Page 44 of Shattered In Darkness

At the end of the street, the pond waits. A little stretch of water, surrounded by trees and the promise of darkness. Somewhere private. Somewhere you can disappear. Sophie chatters beside me, talking about nothing. My head is spinning. My mouth still tingles from the taste of him.

I can’t stop thinking about Brody’s hands, the way he kissed me, the way he looked at me. Like I’m the only thing that matters. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t have me.

The ache is back, heavier than before.

I hope we go back soon. I hope he’s there. I hope next time, he won’t stop. I want all of it. Every bruising second. I want to be his.

12

BRODY

I park at our house, then make my way towards the Bloom residence next-door. I set my sights on Lola. She is like a comet falling into the dark.

Lurking in the shadows like a fucking wolf, I make the path around the side of the house, but something stops me in my tracks. I see a man. He is crouched near a bush, with a camera, taking photos of something.

I follow the angle of the camera. It is aimed at her. Bambi.

Fuck no. That motherfucker. The thought of somebody else watching her, stalking her, taking fucking photos of her, sets my blood on fire.

I walk towards the crouched man, careful to keep my steps quiet and close the gap until I’m right behind the fucker. The click of the camera is louder than I expected. He’s so focused on her that he doesn’t sense death right behind him. I’m closer now. I can see the mesh of his scalp through the thinning hair. It’s greasy with dandruff caught on his collar.

Grabbing him by the back of the jacket, I wrench him out of the bush. He yelps, a high, mewling sound. Weak. I slam his face into the mulch. Twigs snap, and his glasses crack down the nose. He scrabbles for the camera, but I dig my knee between his shoulder blades and grind him deeper into the dirt, picking the camera in my own hands. It’s blocky, black, and cold in my palm. I wrap one fist around it and crunch it against the concrete, glass shards scattering around me.

He struggles, but it’s pointless. I lean forward, all my weight, twisting his arm up behind him. I want him to scream. I want him to bleed. He strains to look back. There’s mud in his mouth and panic in his eyes. “Jesus, please, please, I just work here, I’m nobody, please don’t hurt me, man, I swear to god I’ll go, I’ll never come back I swear it, fuck, please.”

I put my mouth right next to his ear. “Who sent you?”

He’s shaking so bad his words rattle. “A guy called, said to sit here and take pictures. Just pictures! Nothing else! No address, no names, just cash to be delivered if I watched the girl and reported back. That’s it.”

I squeeze his wrist and pull. Ligaments pop. He howls. It’s delicious.

“Who hired you?”

He’s crying now, spitting out his reply, desperate to live: “Voss. Mr. Voss, he said his name was Mr. Voss, I swear!”

My father. Of course. I see red. Nothing clever left; just pure, simple violence.

I yank him up by the hair. His face is smeared with snot and tears, glasses long gone. “You like spying on girls?” I hiss. “You like being a pathetic worm for money?”

He begs. Of course he does. “Please, don’t, I’m not—I’m nobody, I have kids, fuck, please, please, I won’t even tell, I’ll leave town, I swear just let me go, please sir.”

His skull feels hot in my hand. Fragile. I slam his face into the bark, then the sidewalk, faster and harder, until the wet meat of his mouth pulls loose, teeth scatter, skin splits. The sound is soft, satisfying. His final noises are thick, gurgling. He tries to scream, but he’s choking on his own blood.

I don’t stop until the violence burns through me.

When it’s done, my hands are shaking and soaked. The concrete shines red, blood pooling like paint. I watch the life pulse out of him. The body twitches, once, then nothing. For a second there’s no sound. Only the pulse in my flesh, the high from ending something that didn’t deserve to watch her. I want to keep going, to drag this carcass into the street and leave it for the dogs.

My heart pounds like a war drum. I want more. Always more. But her window glows above me. She’s moving inside, unaware. It’s better this way. She doesn’t need to know what I do for her. What I kill for her. She ruined me, but I still have to make sure she survives.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, smearing red into the denim. Glass crunches under my boots as I double check the ground. Nothing left but a dark smear and shattered plastic. The body is limp, forgettable. Nobody will find this fucker before I want him found. Nobody touches Bambi. Not unless I give them permission. Not unless it’s me.

Circling the perimeter, I check every shadow, every side of the house. I stare up at the window again, breath barely even. I imagine kicking the door in and dragging Lola to the floor. Making her watch what I do to the world for her.

Control is an illusion. Obsession is the only thing I have left.

I cross the yard, stomping the mulch out of my boots onto our porch. My house looms, the lights off except for the flick of TV glow from the living room.

Inside, it’s silent. I yank the door open. The echo rings down the hallway. Sophie’s on the couch, blanket tight to her shoulders, eyes glazed to cartoons flickering on the screen. She blinks when she sees me, zones in on the red streaks, her mouth opening.