Chapter 2
Holden
Acomforting, poetic melody gently plays from the delicate touch of ivory keys serenading us.
Removing my black thick-framed glasses, I set them down on the stainless steel table.
They sit next to the chipped mint-green-and-gold jewelry box where the music is playing from.
A beautifully painted ballerina spins as the majestic “Clair de Lune” piece plays.
My gold cuff links follow. They are both engraved with the letter H.
And as I place them down gently, one twists away from me.
Reaching forward, my fingers grip the cool metal, twirling the piece around.
Lining them up perfectly next to each other, I like the letters to look back at me as I work. Because I own who I am. Never hiding. Always in plain sight.
The process is the same, never changing.
Squeezing the bridge of my nose, my eyes close as I take a deep breath of stale air.
Focusing on my inhale, my lungs fill as my ribs expand against my expensive, soft white dress shirt.
Pausing, I hold my breath and count to ten in my head.
As my lips part, the exhale comes naturally.
Releasing the bridge of my nose, I crack my neck from side to side while the deep breath continues to release from within me.
Bringing the focus back to the present my ears open allowing the music back in as my body relaxes into the night.
A muffled moan refocuses my immediate attention, but I ignore it.
Opening my eyes, my gaze takes hold of the long thin sleeves of my dress shirt which cover my arms. Gripping the cuff of one into my hand, my thumb rotates, caressing the fabric before I begin to roll it up my arm, in four even folds.
As one arm completes, reaching just below my elbow, I do the same to the other side. By the time I finish, my mind is calm, alert, and ready. The jewelry box never falters, and the piece plays on repeat while I heal my soul.
The soul is a funny thing. Invisible to the naked eye and impossible for doctors to detect within the human body.
But regardless of who you speak to, it’s believed to be an existing entity; if you have one or not, is to be debated.
We can say the same about spirits and manifestation.
To be judged for believing in such things is a rare occurrence.
Many have thoughts and opinions or their own strange theories. All of which I don’t give two fucks about.
Many, primarily those who no longer exist, believe that I have no soul at all. I would beg to differ. A light sparks in my eyes. The darkness does not dim them. In fact, only in the dark does my soul shine the brightest. And I relish keeping it fed by taking the bright light from others.
My soul thrives.
To get into the details of my past would mean I allow it to hold power over me. Contrary to what you may believe, after bearing witness to such events which are about to take place, nothing holds power over me. In actuality, I hold all the power over it.
Carefully undoing the top two buttons on my dress shirt, the collar releases its hold from around my neck and I take one final inhale, feeling my chest expand once more before turning around.
Sliding my fingers through the short yet thick, dark locks adorning my head is the final task before the events of this evening may commence.
A smirk forms on my face, followed by a thunderous roar. It is time.
“Oh boy, you have no fucking idea what you’re in for, but I can promise you, it’s a treat.
” The night sky mixed with the cityscape attempts to peek through the narrow windows lining the top of the small warehouse space.
A single floor lamp stands next to where he is sitting.
Shadows cascade on the walls as I take a step forward.
Unintelligible words take away my peace.
Rolling my eyes, I find myself standing before my new friend, who is currently blindfolded with the finest silk scarf in Manhattan.
Reaching around, my fingers grip the soft fabric, tugging on it lightly, and undoing the perfectly tied bow on the back of his head.
The scarf floats to the floor, meeting our feet.
The man’s eyes bulge after blinking several times, a common response once we get to this part.
“I will save you the trouble of screaming, because it will only annoy me. I’m going to kill you.
Now, please take a moment to absorb and accept this fate, because it will not be rewritten as I just can’t be bothered to do that part. ”
With a furrowed brow, the man, who I will refer to as Mr. Carlisle, begins to panic. Such a response is typical and predictable. Nothing alarms me anymore. It’s all a nuisance. Classically boring. A cycle that I must relive each time, similar to Groundhog Day.
Leaning forward, my hands rest on his knees.
Our eyes meet, and with each word, I ensure they are slowly spoken and with clear intent.
“And I ask, please don’t weep or plead. Save your energy for feeling because you will never feel again.
And if you can’t feel every last thing I am about to do to you, then what is the point? Do you understand?”
And on cue, as predictable as Christmas, the bastard’s eyes well up with grief. On his next blink, a tear will no doubt escape, weaving through his bottom lashes then trailing down his cheek. They never fucking listen to me.
“You disappoint me, Mr. Carlisle.” Shaking my head, my lips form a thin line, and I raise my hands off his trembling trouser-clad legs.
Frankly, the fact that he hasn’t pissed himself yet is remarkable, but it’s not worth praising over.
In due time it will happen, only further disappointing me.
Each movement made is calculated and as I begin to rise, suddenly I find myself pausing.
Bringing one hand to Mr. Carlisle’s face, my thumb gently caresses the corner of his quivering dry lip before slapping his cheek twice, playfully, as I tease, “Cheer up, old chap. You can always make it up to me. Plus, life is too serious anyway, don’t you think?
” Taking a moment, I rise to my full height, step back, and hold both hands up at chest level.
“Wait, don’t answer that. It’s for the best.”
My music box chooses this moment to restart the song.
My body, my bones, and my blood feel each note.
Arms spread wide as my head falls backward, and I look to the sky, figuratively speaking.
“We are about to have so much fun. Don’t worry, I won’t tell you anything that will ruin all the surprises.
” Adjusting my stance, the tone of my voice lowers, becoming darker, and the playful excitement evaporates.
“But you will have a few rules to follow while we play, Mr. Carlisle.”
Pausing for further dramatic effect, a whimper and a couple shakes of his chair rocking back and forth follow. He doesn’t stop, the fool, already breaking the rules before we’ve begun. I interrupt his useless efforts with a voice that commands the room.
“I dare you to continue with the fucking noises. Because if you do, I will add another minute to your time with me.” Rule one has now been explained. And if he doesn’t shut the fuck up, he will be in direct violation of it.
Clapping my hands once, I spin around on the heels of my very fucking expensive designer suede loafers and unleash rule two.
This one usually gets the biggest reaction.
“Each spot of blood that lands on my crisp white shirt will add another minute of pain.” And as predicted, Mr. Carlisle’s eyes bulged out of his head. How exciting!
A grunt of disagreement follows, which again is rather predictable by now. And I imagine he’s moaning, “How can I control my own blood splatter?” It’s the rule they always argue over, and I always get another minute with them because of it. The noises sometimes never end, and neither do I.
“To answer your lackluster question. I am aware you cannot control your own blood splatter, and to that, I say, I simply do not care. It is important to note, Mr. Carlisle, I also hate blood. So, each splatter earns you more time with me, because it will piss me off. The more you piss me off, the more we bond. You should also know I hate bonding with people, especially rich cunts like yourself, and the list does go on and on. Again, I know what you’re thinking.
“But you are a rich cunt, Holden.”” I pause, clasping my hands together while tilting my head for dramatic effect, because I fucking can.
The suspense builds, and the middle-aged twat’s eyes well with tears of panic.
He is right where I like them, therefore, I continue my speech.
“And again, I am aware of that point. So, call me a hypocrite. I couldn’t give a flying fuck.
The significance of this story is I don’t have morals like you do.
I suppose, I just like hurting people. And today I get to hurt you.
“But before you ask the other important question, allow me.” Clearing my throat, I circle my prey.
My mouth waters with anticipation. I’ve securely tied him to the metal folding chair with thick rope around his torso, arms, and legs.
The clicking of my loafers’ soles against the cement floor echoes in the empty warehouse.
“You are here because your moronic son keyed ‘douche canoe’ into the side of my Rolls. And children must learn that there are always consequences to actions.”
More frantic murmuring follows and, frankly, it’s starting to bore me. “I don’t care that you didn’t do it. Your kid did. Bad boys do not get to keep their daddies. Because daddies cannot fix every fucking mistake they make.” My voice ricochets off the metal walls, commanding the space.