Page 155 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Riley can lift him off his feet.

Riley can do anything.

Anything.

And all he wants to do now that he finally has autonomy for the first time in his life is kill, maim, split, break, smash, destroy, play, play with the guts of men who crushed his soul. He wants it more than air, more than freedom.

‘Nothing,’ he whispers and then gives in to his base desire.

✴

When he wakes, there’s blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

All over him.

Blood has never bothered Riley. It’s his earliest memory, after all, but this isn’t his blood. None of it is. He sits up in an unfamiliar space.

The ceilings are high. He tastes metal and machinery and the stale stench of male sweat speaking volumes of now-quiet feelings, but the fear in even dead blood is so overwhelming he gags.

There are bodies all around him.

Riley looks ahead.

Troy is there, holding a gun with two hands.

He’s out of breath, eyes dark and wide.

‘Riley,’ he says, making a clear effort to be calm.

Confused, Riley doesn’t understand what’s happening. This isn’t his room, this isn’t home. These men… they’re… they’re all dead.

His hands are caked in blood, thicker than anywhere else. It’s splattered up his wrists in thin, delicate ribbons.

There’s blood around his mouth too.

On his tongue. Down his throat.

Oh God.

‘Look at me, kid,’ Troy says tightly, stepping over bodies. ‘There anyone alive? Anyone—Riley!’ The yell shatters Riley’s slow spiral into horror. ‘Is there anyone you didn’t kill?’

Kill.

Kill.

Was this… all him?

‘I don’t…’

‘You all right?’ Troy asks tightly, lifting a hand to keep the others back. ‘Are you hurt? Answer me, son.’

He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move.

Troy crouches down in front of him, gaze roaming to assess for injuries. ‘You’re all right. What do you remember?’

‘I was… running,’ he says slowly. ‘Zachary s-said we had to go.’