against the wire divider. The mesh buckles, metal biting into my shoulder, but I break through.
The driver's arm is shaking. He lifts the gun, but I’m faster. I grab his wrist, wrench it sideways. Bones crunch. He screams. I bite his ear, ripping a chunk out, and spitting it on the dash.
Blade to his throat, grinding against his jaw, I bark, “Where is Lola?”
He’s shuddering, fighting to breathe. Eyes roll whites-up. “She’s—fuck—office wing, back building, she’s still on the compound. They’re holding her there, I swear, please—”
“Are you guarding her?”
“N-no. Just transport. Two men, sometimes three. The boss might be inside. That’s all I know, I s-swear—”
“You tell anyone I got loose?”
He shakes, blood spattering the steering wheel. “No, I swear, not me—just moving you—”
I don’t waste another word. Blade across the throat, hard and deep, air and blood hissing out at once. I hold him until the light dies from his eyes. No hesitation. I wipe the blade on his jacket, strip his coat and boots, and toss his body onto the snow, face down.
I check the van. Glove compartment, driver’s pockets—pistol, half-clip, another knife, van keys, radio set. I pocket everything. My hands are wet with blood. Every movement leaves a trail, which the snow covers in minutes.
The wind out here is brutal. It howls straight through the bones. I don’t stop. Even limping, bleeding, body shredded, nothing slows me down.
I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. My Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola.
The compound looms ahead. Lights distant, yellow slashes between the trees. I taste the promise of Lola—of her survival—like a fever in my mouth. Every drop of my blood on the snow, I promise I will paint these people’s walls with their own.
“I’m coming, Lola.”
Stay alive. For me.
The storm closes in. It fills my ears, stings my eyes, buries everything—van, corpses, the shape of me carving a path towards redemption.
Nothing can stop me now.