Ville laughed in my face, the concoction of mixed beverages on his dirty breath turned me sick, and the smoke he blew at me burned my face.
I dropped back, slumping into my seat, my eyes not leaving him—my true enemy.
He stubbed out his cigar with a heavy boot, after dropping it onto the floor I’d cleaned, making my anger strengthen. Then he took another sip, the bottle almost drained now.
Teena, and his dirty fucking hands—dirty with hints of mine and whoever fucking else’s DNA, poured glasses for himself, Sylvia, and theone with a normal man name—and because it was just that, I’d already fucking forgotten it. He filled a fourth and fifth glass, swirling the glasses into place. In front of Woodrow and me.
He didn’t say a word. His mouth prioritized the cruel smile on his lips, that told me, we’d need those drinks. But we both ignored them. Woodrow didn’t even look up. I could hear him faintly humming a hushed song. . . the one I sing at night. My father’s favorite.
I knew Woodrow was centering himself, trying to find peace. And he was trying to give me the same.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” I soothed.
Ville’s hand clamped around my wrist, but before I could peel it from my bones, along with the skin he’d touched, it was gone. He wanted my attention, nothing more, thank fuck!
“My story isn’t done,” he told me, searching the table for another bottle to guzzle. “I agreed not to say anything about the business, partly because I was shit scared. Back then, I was normal. I didn’t know the horrors of the world, and I’d never partaken in any. This is where it changed. Inside the warehouse, one of probably one hundred—and I’m not sure that’s even an exaggeration—was girls, boys, women, men. All half broken. And that was where I came in. He needed psychologists to break the mind. Some were tougher than others to crack. But, Alerion, that was his name—my new boss—told me that he’d been working with another psychologist, and it had been working well, but the numbers were too high for him to manage alone.”
“So, you stepped in.” Wine landed on Ville’s tongue, and he enjoyed the taste, licking his dry lips.
“I did. And a few weeks later, he rewarded me with a trip to Paris. Granted, it was for business, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get any pleasure.”
I looked to my glass, thinking I should probably chug it back to hopefully blur out some of this sordid tale. . . but I kept it for a more challenging moment, knowing one would surely come.
“That was where I met Wynter. She was fifteen. 10 years younger than me. I walked in as she was being raped by her brother. She wasn’t who I was there to see, but she was all I could think about afterwards. The poor kid, who had been shifted from New York when her father died. Her only relative was his otherchild from a previous marriage—a sibling she barely knew of—a sibling who sold her into the skin trade and happily rented her back whenever he felt like it.”
My stomach was churning, and the drink on the table was calling me again.
“I did what Alerion asked of me, and in return for breaking minds, I got to break in a few other things. . . but my mind was always on one particular girl. One already half-fucked to death.” Ville took another swig, this one from my fucking glass, and the anger inside me burned my throat as the whisky he’d stolen burned his.
“Ahh,” he gasped, preferring the strength of my drink. “I’d been working for Alerion for six months, and by that time, he trusted me, to some extent. I made an offer, to work for free for a few months, already having half of the money I’d need thanks to generous wages, and I asked if I could buy one of the girls. He knew which one I wanted. He’d already been happy to hand me the key to her cell more than once. For a while, he’d had an interest there, too, a little. Until she turned sixteen. Somehow, the older they got, the less he enjoyed them.
He agreed to the sale, and her brother didn’t even bat an eye-lid, moving on to the next girl before he’d even washed his sweet little sister off his cock.”
“She let you bring girls here. . . someone like that isn’t innocent.”
“Not to your level. Though, if you really knew her, you’d probably say she never was. Maybe what her brother did to her fucked her up. Maybe it was me. Maybe both. Maybe she was already fucked before us. She’d happily get the other girls in trouble; she’d enjoy punishing them if it meant no one touched her. She’d watch as they were raped, and there were times she was caught touching herself during it. I thought she’d like that I brought her from all that. I thought I could change her mindset, but when we arrived home, we tried settling into normality. . . and it didn’t work for us.
She was already pregnant, due to pop at sixteen years old, and it was all a struggle for her. She resented the baby, but I told her I’d help her through everything. We’d be parents together. . . I still don’t know to this day, who his real fucking father is.” Ville snorted in Woodrow’s direction. “But the hate she has for him. . .” Ville nodded towards Woodrow, who still wasn’t looking at anything but the ground as heabsorbed the details. “. . .tells me that Wynter definitely does. And it isn’t fucking me.”
I almost said,‘thank your god for that.’
Ville laughed; the devil had once again heard my silent words. “Seeing the things I do every day, changed me.”
For the worse. . .
“I was put in charge of breaking at a local warehouse. Alerion had opened one here just for me. Girls were getting shipped to me monthly and then back out. Work was long, and as time went on, mine and Wynter’s sex life dried up. Parenthood taking its toll, I guess. We had less time for each other, demanding children will do that to you.”
“Yours, or the ones you stole from their families?” I couldn’t hold that back.
“Both, I guess.” He laughed again. “Wynter wanted to ship Woodrow over to France. Both of us knowing that Alerion preferred boys, having a special desire for his own son, who was only a little older. We knew in time that he’d have more than his eyes on him. But I wouldn’t subject Woodrow to that from a toddler. I’ve heard the screams as kids were forced to take it in the shitter. Cruel.” He took another drink. “You’re welcome.” His eyes were back on his son’s unresponsive face. “We started bringing the girls here. And it was good. Some would end up broken beyond repair, suffering age regression. . . Woodrow bonded with those as he got a little older. Wynter enjoyed assisting in breaking them, using me and my infidelity as an excuse, and it was good for me that I didn’t have to go out to get my end wet when my wife wouldn’t put out.”
“And you couldn’t just stay loyal, knowing your wife hated how you fucked those poor girls? You couldn’t quit, set them free?” I said, the disgust on my tongue so thick, it was hard to get them out.
“Like I said, it was an excuse, Wynter liked to watch. We’d put Woodrow in another room, TV on, a chained whore for company, and I’d fuck a chained slut on this table. Wynter beating her as I did.” His fingers caressed the wood. I closed my eyes, praying he’d get splinters, then an infection, and then die.
I looked to Woodrow, his eyes still down, his song still coming out in an almost silent stutter, proving another memoryhad escaped through the damage in his brain.
“That was how we conceived Nessie. Wynter got so turned on watching, I had to pull out, push her down on top of the girl and fuck her instead.”
