Again and again I see her, see them, tortured and abused. I see that sick fucker Madd and I killed, touching, taunting,taking.
Again and again.
I gasp for air, my heart pounding. I blink rapidly, my body covered in sweat despite the cold. Vomit crawls up my stomach and I hang my head, just in time to let it fall.
I don’t know how much time has passed, maybe a day or two, but I’m launched from another restless sleep with a jolt. My mouth is dry as sandpaper, and a violent cough racks my body, choking me on nothing but the darkness that surrounds me. My throat burns, but there's no relief, no water to quench the unbearable thirst.
For a second, just a split second, I think it can’t get any worse.
And then it comes—a sinister laugh that pierces the void.
It's so cold, so utterly terrifying, that it sends shivers down my bare spine. My breath hitches in my chest, and I strain my senses, trying to locate the source of the wicked sound I’d know anywhere.
The chillingly familiar voice slices through the oppressive silence like a knife. “Still just a frightened little boy, I see.”
I swallow hard, my jaw clenched so tight it feels like it might shatter.
“¿Todavía tienes miedo del hijo oscuro?”Are you still afraid of the dark, son?
I scoff, even as my father's taunting words send my heart into overdrive. I know better than to answer, knowing that his twisted mind thrives on any signs of fear or weakness.
In the inky blackness, anticipation builds with every leather-soled footstep that reverberates through the cold, damp prison cell. The tension is suffocating, and my body tenses.
As my father moves through the darkness, his direction changes. The sound is an ominous drumbeat, and try as I might, it’s hard to separate the fear I felt as a child with my present. My heart pounds in my chest, and I can almost feel his presence looming over me, an ugly force that promises only torment and suffering.
Fingers slide gently over my exposed arm, and I jolt, but the restraints anchoring me to the cold concrete wall keep me from moving.
My father's laughter echoes somewhere in the distance and I quickly realize it's not his touch gliding across my body.
Panic surges through me.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” My bellowed words bounce off the walls and my panting breaths follow quickly behind.
The fingers continue their invasive trail, tracing up my arm and across my chest. My body trembles uncontrollably. Nausea churns in my stomach at the unwanted contact.
“What? You don't like my gift?” my father chides, his disappointment evident in his voice. “I figured it was the least I could do after being forced to lock you up like an animal.”
My heart races and my body spasms.
I have to get out of here.
Why? Why do I keep fucking underestimating him?
But then he clicks his tongue and the person hovering just before me starts up again. Dread settles like a stone in my gut.
I let my eyes drift shut once more. I need to focus, to calm down. I need to figure out a fucking plan. Slow, deliberate breaths fill my lungs, helping me center my racing thoughts.
My body’s shaking, my teeth grinding together, but beyond that, I show no sign of panic. I keep my mouth shut, my words trapped deep in my lungs.
With my eyes closed and my mind narrowed in on my surroundings, my senses sharpen. The familiar scent of rot andmold still clings to the stagnant air, a result of the bloodbaths that’ve stained these walls over time. But beneath that grim familiarity, there's something new—an unsettling, cloying sweetness that wafts through the air like a corrupted memory of flowers.
It's a scent that's wrong, out of place in the middle of hell. It makes my throat tighten with an involuntary gag.
Despite my best efforts, my attention is once again drawn to the fingers that continue their gentle exploration. They trace a maddening path across my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. But there's no pleasure or excitement in my response, only a rising sense of fear and discomfort.
Biting my cheek so hard so I taste blood, I focus on the touch. I know he’s trying to tell me something, trying to make a point. It’s what he does. He finds your weakness and exploits it.
But I'm not the little naïve boy I once was, and my weakness is no longer something small or insignificant. I’m not a teenager who believes himself invincible, stepping in front of my baby brother so the Devil can’t get to him.
