Chapter 24
Jolie—aged eighteen
It was good to be free.
Amazing to feel the light breeze of spring on my face.
My palm grew sweaty, wrapped in his much bigger hand. Violet nails gleamed in the sunlight, matching the delicate tones of purple that adorned my dress. The crystals on my wedged sandals twinkled, fascinating the toddler at my feet who played with them.
The child’s skin was a beautiful shade, a mix of me and him. Her pretty eyes and long lashes were traits she got from her father.
His other hand held a daisy, that, after failing to amuse our daughter with, he decided to prop behind my ear. He kissed my scars, now faded from the recent surgery.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, sliding closer on the blanket where we sat.
I didn’t believe him, but I smiled all the same, appreciating the efforts he made with us.
The last year and a half had been hardest on Woodrow. His mind wasn’t ready for the stress a baby brought, and more often than not, I was caring for two children. The oldest of the two, feeling left out whenever attention was shown to the baby.
But, today had been good.
He’d dressed our baby and carried her to the park, placing our checkered picnic blanket on the grassiest tuft he could find. The pushchair that she hated spending any time in was parked at my side.
Clouds rolled in the bright sky.
A dark shadow cast upon us that stole me from my reverie.
I woke to the sound of my stomach rumbling, echoing loudly in the stone room, which seemed smaller and smaller each day.
Something wrapped around my ankle and dragged me through the mess I’d made.
The shadow.
My face hit the door of the cage as I was pulled through it with a violent tug, taking the focus from my pained broken knee.
An ulcered scab ripped on my cheek, and a scream rushed from inside me. My lungs hurt, my stomach hurt, and the baby, tiny and vulnerable, stressed inside it.
My fingers rushed to protect my stomach, my broken nails tickling my skin.
I tried to crawl away from whatever entity was filling the room, but it was near impossible when my leg was so swollen.
“She won’t make it much longer.” I’d know Ville’s voice anywhere; I recognized it from every nightmare. “Probably best to take the organs now, before they start shutting down.”
“What happened to your plan?”
“I’ve given him time. He’s still acting like a fucking child.”
“Okay. It’s your decision.”
Sylvia stood in the coldness of Ville’s shadow. He was a stupid man, ruled by greed and any other men who claimed they’d feed him with the meat off brittle bones and the wealth brought by what lived beneath.
He had no idea what Ville was planning.
This was his plan.
And Sylvia was bait.
Nothing had worked to draw Woodrow out, or even Hell, and another week had passed where Ville had to deal with Woody. He was fed-up and fucked off. . . but he knew my screams would wake the beast.
I used my good leg and kicked away as Sylvia’s dirty, calloused fingers scraped my ankles. My foot caught him in the ear, my unfiled toenails scratching through his skin.
I pushed myself back with my hands, narrowly avoiding what was left of Ville’s sausage fingers, reaching for my hair.
I couldn’t stand, the vigor to do so had simply gone. Weeks without a crumb to eat had stolen the last of my energy.
I stared up at them—the men who’d end my life—through my lifeless hair. Tears blurred their appearance in my right eye; acid damage had stolen the vision from my left, making everything constantly dark and scary.
I crouched, hiding from a fist, unsure who it belonged to. The blow hit my arms as they covered my head.
I heard a voice, muffled by my own arms as they shielded my ears.
If I had removed my arms, I’d have heard Sylvia say he was about to pull my legs open, wanting to taste me before he chewed later on.
I kicked and shrieked, panic taking over me as the shadows closed in.
I couldn’t see much. The ajar door from the kitchen above let in little light. And then the light vanished as Sylvia tossed his leather jacket over my head.
The world went black. I couldn’t see anything. But I could feel them on me; Ville’s hands pinning me down. Sylvia’s tongue sliding up my legs. His fingers dug into my knees, pressing them into the concrete. I screamed as he pushed on the break in my patella.
I screamed again, my head careening from left to right. Sylvia’s fat tongue reached the apex of my thighs. I kicked and thrashed and pulled my arms in Ville’s hold, but I couldn’t get free; his strength was unmatched.
I couldn’t fight. I could only scream.
A sound boomed through the room, a scream to rival mine. Ville let his grip loosen, and I sat up to see the light in the room return as the jacket fell from my face.
I didn’t focus on the noise, too terrified by my situation.
A new scent oozed into the room, something that hadn’t leaked from any cavity of my body. Blood, vomit, urine, feces lay around us. But all I could smell was the scent of forestry that surrounded me, reminding me of the fresh air I’d been denied.
Reminding me of my stolen freedom.
Reminding me of Woodrow.
Sylvia was pulled from between my legs, his tongue still protruding like the venomous snake he was.
A skinny arm wrapped around Sylvia’s throat, blood spurting from his mouth as the distance between us grew.
Ville’s hands rubbed at my arms as I backed up, and he pulled me into him. His chest suffocated me as he locked around me. His fingers weaved through my hair, guiding me into a loving lie—pretending he cared.
I pushed away from his wifebeater, wet with sweat.
“Get away from me,” I stuttered.
“Come on, darlin’, I know you’re scared. It’s okay now. It’s okay. I got you.” His fingers smoothed me again, and I responded exactly like he’d taught me to. Like an unloving pet, growling and snarling, with spit flying out of my mouth.
The whole room vibrated with anger. Mine. Ville’s, as he held it all back, and Hell’s, as he did the opposite.
Scanning around the room, I searched for him. He’d dragged Sylvia into the shadows.
I tried to drag myself forward, edging only inches before Ville was on me, pulling me back into his chest.
I listened to the whispers in the distance. Full of hate and violence. And they echoed in my head like the sound of insanity.
“I didn’t say you could touch her. You don’t get to do that.”
“I’m sorry.” A blood-spilling gurgle spat from Sylvia’s mouth, staining the concrete floor, already as much red as it was gray, from my own injuries.
“Too late.” Hell spoke calmly, twisting the long kitchen knife he was rupturing Sylvia’s organs with. “Now, you don’t get to touch her, think about her, dream about her. Did Daddy dearest not warn you that I’d be mad?”
I could see Hell’s face over Sylvia’s shoulder, watching me through the darkness. I didn’t pull my eyes away from the pretty psychopath as he pulled the knife out and pushed it back into Sylvia’s body repeatedly like he was fucking it with the blade.
“The minutes you lived that you didn’t deserve to, will be taken off another scumbag’s life.” Hell’s eyes were on his father when he made that deadly promise.
The blade, silver like his pretty eyes, reflected in the minimal light, showing me enough as it was dragged across Sylvia’s throat.
Sylvia’s body slumped to the floor, and I stupidly found myself wondering if anyone would eat him now that he was dead.
The blade moved closer to me, blood dripping to the floor.
I looked up, feeling a mix of emotions as Hell zoned in. Not one of those feelings was remorse for the man lying dead a few feet away. He was going to rape me. Hurt me. Kill me. Eat me and my baby.
I was glad he was fucking dead.
Hell's blade lifted my downcast chin, and Sylvia's blood, touching my skin, had me jumping as if it burned more than the acid that scarred me.
“Well, look at all these pretty scars, doll. Tut, tut. I wonder what caused them.”
“You did, kid. In one of your repressive states.”
“Is that a new term?” Hell questioned with an eyebrow raised.
“The little one,” Ville corrected himself.
“He already told me.”
Woody had told him, through the diary. Told him everything. Hell wouldn't fall for the manipulation as easily as Woody did. The look on his face—all serious and questioning—told Ville and me that he already suspected the truth.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Son. . . I—”
“Your son isn’t here. Don't pretend you see me that way, or I'll gut you right now.” Hell’s cunning smile was present again, making him look like the hot psycho killer from my favorite horror movie. “Out.”
Ville didn't move, his bulging, bloodshot eyes, brought by another night of alcohol abuse, pleading.
“What did you do to my doll?” he asked, seeing as Ville didn't move. “Two seconds.” Hell was giving him only two seconds to respond.
“I told you; I didn't scar her.”
“No. . . the little one has his own stash of battery acid,” Hell mocked with false amusement.
“If the scars bother you, I can get you another girl. She's replaceable.”
My chest strained, nostrils flaring. The air in the room finding my lungs inhospitable.
I stared up at Hell, and he spoke the words I needed to hear, in order to release a breath.
“Not to me.”
Hell would protect me. . . for Woodrow. And that gifted me the smallest peace.
Taking in all Hell said, Ville got to his feet, pulling me from the ground to use as a skin shield.
I held back my agony as some of my weight shifted to my broken knee.