The large wooden doors creak as she enters the church. Fucking cryptic cunt. She wasn’t in the confessional at all. She was testing me. I understand why her family was involved with Helene now. They’re all the same with their trickery to feel like they’re in control.
“Like you did?”Asher asks.“You did the same with Delilah when you were pretending to be me, didn’t you? She thought I was sleeping beside her while you put on your little mask. Or how you recorded a conversation with yourself, pausing so it would make her think you were listening to her reply.”
That’s different. I wasn’t hurting her, not really. If I wanted to, I could have trapped her in her parents’ house.
“Really? You weren’t hurting her? She was taking antipsychotics for an illness she doesn’t have. She was terrified,because as soon as she felt safe, you sent me away to scare her again.”
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I do. I silently watch the woman in the obnoxiously clean white coat, her heels clicking against the floor as she walks in the thin line of the shadows, her face centered so I can’t see her features.
“I will lose my patience with your defiance if youchoosenot to listen to what you’re told,” she says as she continues on that thin line. Stopping at the back pew, she dusts the wooden seat before she sits, crossing one leg over the other. The low light glimmers off the metal toe of her heels, forcing my attention on the snake design as she rocks her foot.
“I did what you asked,” I say, breathless. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are,” she says softly as though I have any free will. “As a show of good faith since we share the same history, I’ll allow you to keep your dominant hand. Remove the left.”
“With?” There’s no knives or surgical equipment lying around for me to do it and the stone isn’t exactly sterile.
“You may be rewarded for ingenuity.”
I look around the space, starting at the top where the candles sit above my head. Wax won’t help me. Moving down the wall, I take note of the sharp stone which barely breaks my skin when I press the tip of my fingers to it. Finally, my eyes land on the box my foot is resting on.
“Dad had one like it.”
I nod as I grit my teeth, bending down to pull the plastic clip securing the lid. The outside is filthy as fuck, but the tools inside are all clean. I know better than to assume it’s luck when everything in my life has been orchestrated by these fuckers. Helene, the Wards, Delilah’s fucking family—they’ve all been ten steps ahead while we struggled to cope. I wouldn’t put it past the cunt to have picked two things I’d be incapable of just to lead me to this fucking moment.
“Do you remember when Dad made a planter box for Mom? She was so happy. I don’t think I’d ever seen her smile like that before. He even let us mark the lines for his cuts, but we kept doing them too short.”Asher recalls the nostalgic items as I lift the shining handsaw and boxcutter.“But she was still happy because her boys had made her something. Then she painted our hands so we could put our handprints on the side. Dad started dancing with her while we stood on his feet. We were what, four? But she never smiled like that after that day.”
I think it’s the only memory I have of us being treated equally. He forgets the peace didn’t last for long after he painted over my handprint, screaming when he saw my name was there too.
He shuts the fuck up as I remove my belt, fashioning it into a tourniquet around my bicep before I lay my left arm on the stone lectern. I blow out a steadying breath while trying to imagine the bones in my arm I’ll need to break.
“You’ve done this many times, Mr. Kobalt,” the bitch interrupts. “Or is the issue that you’re doing it to yourself rather than mutilating the body of those you killed?”
Fuck!
She set me the fuck up.
“Xandros,” I correct, extending my voice to reach the cunt. “My name is Kane Xandros. Not Kobalt.”
“Kane,”Asher whispers.“Break your arm first. You won’t be able to cut through the bone otherwise.”
I can use the saw, which he’s ignoring as he gestures to the cracked sconce above my head without a candle.
“You’ll pass out. Just break it. You won’t fuck it up then.”
I carefully set the other tools down, stretching up and twisting the heavy piece of stone from the metal notch it was sitting on. Holding my breath, I raise the sconce above my head with a shaky arm. I have to let out all the air in my lungs on theway back down. My arm tries to move away from it, so it only clips the side. My hand continues moving in a blur, smashing the stone closer to my forearm on my next attempt. I keep fucking doing it as little pieces of stone break off. The crack of it successfully breaking the bone as pain shoots up my arm to my shoulder makes me scream in frustration.
I don’t think or stop. If I do, I’ll lose the last thing I have left to get my wife back. Instead, I hold my breath as I lift the box cutter. The zip of the blade shooting up through the notch is the only noise to break up my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I look out into the shadows, digging the blade into the middle of my swelling forearm.
“Your weird hobby of cutting yourself finally has a use.”
“Fuck. Yourself,” I force through gritted teeth as I dig the blade further into my flesh until the pain intensifies. My hand spasms. I can’t fucking cut a ring around the limb. I’ve done this countless times without any struggle. Not even the first time, when I saw 15 had a tattoo with music notes wrapping around her forearm, reminding me of Delilah.
My sadistic audience of one doesn’t utter a peep as she remains in her pew, watching me fight my instincts to slowly cut through my arm. I have to do it in short bursts as my stomach rolls. When the white flesh folds backwards under the flickering candlelight, I fall forward and manage to throw up away from my exposed flesh. The splatter of it hitting the floor is thunderous as it bounces up to desecrate a house of worship more than it has been.
Spitting the rancid bile out of my mouth doesn’t help, so I scream as I force myself to move. Gripping the metal box cutter in my fist, I continue screaming as the pain intensifies. I dig the blade further, blood flowing over the stone pulpit, dripping onto my shoes while Asher says,“At least your leg doesn’t hurt now.”
My scream echoes around the abandoned church where no mercy will be found as I roughly drag the blade through my arm. It’s not deep enough to reach the bone, but it forms a half circle. The blood on my hands makes it even more difficult to hold the metal casing tightly enough to cut through the thick rope-like tendons.
