If I could have seen Hell, I’d be sure his cold stare would have told me he couldn’t care less.
“I wish I could have given these—” Hell stopped himself from saying more. The knife pierced through the dark and hit me in the cheek, and I did all I could to rear back, falling into the shadows.
Hell’s long fingers grabbed me by the knees, his thumb pressing into my broken bone, like he knew how much pain that would cause me, and he thrived on it.
I screamed in pain, but I didn’t try to kick away.
He was right between my legs. My vagina was close enough to press against his jean-clad crotch.
I changed my approach, trying to get closer to him, to reach another that lived inside his skin.
My arms crept around his body, and I pressed my naked self against his dark tee.
“Help me. Please, help me. Woodrow loves me. He wouldn’t want you to hurt me.”
“He doesn’t have to find out what kind of fun we have.” There was amusement in his voice, and it grew as our bodies touched.
He made my blood run cold. I needed to get through to him, to stop this.
“You wouldn’t not write.” I was wrong with that statement; Woodrow had told me once that sometimes Hell would choose to plead the fifth on certain details. I didn’t give him time to think over what I said, continuing with, “You live for him. To protect him. Hurting me, hurts him. So, protect me.”
I looked up at him, but I couldn’t see him.
“I need to speak with him.”
Hell didn’t answer.
“Hell. . .?” I clutched at his t-shirt. “I need to speak to Woodrow.”
Again, no answer. He sat motionless, but I felt his stare on me . . .and his cruel hands.
“Hell. . .?”
My voice annoyed him. And in anger, he flipped me from beneath him, and I again, landed on the break in my kneecap. I squealed, but I tried to stay as quiet as I could.
I couldn’t see him in the dark, and his feet were moving too quickly to know where they were rushing to. I panicked, trying to place him. His screams gave no indication as to where he was because they bounced around the room, echoing off the stone walls.
A sound I’d dreamed of overpowered all others. Hell was pounding on the kitchen door, stabbing at it with his knife. The wood groaned under his abuse. In my dreams, I was the one hitting that door after finding the courage and strength to climb all fourteen steps, and then it would burst open, giving me a way to escape.
The noise surrounding Hell intensified.
And it frightened me.
Edging backwards, I prodded for my open cage, feeling safer there than out in the open. I quietly tucked myself inside and pulled the door behind me, and it made the smallest clicking sound.
All other sound stopped. There was no rush of feet. No screams. No pounding on the door to the kitchen.
My fingers clasped around Jesus’ body, and I tucked him into my mine, waitingsilently for what I was about to face.
“Why are you hiding, doll?” Hell’s deep voice was heavy in my ears, rattling like the door of my cage as he opened it and it swung on its hinges.
I couldn’t see much of him. The speckles of light let in by the wreckage of the kitchen door didn’t reach down here. But my panting breaths hit the darkness that constantly surrounded him in the face.
He dragged me onto my back, his eyes taking in the image of my smaller, naked body.
His fingers spread at each side of my head. The idea of his knife—still embedded in the wooden door—would have brought me a little peace, if I didn’t already know he wouldn’t need weapons to kill me.
I mouthed a soundless, “No.” I shook my head, knowing he didn’t hear me.
