I swung it at my father, needing a new way to release my frustrations. His sausage fingers rose into the air, spread in an act of protection. The blade sliced through his skin and bone; his fingers flew through the air, both of the dismembered body parts landing in an oiled pan on the stove. Sausages ready for cooking.
I laughed. A minacious tremor through the room.
My father screamed, lifting his hand in front of his eyes, holding it up and blocking me from seeing the shock on his face.
His shadows—men who only moved when he did—ran at me, wrestling me for the cleaver. But they retreated to the darkness, jumping to the nearest corner when I swung again.
Sylvia and Teena both held their hands up—stupid fuckers. There was still room for more sausages. I turned on the gas, watching for a second as heat crept over my father’s digits.
Mr. Silent hadn’t moved from the doorway, where he’d been lingering closeby this entire time.
His eyes moved to the knife embedded in the frame. He didn’t want to reach for it. He didn’t want a showdown. He was bigger, a little older, and no doubt, physically stronger than me. He had other qualities, too. Things that would get in the way. Things usually dissolved and diminished for someone working the job he did. Morals and sanity.
My glare pinned him in place, and he stiffened, his hands raising in surrender as I taunted,don’t move.
Jolie was still on the table, her legs wiggling beneath her weight as she adjusted her dress. She was in the light, right in the glare of sunlight.
Safe from the shadows.
I twisted back around, content in my illusion that the man with no name wouldn’t move. And he didn’t. I’d have heard the sound of his squeaky shoes moving closer. I could hear them whine under his weight each time he so much as let out a breath he was holding. . .who the fuck even does that?
Him, apparently, every time I looked at him.
My cleaver raised again, into the brightness seeping into the room. Something caught my eye, the feel of it tickling my fingers as they tightened on the hilt.
Examining the weapon, I saw it. The tuft of fur—light brown and soft. My fingers pulled it free.
The anger inside me built until something fucking exploded. The cleaver hit the wall, creating a dent in the damp plaster, neglected of a touch-up for years.
The smell of bad meat stepped up from the basement and paraded around me with a new sense of strength, thanks to the hole in the wall near the staircase leading down. I spun, diving on my father, who was nursing his wounded hand with a small towel; the fabric, stained garnet. Dark and dirty blood.
My anger took him to the floor. A miracle from God, who wanted revenge for the murder of one of his small creatures. My father, if he wasn’t choking on his loose teeth and the bleeding they caused, would have said that was my delusions talking. But why should I believe that? He’d already proved himself a liar.
His head hit the tile, cracking it. . . and hopefully his fucking head, that he immediately reached for with his uninjured hand. He screamed, showing me I’d hurt him. I didn’t relent, my fist slamming down on him until blood splashed from gashes across his nose and cheek.
I was dragged off, kicking a lucky blow to his cock on my departure.
“No,” my father spat through a mouth of blood. “Drop him.”
And they fucking did, on my knees. My bones clicked as I hit the hard ground.
“Get her instead.”
My father’s words hit me like a bullet, one that went straight up my fuckingass and had me moving faster than Barry Allen.
Jolie had shifted position, sitting with her knees under her dress, her arms wrapped around herself. She had fear on her face. And it deepened, her brown eyes wide, as these creeps put their hands on her. She tried to fight back, but she couldn’t fight two grown men with years of manhandling experience.
I jumped on Sylvia’s back, my naked dick, still dribbling cum, rubbed against his black t-shirt, staining it. I squeezed my small arms around his throat, reveling in the joy of his ability to breathe slipping away.
I squeezed until I bruised him, until he started swinging around, desperate in the need to get me off. He lunged forward, and I toppled over his head.
The wind rushed from my lungs, my own head cracking against the tiles. I didn’t mimic my father; I didn’t check for blood. I should have. It would have spurred me on. Blood did that to me.
I lurched to my feet, not spending a second on the ground. Sylvia was down on his knees, his hand on his back, patting away. The unnamed had moved from the doorway to assist my father, making it easy to get to the knife I’d left there for this exact, unplanned moment.
I heaved, yanking on the hilt, and it took some doing to pry it free. The wood splintered as I wiggled the blade. A shadow loomed over me. My elbow rammed into the ribs of the man behind, catching him off guard.
I turned, driving the blade into the muscles of his stomach. I pulled out the blade and drove it in again and again and again.
