Chapter 17 #3
“Both, I guess.” He laughed again. “Wynter wanted to ship Woodrow over to France. Both of us knowing that Alerion preferred boys, having a special desire for his own son, who was only a little older. We knew in time that he’d have more than his eyes on him.
But I wouldn’t subject Woodrow to that from a toddler.
I’ve heard the screams as kids were forced to take it in the shitter.
Cruel.” He took another drink. “You’re welcome.
” His eyes were back on his son’s unresponsive face.
“We started bringing the girls here. And it was good. Some would end up broken beyond repair, suffering age regression. . . Woodrow bonded with those as he got a little older. Wynter enjoyed assisting in breaking them, using me and my infidelity as an excuse, and it was good for me that I didn’t have to go out to get my end wet when my wife wouldn’t put out. ”
“And you couldn’t just stay loyal, knowing your wife hated how you fucked those poor girls? You couldn’t quit, set them free?” I said, the disgust on my tongue so thick, it was hard to get them out.
“Like I said, it was an excuse, Wynter liked to watch. We’d put Woodrow in another room, TV on, a chained whore for company, and I’d fuck a chained slut on this table.
Wynter beating her as I did.” His fingers caressed the wood.
I closed my eyes, praying he’d get splinters, then an infection, and then die.
I looked to Woodrow, his eyes still down, his song still coming out in an almost silent stutter, proving another memory had escaped through the damage in his brain.
“That was how we conceived Nessie. Wynter got so turned on watching, I had to pull out, push her down on top of the girl and fuck her instead.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“You’ve only heard the beginning.”
“Then I don’t want to hear more.” I shot to my feet, knees wobbling as they suffered under weighty emotions. “You pray to God. You give thanks. You’re hypocrites. Both of you.”
Jesus agreed.
A cross fell from high on the wall, its fragility smashing on impact.
“Wynter was raised in a religious home as a child. . . she knows no different than to say the words of prayer. I think part of her believes that praying to God, if she does it enough times, he’ll overlook our wrongdoings. She was taught he grants forgiveness, after all.”
“You make me sick.”
“We’ll see how trauma changes you.”
“You caused trauma. . . you didn’t live it, and I have already lived it! I’m the same person. I’m still good!”
“And you’ll get more before this is over. Tell me something, how far would you go, Jolie? What would you sacrifice to get away?” I didn’t know how to answer his question. “Desperate girls do desperate things. Do you remember, Woodrow?”
Woodrow’s song got louder and louder, blocking out words. Blocking out memories.
“I came home one day, been out to get some alcohol, and I find Wynter in the den with one of the whores. She told her she’d unlock the metal collar around her neck, if she hurt him, in ways that would cause pain forever. And she fucking did.”
Woodrow’s song stopped. The world stopped.
“Woodrow?” My voice was the only noise, aside from quiet tears patting against his dark jeans as they fell.
“That was the only day I ever hit my fucking wife, and after that, I had to change her mindset, even if only minorly. She had to learn some control for her anger. It wasn’t that I’m opposed to kids in trafficking, in situations of sexual abuse.
I saw it, worked it, didn’t care. I’d had kids here to break.
But he was too young. Seven is too young to get hand-fucked by a stranger as he cried; his mother watching, fingers inside her thong.
Inside herself. I knocked her off the chair with one hit, and I beat the chained whore until she died.
And then I beat the shit out of Woodrow for three days straight, because I felt guilty for the black eye I’d given my wife. ”
This was the moment I picked up my glass, but I didn’t drink what Ville had left of the alcohol.
I gave it to him. Washing his dirty face in the dark spirit.
I slammed the glass on the table and rushed around it, around everyone, to get to Woodrow, who’d been removed from his stupor by the noise I’d made slamming down the glass, so hard, a piece broke off.
Woodrow stood as I rushed for him, but chairs kicked back. What’s-his-face and Sylvia preventing us from getting to each other. The man—who I had no name for—held me respectfully, not daring to touch any intimate regions, for whatever reason.
Sylvia didn’t treat Woodrow with the same respect, holding him in a place that put another purple necklace of bruises around his already agonized throat.
“Let him go!” I screeched, watching Sylvia’s grip tighten. Watching Woodrow struggle. “Only a coward goes for the weak spot.”
“Or a smart man.” Sylvia laughed, not relenting, at all.
“Stop him!” I glared back at Ville, the man entrapping me allowing it.
Ville was still wiping the alcohol from his face with a cloth handed to him by Teena.
His eyes, shifted to me—a move I’d saw his son act many times.
But he looked nothing like Woodrow. And he acted nothing like him, either.
Woodrow would have helped anyone; he had love in his heart, though where the fuck he’d found it, I would never know.
I heard Woodrow gasp for breath. I felt my own chest strain with his lungs’ denial. His face reddened, his lungs struggling and overworking. His nostrils flared in desperation, trying to suck in air.
I wished for his success. Wished he could suck the life right out of the creature choking him. His fingers peeled at Sylvia's arm, his prison tattoos disappearing beneath Woodrow's pristine skin.
But he couldn't move him. His skinny frame couldn't impact Sylvia's corded muscles, tightening on him until his eyes closed.
“Stay with me,” I begged. “Please, Woodrow, stay with me.” I wasn't pleading because I was afraid of what would happen to me with the men in the room, I was afraid of a life without him. “Woodrow. . .”
His eyes fluttered open, and I saw the defeat in them. I saw the pain. And my heart felt the goodbye.
Panic set it, bringing speed to my actions that had them faltering in the arms of my captor. His lips dropped to my ear, and he whispered, “Don't fight me. Save your energy for them.”
The words were almost silent, and either unheard or ignored by his comrades, but Woodrow heard them, his eyes locking on the man's sour promise. On his mouth, still close to my ear.
“Breathe,” I whispered, keeping my focus on the boy I loved.
A stuttered breath traveled through his nose. The grim situation keeping him present.
A noise rattled behind me; Ville wrapped up the last of the contents on the table into the battered cloth they'd sat upon. He slugged it over his shoulder, and his big boots carried him away, like he was fucking Santa Claus, dumping the sack in the corner of the room.
“You know what to do.” He waved with an uninterested hand.
“Please.” My plea was for anyone.
What’s-his-face shifted with what felt like discomfort, and I almost thought he’d let me go. . . but his grip tightened as I wiggled. My head careened, my gaze focusing on his eyes. Blue, and innocent looking—clearly, a fucking lie.
Or, maybe not.
He looked sorrowful, pained. Here for a reason.
He didn’t level up to his colleagues. The grime of his dirty job hadn’t stained him completely yet.
. . but it was stealing his youth and soul with each life he helped pilfer.
The lighter creases of his frown told me he was younger than the other men by around twenty years.
I’d have guessed him in his twenties, somewhere.
His face held a boyish charm, reminding me of Woodrow, who I found myself turning to seconds later.
“Woodrow,” I sobbed, tears running down my face, sorrow dripping from my nose as my mouth dribbled with terror. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand the sight as he collapsed in front of me. Sylvia let him fall.
I fought, kicking and thrashing, doing all I could to remove the man glued to me. Failing with each thrash. I screamed, my voice heightening with obscenity.
Woodrow wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. His lifeless body lay on the floor, his eyes closed. His form rocked under the force of Sylvia’s heavy boot, kicking somewhere deep between his stomach and chest.
I didn’t hear whatever was whispered in my ear. I didn’t hear the laughter in the room, but I saw their ugly faces twisting with evil amusement in my peripheral.
“Leave him the fuck alone!” I wouldn’t allow this. Someway, I’d stop them from hurting him, even if he could no longer feel it. He can feel it, I told myself, refusing to believe he’d gone to a better place without me. He can fucking feel it!
“Breathe,” I demanded, my knees going weak when his chest still didn’t rise. When he didn’t react to another kick. . . to the pain. “Please, Woodrow, breathe. Please. . .”
I turned my head as Sylvia’s leg swung again, gifting another kick, straight into Woodrow’s chest. The sound of Woodrow’s lungs trying to drag in air jolted my attention back to him.
I watched his fingers spread across the ground, shaking like the rest of him as he tried to help himself up. His other hand moved to his chest, rubbing once, twice, then moved to his throat.
“Woodrow.” His eyes, glossy with tears, bloodshot with pain, followed my sound. His gaze, starting at my toes, moving up over every curve, settled on my face, his breathing finally relaxing.
“Great, now that he’s alert, toss her on the table.”
“What?” I twisted around, breaking my connection with Woodrow. The relief that only just filled me, draining out.
I kicked back, dread fueling my energy, reviving what I thought had already depleted.
Teena pulled me from his acquaintance and slammed me down, face first, causing the old wood to creak.
I tried to sit up, to fight back, but he slammed my head down, and I saw stars as he held me in place with both hands.
“Leave her. . .” Woodrow choked out. “Leave her alone!”
The men gathered around me as I lay face down on the table like a damn sacrifice. My heart pounded against the wood, wracking my body.
Dispiriting touches smoothed my skin, rising higher up my legs.
“Stop,” I begged, pointless, because I already knew they didn’t acknowledge my needs.
“Don’t touch her.” Woodrow was still trembling on the floor. Still trying to catch his breath.
My hand weaved through my tight curls—the act of comfort I’d indulged in my entire life.
A trait Ville had noticed over the last few weeks.
His giant fingers swatted mine away and replaced them in my hair.
His long fingers twisting and twirling, taking away my repose.
. . and the loss hurt me more than my banging head.
“Stop. STOP. STOP!” I screamed.
Ville’s grip grew tighter, wrapping around my strands, painfully, to yank back my head and thrust it back into the wood.
“Shut up, little slut. I know you like this.” Ville’s breath, scented with alcohol, cigars, and hate, tapped at my cheek.
“I’ve seen how you let my son play with this.
” He took a few strands to his nose, inhaling a much nicer scent than I had to.
Woodrow knew what he was talking about without looking. “Don’t touch her hair.” He knew it was my comfort. My safety. A feature of my own that reminded me of my mother.
I hated that Ville saw our intimacy as we’d basked out in the daisies. Hated that he knew of our weaknesses. I just fully fucking hated him.
The hands on my legs reached the apex of my thighs, and I fought to close them before they were locked in place, spread and held by a slightly softer touch. I knew who that belonged to.
Something pressed against my underwear. Something cold and sharp, and then it bit into my sensitive flesh.
I squealed, a small yelp slipping free as I became paralyzed by the fear wrapping around my throat.
I was bleeding. Couldn’t see it, but I could feel it in the pulse that lingered near my clit. The pain beating through me.
I didn’t hear Teena rip my underwear apart, but the feeling of disgust overpowered my fear, as I felt two of his calloused and dirty fingers press against my wound.
He felt over my shape, and as he did, a hum vibrated in his throat.
Two fingers slid down to my entrance, and without warning, plunged inside me.
“Stop. Please, stop.” My words were silent, the dryness in my mouth allowing them no sound. Tears rushed out, flushing my face. Ville’s hands were still in my hair, making the situation worse.
The force of Teena’s hand had me rocking, the harsh wood scraping at my face, decorating me in tiny scratches. The tattered sheet wouldn’t have offered much protection, but I’d have been grateful for the semi-reprieve if it had been left on the table.
“Stop.” The word as clear as the sound of feet moving closer. Woodrow.
“Get off of me. Please, get off of me,” I begged again.
Woodrow tried to pry them from the table, pulling them by anything he could grab.
“She isn’t yours to touch!”
“No. But you are disappointing your father, and he’s not getting his money’s worth.” Sylvia laughed again, constantly giggling like this situation and all the pain he caused was his greatest joy. “She shouldn’t have forgiven you. You should have been ready to fuck her again.”
“I will. I will. I’ll do it.”
No! My head shook. I didn’t want him doing this. I didn’t want him to feel that guilt. It already tried to destroy us, and I wouldn’t have the strength to repair his broken soul, as well as my own.
“I’ll do it.” Woodrow’s gaze fixed on Ville. “The next time he’s at the front. You know he’ll do it. You know he liked it.” Woodrow choked on the statement, disgusted by the taste of the words on his tongue.
“I’m not waiting, Woodrow. You do it now, or Teena will, then Sylvia, and then when she’s full of their cum, I’ll fill her with mine.”
I couldn’t see Woodrow’s nostrils flare, but I knew they were, just like my own, trying to breathe through the hate in this room. I felt his eyes move to me, a soft caress against my tremorous body.
“Get your fucking fingers from inside my girl.” His tone was cold, hateful, but it was still Woodrow’s voice, and for that reason, I changed my mind. I wanted it to be him.
I might not have survived anyone else.