It’s not much, but it’s the first real sign of vulnerability I’ve seen.
My hands look so small and delicate on him. I realize I’m lingering a little longer than I’d intended, and I snap my fingers away. Eventually, I look back up into those steel eyes.
“Who . . . what are you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t speak for a long while, and I wonder if he even can. He’s never said a word to me before. Then again, I’ve never spoken to him until now either.
“I think you know.” His voice is a low, quiet hum, but there’s a rough, husky tone to it that leisurely travels down my spine.
I think I do, too, but it doesn’t make sense. “I saw you . . . that night in the lake.”
He says nothing, his eyes roaming over my face, but I know I’m right. It is him.
“Are you an . . .” I want to sayangel, it’s at the tip of my tongue, but something about his eyes stops me. So cold. Empty.
As though reading my mind, he gives a small, steady shake of his head. “I’m no angel.”
The way he says it, deep and slow . . . the hints of truth tinged with darkness behind his voice, it makes my breath shake. He’s so quiet I can’t tell if he’s even breathing, but I can see the clench of his jaw, the tightening of his muscles rippling from his arms to the defined lines of his stomach.
An angel he certainly is not. I can’t say where it comes from, but somehow, I know. I know what he is.
“Death.” The word floats out of my mouth like a puff of air, drifting in the wind so softly I hardly hear it.
A quiver runs through the tightness of his chest as he watches me take it in, his heavy silence speaking louder than anything words could say. I’m trying to get my voice to work so I can ask what it means, what he wants from me, when the hard outlines of his body fade. This time, he drops his arms from either side of me.
That’s all it takes for the icy wind to return, hitting my skin like daggers and serving as a harsh reminder of where I am. I start to reach out to him, not sure why I’m missing his warmth, his touch, only that I am. He takes a step back, leaving me shivering.
The more he distances himself, the more he seems to fade. Until, suddenly, he’s gone.
It burns. It cuts. Like fangs, it bites into these wrists that are not mine.
But still, my hands tug relentlessly against the rope that binds them, yanking and writhing until warm blood trickles down my fingers.
The screams, they won’t stop. The tortured sounds pierce through the hall, up the stairs, and into the shadows of this pitch-black closet, straight into my ears. Fear and rage consume me until any other sense of emotion runs numb. The fear is for little Tommy, but the rage . . . oh, the rage is for the monster.
Rip.
My hands break free. I don’t stop to look at the bloody mess they’ve become; I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I tear at the rope tying my ankles together then slam my body against the door, knocking it open on the second hit.
It’s easy to follow the screams, even though they’ve become more like whimpers now. They lead me to the kitchen, where the monster has little Tommy tied to a chair, arms bound behind him, head hanging low. Even though Tommy’s almost ten years old now, he looks so much smaller like this. Too small.
The monster has a knife. It’s pressed against Tommy’s right arm, slicing a shallow line through his skin. It’s not the first cut tonight, either. Fresh slices line his left arm. Blood, red, so red, slides down his arms, drip drip, and onto the ground.
I don’t pause to think before I reach down to untuck the pocket knife from my right boot. It’s not there. Goddammit. The fucker must have snagged it after knocking me out earlier. I take advantage of being unnoticed as I scan the room, searching for a substitute weapon, and contemplate the most efficient form of attack.
“What’s the problem?” the monster sneers, grabbing ahold of Tommy’s brown hair and yanking it back until their eyes are forced to lock. “Thought you’d like this. Ain’t you boys attention whores like your mom?” He shoves Tommy’s head before releasing it, then smirks. “Guess you can’t help it, huh? It’s in your DNA, built in from the smug Italian blood she gave you. Wonder what she’s gonna think of your new tattoos.”
A fiery heat blazes behind my eyes at the sight. It boils and burns, flames coursing down my throat, past my chest, until scorching fire fuels every inch of me.
He. Will. Burn. For. This.
And I won’t wait for the Devil to make sure of it.
Body shaking, I gasp for air. Confusing images flood my mind, dreams clashing with reality, drowning me to the point I can’t breathe. My hands claw at my throat.
Blood . . . red, red, so much red. The bathroom tiles, they swim in it. Dad. His body, so limp, so lifeless. The gun, it still touches his partially curled fingers. His heart, it’s bleeding.Reallybleeding, just like he always said it was. Those nights I’d find him shivering, when he’d stir and cry out in his sleep. He always said his heart had been cut open. He always said it bled raw without her. And now, right before my eyes, it did.
Daddy, no!My eight-year-old self couldn’t comprehend it then, and my twenty-two-year-old self can’t comprehend it now.What did you do? What have you done, Daddy?Please, don’t leave me. Please, come back for me. . .
