Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
I stand by the lake near the cabin registered to Roger Moore, my breath fogging around me.
I pull my hood up, shielding myself from the frigid wind that whips at my neck.
It’s nearing winter and parts of the lake have frozen over, dark sections of crystalized water glitter in the silvery moon.
The creaks and groans of the ice whine out into the night.
Light pours from the windows of the cabin, illuminating the decaying wood paneling on its exterior.
The old cottage could have been beautiful if anyone had cared for it, but the man hidden away inside isn't capable of that.
He's proven as much by his actions towards his wife and daughter, the women he broke.
My stomach twists into knots, unfamiliar emotions churning in my gut. Should some part of me be grateful to him for breaking my little bird? Is he the monster that made her into my perfect, missing piece, my beautifully damaged toy? I shake my head, dispelling the thought.
No, I could never give him credit for who she is.
She's so much more than what he made her, so much more than she even realizes. She doesn’t understand how strong she is.
She thinks her past dampened her fire, but it didn’t.
It may be hidden deep within her, but the embers still burn brightly.
Those little flames that she shows only to me.
Stepping towards the dilapidated cabin, I steel my spine, armoring myself with rage.
I'll free my little bird from the shackles of her past. I'll give her the freedom she's never had, freedom from her pain and fear.
Then, she'll be ready for a cage she actually wants.
I'll build a golden cage around her heart, one that only I have the key to. Then, she'll know she's mine.
The door rattles on its lopsided hinges when I rap my fist against it.
Inside, Ava's father groans, mumbling slurred curses.
The floorboards creak as he approaches the door.
The moment it opens, I step into him. I smell the cheap whiskey on this breath immediately.
I whip my arm forward, sending the handle of my knife crashing into his temple.
His knees crack when he drops to the floor, the rest of his body following shortly after.
* * *
The old man groans, the wrinkles deepening around his cracked lips and sunken eyes.
He twitches, his shriveled body jerking against the ropes.
His feet totter, their position precarious on the small stool he stands on.
I stare at the pathetic creature that haunts Ava, and I imagine what he did to her.
The images come to me with barely a thought, given how similar they are to my own memories.
Roger’s features are hard, jagged things jutting from his face. His nose is crooked like it's been broken several times and the bones were poorly set. He looks nothing like my little bird.
She's lucky in that fact. Unlike me, she'll never see her nightmare in the mirror. When she looks at herself, she won't see her father's eyes staring back at her. But I wear my father's face like a badge of honor because he's dead and I'm alive, knowing that I'm the one who put him in the ground.
Roger's pained whine fills the room. It's a pitiful sound.
He blinks his eyes open slowly before his glazed, brown orbs land on me.
I smile, watching his fingers twitch before he realizes that he can't move properly.
His eyes dart to the ceiling fan, then to the ropes that tie his neck and hands to it, then to the shaky positioning of his feet on the rickety stool a foot above the floor.
His face contorts. His breathing becomes erratic, panicked. My smile widens into something predatory. Based on the tears that have started to trickle from his eyes, it must be a terrifying sight.
“W-who are you?” he croaks out from between his cracked lips.
I cock my head to the side. “You're a gambling man, aren't you, Roger? A drunk?”
His mouth closes, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his eyes flash with fear.
“Tonight,” I say, “you can consider me the house. I've come to call in your chit.”
He shoots me a quizzical look. “Huh?”
I step closer, running my gloved fingers along the ropes that bind him. “You owe a debt, Roger. You put your hands on something that belongs to me. You damaged it.”
“No, no, I-I can pay you back,” he pleads. “I can get you cash.”
“Oh, Roger,” I chuckle, “not this time. Money won't get you out of this.”
“W-what,” he sputters, “what did I break?”
His throat bobs when I pull the hunting knife from my belt and press the tip beneath his chin. His eyes pinch shut, waiting for the slice of my knife. It doesn't come; I won't let him die that easily. Instead, I lift the knife and cut through the rope that binds his wrists to the ceiling fan.
His eyes spring open as the sound of his choking gurgles fill the room.
It takes him a moment to straighten his legs, finally realizing the position he's in.
His life now depends on the strength of his wobbling legs.
The second he lets them relax, his body will dangle from the rope that anchors his neck to the ceiling.
“Your daughter, Roger. Your daughter is mine and you hurt her.”
His eyes widen, the shock evident on his face. His surprise makes my blood boil. He still doesn't see her value. He can't see what I see.
“No, no, p-please! S-she’s not worth it.” Spittle dribbles from the corners of his mouth as he begs.
“Not worth it?” I say in a low voice, daring him to continue.
His face changes, a scowl plastered across his sunken cheeks. His eyes flash with anger. “She's nothing,” he seethes, “you'll see. A worthless, broken thing, just like her mother.”
My anger cools; icing over, hardening, sharpening. “She's everything. She's fucking perfect, and you are nothing. She's too kind to seek vengeance, but I'm not. I'm going to free her from you.”
Stepping toward him, I reach my hands out toward his waist. Roger’s wide, glassy eyes trace the movement of my hands, his face pinched with fear. I unbuckle his belt and pull it from the loops at his waist.
“You remember this, don’t you, Roger?” I taunt. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten how you used your belt on your daughter. Before you die, you deserve to feel what she felt.”
“No, no, please!” he whines. “Please d-don’t do this!”
I move behind him with the end of my belt clenched in my fist. I let it swing beneath my hand, letting him hear the clink of the metal. The leather whistles through the air as I rear my arm back and then swing it forward. It collides with Roger’s side and he belts out a hoarse scream.
Blood begins to seep through his shirt in the place my belt hit, and I grin. “I will match every scar you gave Ava, every way that you marked her perfect skin. You will feel every single one, Roger.”
He chokes out a sob as tears stream down his cheeks. “No,” he whispers.
“Oh, yes,” I chuckle, “this is what you owe her. This is what you deserve.”
I swing the belt again and it lets out a satisfying thwack as it collides with his back.
The metal buckle tears through his dirty shirt, revealing an angry, red welt on his skin.
His balance teeters on the tiny stool beneath him, but I only give him a moment to right himself.
I can’t have him die yet. Not when he deserves so many more strikes.
He deserves to feel the suffering he caused Ava.
“You’re the one who’s worthless!” I scream. “You’re the one who’s nothing!”
Forcing all of my rage into my muscles, I swing the belt over and over.
His pained wails fill the room as the metal collides with his flesh and rips the skin beneath it.
Blood drips from his wounds and the force of the impact sprays it back onto me.
Each time the buckle hits his skin, I bark out the words he’s used to describe his daughter.
“Worthless!”
Smack.
“Broken!”
Smack.
“Nothing!”
Smack.
I whip him until my breathing is labored and the leather slips from my blood-soaked palms.
When his screams stop and his eyelids begin to flutter, I walk around his pathetic form.
His legs quiver, barely holding the weight of his body.
His shirt hangs in scraps from his shoulders, their edges dripping with blood.
I grab his wrist, my fingers digging into his skin.
I wrap the end of the belt around his hand, wiping his own blood into his palm and leaving the belt to dangle from his hand.
“Stay awake, Roger,” I demand. His eyes flick to mine and I flash him a toothy smile. “This next part is my favorite.”
I slam my foot into the stool under this worthless body, kicking it across the room. He chokes, wheezing and gagging as his body swings from the fan. Bile drips from his mouth. His fingers claw desperately at the rope. Laughter howls out of me, filling the room as I watch him die.
His piss puddles on the floor beneath him, and I step back to keep my boots dry. His pants thicken as he soils himself. I inhale the acrid stench of Roger's death, but all I smell is Ava's freedom.