Chapter 24 #3
“I don't want to hear about Woodrow. He doesn't want to be here anymore, and without him, what the fuck am I? I should just become what Ville wants. . . be just like him.”
“No.” I shook my head to emphasize. “You're better than him.”
“Am I?” Hell’s eyes lowered to the blood between my legs. His fingers smeared it before taking a taste of me to his tongue.
I forced my legs to close, despite the pain, and I forced my eyes anywhere away from the look on his face.
“You can be. You can be sorry, and we can make this better. We can get Woodrow back, and it will all be better.”
“There's no magic way to get rid of me, Jolie.”
“I know. I accept you. I accept Woody. I accept this situation and the pain. For Woodrow. I'm his girl. I can be Woody's friend and your outlet.”
I reached out to him, my nervous fingers settling on his back. On the outside, this would look like a stupid move, me comforting the boy who had just raped me multiple times. But he was a part of the boy I loved. I couldn't have Woodrow without Hell. And I couldn't survive without him.
He didn't push me away.
He didn't talk.
He lay down in the cage, cold like me, as we both tried to get some rest.
I wrapped my arm around him, praying he wouldn't lash out, and he didn't.
I nuzzled closer, my snotty nose against his t-shirt, taking in the familiar scent of him.
And I cried. All fucking night.
I woke to the sound of an argument. Ville and Wynter's whining voices were louder now that there were holes in the door. And that was what they were arguing over. . . that Ville hadn't got off his lazy ass to fix it.
The cage was colder, and I was alone.
I sat up quickly, searching around for Hell.
I whispered his name, but there was nothing. No sound but the minor echo of my own voice replying to me.
I lay back down, still tired and very hungry. I'd forgotten how long it had been since my last meal, but my rumbling stomach told me that it had been a while.
My daydreams amused me as one hour drifted into the next. The darkness that often weaved through my reveries was still a reprieve compared to my reality.
A small flutter twisted in my tummy, reminding me that I still had something good.
I closed my eyes, my lips moving to voice the words spoken in my daydream of Woodrow, me, and our toddler in the park. The dream picked up where it ended last, and. . .
A man in a nice suit walked by, complimenting my hair. He stopped by our child, and lifted her into his arms, compliments still on his tongue. I wasn't happy. My protective parental instincts kicking in, along with Woodrow's.
The man kissed my little one's chubby cheeks, and it made me feel evil.
I forced myself to wake up. To face reality before I witnessed him take her.
I wanted to punch myself in the head for my mind allowing my twisted life to meld with my escape from it, but I felt enough pain already.
I tried once more to sleep, and after what felt like days of trying, slumber welcomed me.
As a pair, they moved around the dark. The devil and his shadow.
Ville was giving orders. Orders on how to abuse me.
It was a week since I last saw Hell. A week since I told him I accepted him.
I continued whispering those words into his ear as he continued to abuse me.
Ville had done something to get into his head, and I had seven days of damage to override in one.
My body, writhing beneath his as he fucked me, started to hurt less, proving I'd found credence, even if Hell hadn't.
He grew tired of hearing me talk, eventually covering my mouth. Showing me how deeply his father had affected him.
Without my fight, he grew bored. The noise in his head, louder than both Ville and me, was encouraging him to get away.
He pulled out of me, leaving an embarrassing leak from me trailing behind him.
Rushing up the stairs, Ville followed him out, wobbling on every step because he was wine drunk. I noticed every smell down here. The alcohol on Ville’s breath. The cigars that stained every sneer that left his mouth. The greasy food he ate in the room above while I starved down here.
The scent of forestry and freedom. Of Woodrow on Hell.
Of death. It was everywhere down here, and the lack of cleaning made it eternal.
I waited for Hell to return. For the noise beyond the kitchen door, of smashing up furniture and violent threats, to make its way down to me. But I remained alone as the war waged.
I could hear Nessie screaming, and it broke my heart. I wanted to grab her and run. Grab her brother, too. But I'd probably never run again. My bone wasn't healing well, and I feared a permanent limp. . . assuming I survived.
The door creaked open, and the irritating sound of clacking heels created a devastating harmony as Wynter moved down the steps, heavier feet following. I braced myself, fearing why they came in a pack.
It was nighttime, late enough for Nessie to be asleep.
Wynter was dressed to the nines, as always. Her slight hobble had faded away, giving me hope, that one day, my leg would take my weight.
Her purse swayed at her hip; such an odd accessory to wear around your own house, I thought to myself.
I looked up at Wynter. Her evil smile visible through the cage.
“My darling husband thought you'd be enough to train him. A way to control his issues.”
I kept quiet, not saying what I wanted—that her darling husband should have used appropriate methods on his son. The kind of methods he trained in.
“A way to guide him into the business and enjoy it. I knew from the start that you wouldn't be enough. That it wouldn't work. You should see the state of my kitchen! Fucking ruined.”
I removed my gaze from her face and the badly bleached hair I had no appreciation for as it fell over her bony shoulders.
She didn’t like my ignorance. “Look at you. A mess. Worthless. We should have just broken you down like the others. Sell you on for more than we paid.”
My ears blocked out her fake accent, and I think she could tell. She grew angry, pulling me from the cage by my thick hair. I screamed, my hair follicles and knee sending pain blasts through my sensors.
I didn’t try to prevent her actions. Her skinny body would have fallen over if I'd resisted, but I didn't. I wanted this over quickly. . . and that happened by compliance.
Happy with me out of the cage, she stalked away, opening out her purse in the distance. She propped it on the step, dishing out what I could only assume was dog food. Its rancid smell confirmed I was right.
I looked away from her, from the fake friend who never really cared.
I focused on her husband. His goofy smile and bad breath, all too close to my face.
He had chicken again for dinner, I see. I laughed to myself, my sanity escaping through my mouth and the open kitchen door. I clapped twice, applauding it, wishing I could have gone, too.
“Fuck, you're as messed-up as the kid.”
Another thought popped into my head. . . like calls to like. Woodrow and I, both had issues, but deep down we were good people. Ville and Wynter on the other hand, were both evil, rotten to the core.
I laughed again, and Ville demanded to know why, but I couldn't answer. He wouldn't see the funny side, and for that, I'd get a beating.
I didn't want a beating.
My bruises were fading, and they no longer hurt when I rubbed my arms to keep warm.
“Shut her up, for fuck's sake.” I was annoying Wynter.
She ventured from the stairs to dwell in the shadows like the monster she was.
Ville pulled me up onto one knee from my slouched-on-my-butt position; my other leg remained stretched out.
Ville's t-shirt was tugged over his head and placed over mine. He dragged my arms through the sleeves, and I almost gagged at the feel of his sweat sticking to me.
I’d rather be fucking cold.
He unzipped his jeans, and with a struggle, shimmied out of them.
I looked up to him to see his boxers had come down with his jeans. I wouldn't look back down. Too many times had that happened, and too many times had the open kitchen door and the light that shined through, allowed me to see that his hygiene wasn't what it should be.
“Be my good whore and please me,” his gruff voice demanded.
I dropped my eyes low enough to see his penis, semi-flaccid and peeping out through his thick waft of graying pubic hair.
I didn't waste time, wanting this over quicker than physically possible.
I opened my mouth slightly, and his penis’ slimy head nudged at my lips.
“Don't be shy; it's not like we haven't done this before.”
I opened wide, and his cock thickened on my tongue as it moved in and out of my mouth.
My gaze traveled the room, not wanting to look at the man abusing my mouth. I saw Wynter. It was dark where she sat, but I could still make out her hand rubbing at her pussy, enjoying this while I hated it.
Tears burned my eyes, and the vision in my right eye became a blur, matching the permanent damage in my left.
Ville picked up his pace, violently face-fucking me. His stumpy dick hit the back of my throat multiple times. Wynter's rhythm picked up, too, her own fingers assaulting her clit. She watched her husband fuck my mouth, and she moaned and got off on it.
Ville's fingers weaved in my hair, the action calling my eyes to his. The vile smile on his ugly face reminded me he'd stolen from my mind, as well as my body.
His fingers dug into my scalp, coaxing me forward. He thrust into my throat, hard and fast, and I gagged repeatedly, but he didn't care.
I needed to steady myself, my knee wobbling beneath me. My hands gripped Ville's thighs, and my nails digging into his skin, spurred him on.
He pulled his cock from my mouth, dripping with my spit. And like he often did when he was close, he began masturbating in my face. The tip of his cock bashed my lips as he vigorously fucked his hand.
It wasn't a second before he came. . . Wynter too, her body slumping back was evidence.
Ville's cum hit me in the face, running down my cheeks like tears.
He lifted my face with rough fingers, and he looked down at me, in so many ways, before he rubbed his cum into my cheeks.
He laughed, blowing me a kiss as he tugged up both his underwear and his pants. “Good for the skin.”
“As a reward, I'll have the kid visit you tomorrow, but I can't guarantee which version of him you'll get.”
I didn't care at this point. It had been another fucking week. And I’d be grateful to see Woodrow, Woody, or even Hell.
“Thank you,” I stupidly said.
Wynter stood, her underwear back in place, and her cum-stained fingers clutching her husband's waiting hand. They strolled to the steps together. Heavy boots and clacking heels.
They both stopped for a moment, and my eyes shifted in their direction, wondering why they hadn't left already.
Ville picked up the bowl of dog food, but I didn't watch as he carried the bowl over to my cage, placing it to the side of this morning's excretions. My eyes stayed on Wynter—wide with horror—as she picked up another item from the stair. . . a camera, that had been filming my torture.
There was no doubt in my mind that that recording would be sold to the highest bidder on the dark web.
Wynter didn't turn back to me, but she made sure I saw the camera. She wanted something to torment me all night, without having to put the effort in herself.
Ville gripped the neck of his t-shirt, ripping it down the middle and off my body.
I was glad to be free of it.
Glad to be free of him as heavy boots and heels sounded again, the couple moving as a pair to leave the room.
I looked over to the bowl of dog food left behind. The strong odor, used to mask the chemicals within from loving pet owners, called me over.
I hadn't eaten in so long, and even dog food would taste better than the last thing put in my mouth.
I clutched at the small chunks, knowing I'd be offered nothing else, and placed them on my tongue. I had run out of tears to cry, or this exact moment, would have had me drowning in my misery.
I chewed with an open mouth, trying to do my tastebuds a small honor. And I did this until the bowl was empty and my stomach was full.
Ville wobbled down the steps once more about an hour later. His unsteady footwork brought on by more of the whisky and vodka he'd consumed over the last sixty-whatever minutes, had him spilling the contents of the bowl he was carrying.
Water.
My water.
He probably knew I was thirsty from my dry lips scraping up and down on his cock. He probably didn’t care about spilling it, either. He’d be happy to see me lick the stairs.
The bowl clanked as he placed it at the bottom of the stairs.
I pretended to sleep, my eyes open only the smallest crack.
He watched me for a while, and like he knew my slumber was a deception, he said, “Oh, I tipped a bit. Better fill it back up.”
The zipper on his jeans chewed through the metal, opening enough for them to loosen on his hips.
My lips twitched, my eyes forcing themselves shut as he urinated an unhealthy color of piss into my water bowl.
“Enjoy, whore.” He snorted, zipping himself back up and turning for the stairs.
He got to the top, pushing the door to freedom behind him, but in his soused state, he didn't realize he hadn't closed it tight. And, for the first time, the drunken idiot forgot to lock it, so he didn’t even notice.
I took a deep breath, my escape feeling closer than ever.
I knew my fuzzy sight would make it difficult to maneuver around the dark house without making much noise. I knew my broken knee would make it even harder.
I had to bide my time. Long enough for the alcohol inside him to take him down.
And that was what I planned to do.
But I underestimated how tired my body was, and as I lay there, doing nothing, my mind, for once, clear of made-up realities, another kind of dream called me. The kind I could only get through sleep.