Prison Promise (Prison Saints Book 1)

by Demi Vice

  Not only was the second floor off-limits, but so was the basement. Closed off by a cement wall with a few hits in it. Someone had tried to take a sledgehammer to it, no doubt. The only accessible floor was the first floor. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. The house was shit and why wouldn't it be? Half-burned, abandoned, and neglected with random holes in the walls and ceilings.

  I stood up and grunted, stretching tall. The stairs made an ‘L’ shape with three small steps to get down to the first floor. A sunken green couch was in front of me, the back facing me. It looked like a cesspool of diseases. Mysterious stains, a used needle on one side, and a brown scrunched up blanket on the other side that reeked of fucking vomit.

  Fucking disgusting.

  Beer bottles surrounded the couch like The Great Wall of China ready to protect him. Yeah, I don’t think so. Nothing was going to save him if I was in the picture. The coffee table was cluttered with newspapers, colorful plastic lighters, used needles, and spoons stacked on top of each other with brown residue on them. The front windows were boarded up, the front door permanently unlocked (which is how I’d gotten in), and the back door was nonexistent like my door at Wazowski’s, ripped right off the damn hinges.

  The house was a shit-show, and the neighboring houses followed the same theme. Only a few houses on the street had lights on, but that was a block away where the street lamp still worked. I thought Whole Park was shitty, but goddamn Scorch Side. It made Whole Park look like a fucking palace in comparison.

  I walked around the living room, memorizing it. I didn’t have to. Everything was going to be burned to a crisp, but I did anyway. Force of habit. I dropped my duct tape and paper matches on the table, the impact making a crash. The whole first floor echoed and I took a deep breath, inhaling the stench of the rotten and burned house in my lungs.

  Strangely, I loved this part. The calm before the storm. I’d always had. Did I like the killing part? I didn’t not like it. I had talents that made me a great killer, and I was good with blood. In my defense, I had been shaped for this life.

  Mama Baronski’s house turned me into a clean freak. Everything always had to be clean, spotless, and perfect. Attention to detail was the key to success.

  The Morris’ house turned me into a paranoid kid who was always aware of my surroundings even when I was resting. Always aware of who was watching me and from where.

  Papa Schultz’s house had turned me against guns. Making my love for knives eternal as well as a talent worth millions in the end.

  And the Baker's house? What really did it for me was when they let Link leave without letting me say goodbye. That was it. That was the final crack that shattered me, turned me to dust as I vanished into the wind.

  Take in my genius-ass and the shitty beginning I’d been served on a silver plate, and you had my life. I was bound to end up where I am. I got lucky. Oh, I got so fucking lucky, but I was modeled, shaped, and sculpted to have this life as well as my reward.

  My anti-Shakespearean ending.

  My happily ever after.

  I took another breath, humming one of Ahri’s favorite songs. “Guillotine” by Jon Bellion. She listened to it more than a thousand times in the past year and played it a few hundred times at the library. Needless to say, it was permanently stuck in my head like Ahri herself. I muttered the song under my breath, letting my smile grow with the perfect lyrics that were made for us. Dark secrets, skeletons in closets, but perfect for each other.

  Oh my God, I fucking adore that girl.

  There was no denying it. I mean, shit, look at where I am. I was coming out of retirement for her, and I was going to work for Emilio like I promised him. Just for Ahri. The two things I told myself I would never do once I got out of prison. But this was my finale. The grand finale where fireworks rose at the end, or you know, what started fireworks.

  Fire.

  After a while, I lost track of time. I didn't know how many hours passed even though my internal clock was telling me I must’ve spent a total of five hours in the house. I played with my knife most of the time until I heard footsteps outside. I moved back to the steps, hiding in the corner where I blended with the night and the burnt wall. I glared at the back of the couch where I knew his limp body would end up.

  A smile was bound to be slapped on my face the whole time. I was a sane psycho with a sinner’s intentions, but a heart full of loyalty and devotion. A servant ready to wreak havoc on a person who deserved all of what was coming to him.

  He came in, and like I predicted, he dropped his limp body on the couch while a cloud of dust and diseases poofed out of the cushions and vanished in the air. I watched the back of his head with my knife in my hand, gripping the steel handle tighter with each muttered word that left his waste of oxygen breath.

  Now, this is the part in my brain where I had to flash a disclaimer.

  Warning: Some of the following content will leave graphic, violent, and gory memories. It’s not like you haven’t seen it before, Jack, but remember viewer discretion is advised.

  Oh, don’t forget to have some fun, let loose, and make at least three puns related to fire before lighting the actual fire. Good luck, Jack.

  I moved quietly and silently in the darkness. I stood behind him, grazing my steel blade across his neck. The blade was so sharp that if he swallowed or took a deep breath or moved, it would let the color red and the smell of iron spill out of him a little too early for my comfort.

  “Hoooonnnney, I’m hooommme,” I sang.

  He let out a whimper. He wasn’t as drunk as I was expecting him to be. Good. I looked down at his hand. He clutched a small plastic baggie with foggy white rocks inside. Ahh, yes. He couldn’t be too drunk or else he wouldn’t remember the high.

  “I-I swear, I’ll give you the mon-money, Grizz,” he whimpered, the bag of meth shaking in his hand so hard he almost dropped it.

  “Grizz? Guess again.” I smirked, holding the knife closer to his waste of flesh.

  “Who-who are you?”

  “Don't fucking make a sound,” I spoke the same words as last time and he gasped, knowing very well who I was. “Oh, I wouldn’t move if I were you. Unless you would want me to accidentally slit that stringy throat of yours.”

  He let out another whimper, whispering, ‘Please’ under his breath.

  “Relax, I’m here for the journal.” I lied.

  I loved playing with my food. Like a killer whale playing with a seal pup, tossing it up in the air before I swallowed the morsel whole.

  “I-I swear I didn’t tell anyone. I-I didn’t tell the cops. I was bluffing.” His voice cracked with each syllable.

  Pulling the knife away from him, I noticed a drop of his blood at the tip. I wiped it off on the couch and walked around to face him, stepping over the wall of beer bottles to stand next to the table.

  “That’s not what I fucking asked you. Don’t make me repeat myself. I hate repeating myself.”

  “The journal. You-you asked about the journal. Ahri’s journal.” He sat tight on the couch. He swallowed, his throat bobbing like a buoy. “It’s under the kitchen sink, taped to the side.”

  I tilted my head to the side with a menacing smile before I sang, “Liiiiiiiiiaaaaaaar.”

  I punished him for this. I clenched the steel knife handle in my fist and gave the hardest punch I’d ever given anyone in my entire life. He spat, the blood landing on the vomit blanket followed by his face.

  I kicked everything off the coffee table and sat on the clean surface. I set the tip of my sharp blade at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes opened wide as he realized that I was not someone to mess with. Although it took him too long and even if he had cooperated with my questions he was already a goner. In my mind, his body was already burning.

  “Ask me who I am?” I grinned.

  “Who are you—”

  I cut the corner of his mouth giving him half a Joker smile. He cried and whimpered, holding his cheek tight as blood poured down his ha
nds and jaw. When he tried to swipe the blade away, he cut his hand.

  “Fuck!” he screamed looking at his trembling red hand. “Help! HELP!” he cried louder, but no one was going to hear him in this abandoned block. I brought the knife closer to his throat, moving it slowly into his flesh until he shut up. Tears filled his eyes, but there was no room for mercy in my soul.

  Only revenge.

  “You don’t think I did my research? Do you think I don’t know which houses are occupied and which ones have been left to the cockroaches to breed? Huh?” I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m no fucking amateur, Eddy.”

  His body trembled, his soulless eyes begging for me to stop.

  “You lie to me again, and I won’t hesitate to make your neck my blade’s new sleeping bag. So, tell me where the fuck my journal is before I blow a fuse.” A single chuckle escaped my throat.

  Pun number one: check.

  “It’s-it’s under the chipped floorboard in the corner.” He pointed his shaky bloody finger behind me, but I didn’t look. His eyes were praying I looked back. So, I didn’t. I already knew he was telling the truth.

  I scanned his outfit, the same he wore yesterday, but now the smell of his blood masked the bonfire and booze stink.

  “Ask me something?” I demanded.

  He looked at me blankly until a light bulb turned on. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, very good. You got it right.” I chuckled as I moved the blade away from his neck. He still held his bleeding cheek, and not a sound came out of his cracked lips. “Hi, name’s Jack.”

  He gulped. “I-I didn’t tell anyone about Ahri. Not a soul. You can take the journal, and I promise I’ll never, never, never, never go near her again. She’ll be safe.”

  Oh, I know you’ll never go near her.

  I nodded. “I like the sound of that, but I have a better idea. If I’m going to let you live, don’t you think you should worship me? Get on the ground and grovel at my feet because I’m so fucking generous. It’s only a suggestion. A very strong suggestion,” I spoke calmly.

  I stood up, and stepped backward, knocking over the bottles to give him enough room to beg for his life. It didn’t take him a second to get on the floor on all fours with tears in his eyes, blood pouring down his face, ready to plead for his life.

  “My boots are pretty, don’t you think? They should get a nice kiss, right Eddy?” I wiggled my foot closer to him so that he could kiss the toe, and he did. His bloody, cracked lips left a mark on my boot, and I couldn’t help but grin. “Do you know how many men have been where you are? How many horrible, low life, piece-of-shit men have given me the Black Kiss? And how many men survived?”

  His head slowly rose up, his eyes trembling like an earthquake as he sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Come on guess. I’m burning to find out what you think, and if you get it right, I’ll let you walk. I promise.” I grinned, looking at my knife full of blood. I flicked it off, his blood covering more of the hardwood floor. “I’ll give you three chances.”

  Pun number two: check.

  He swallowed. “I don’t know. Twelve?”

  I sucked my tooth and looked at my blade that dangled right above his left eye. “Higher.”

  He gulped. “Twenty-nine?”

  I shook my head. “Come on. Higher.”

  “Eighty-two?” I could hear the fear oozing out of him like a gas leak.

  My booming laugh echoed in the abandoned house. “I’m not going to lie. It was a trick question. I lost count after I hit triple digits.”

  He froze in terror and disbelief as I kicked his face like a soccer ball, the beer bottles clashing against each other as he fell. He yelled and tried to fight me, hitting me a few times before I pulled him up by the collar and threw his body on the couch. The couch screeched across the floor, and the dust that came out of it stuffed the air. He tried to fight me again, but I’d been fighting my whole life, preparing for this moment. And I was going to fucking win.

  His punches got weaker the harder I took out my therapy on his face until his face became almost unrecognizable. Swollen eyes, broken nose, and a gash on his lip deeper than the cut I’d given him. After the twentieth or so punch, he passed out, giving me what I needed. Time.

  Using an old newspaper, I wiped my bloody hands clean. I crumpled up that same newspaper, pried his jaw open and shoved it inside. I topped off the homemade ball gag with duct tape so no one would hear him. I then taped his wrists and ankles together before securing his body to the couch. I went around and around like a fucking merry-go-round, making sure his ass stayed on his death couch.

  I scavenged for Ahri’s journal. I went over to the loose floorboard and smashed my foot down through the rotten wood. It cracked underneath my boot heel, and like he’d promised, the journal was there. The yellow cover was full of swirly circles I knew Ahri drew when she was nervous or bored. I checked the journal, not to read it, but to make sure no pages had been torn out.

  Nothing was torn out.

  I tucked the journal into my waistband, snug against the small of my back, and got busy. I went to the kitchen to find the only bottle of alcohol he had. Cognac. Perfect. I went back to the living room and began to throw newspapers on him before I soaked the couch and him, with liquor. Rolling the leftover newspapers, I made a fuse. I had my fun making it coil around the floor like a snake, but I didn’t add more booze. I wanted the journey of the fire to move slowly until it hit him and the flame burned bright.

  Once I was done, I chucked the roll of duct tape as hard as I could at his face.

  “Wake up, Sunshine!”

  His eyes flickered open, and when he saw the state he was in, his cheeks puffed in and out like a blowfish as he panicked and struggled to get out of his permanent seat. He cried and let out muffled screams, but it didn’t faze me. When his reaction no longer thrilled me, I walked over to him and sat on the coffee table across from him.

  The stench of Cognac and bonfire stung my nose. I scanned his ‘Please, don’t’ face, but all I did was throw on my vicious, dead serious mask. I flexed my jaw, my eyes the color of what was going to surround him, and my lips in their natural semi-frown state. He stopped wiggling in his seat as tears coursed down his swollen face.

  “You’re probably thinking, ‘Why are you doing this?” My voice was grim and cruel.

  He nodded.

  “Simple. The Lore family or…what’s left of it.”

  He said nothing.

  “Do you wanna know what I’m thinking?” I smiled.

  He shook his head ‘no’ and cried.

  “It’s fine. I was going to tell you anyway. I’m a killer, a demon, and a sinner. I am all those things and so much fucking more. I’ve thrown morals, ethics, and fucking right and wrong out of the window…obviously.” I dragged my eyes around the room and scoffed. “I've done it all for money, and to not worry about a damn thing. I’ve done it all, but you know where I drew the line? Do you know where my mercenary actions come to a complete fucking stop? Huh?”

  He shook his head whimpering at his words.

  “When women and children are involved.” I gritted. “I would never hurt them, yet you…” I let out a single laugh of disbelief. I looked at my blade, begging for more of his blood. “…yet you. You fucking managed to hurt both. A woman, Aurora, in ways I couldn’t even imagine. And my fucking God, you were about to hurt a child, Luke.”

  He tried to muffle something, and I shut him up with a fist to the face.

  “Did you know I went to prison?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I did, and better yet, I ruled the fucking joint. On top of being on the kitchen staff, I was a brute, a savage, a monster. If I ever saw those kinds of eyes on Luke ‘Pretty Boy’ Lore, my cellmate, you best believe the fuckers didn’t get fed. I, along with Blue, the Smuggler, ran the kitchen. I decided who ate and who starved. And when Fidget came to prison, let’s just say there were a lot of leftovers.”

  I stood up an
d paced around the living room, continuing my story. “When I saw any low-life, pathetic, lonely, sack-of-shit go near Luke. Oh, that’s when I had my real fun. That’s when I didn’t hesitate for one second to take that piece of shit where the cameras didn't work and beat the living hell out of them. By the time I was done with them, they were unrecognizable. Kind of like you, but worse. Call yourself lucky, Eddy.”

  “After people knew not to mess with my celly. I taught Fidget to fight, I got him a job in the kitchen, and I introduced him to Blue. I created a nice little kingdom for him, so when I left, he got to control it all. I’m a nice guy like that. Wouldn’t you say?”

  I walked around to see his face as his cheeks puffed from his yell. “Do you know why I was so overprotective of my cellmate? Aside from him reminding me of my foster brother and actually being a friend I liked to talk to and mess around with. No? Well, that’s fucking bullshit, Eddy. And you know it.”

  I sat across from him on the table again, holding the handle of my blade so tight my knuckles turned white. I held it to his throat, digging it into his flesh and watched his blood slowly flow over the blade.

  “Luke got drunk off some shitty prison hooch the first week he came to Tavernville. He told me about the time he moved into a new house. About the man who was drunk and fumbled around in his room in the middle of the night. About the man who stripped down to his tighty whities with a hard on and pinned him down. About the man who tried to rape him when he was fourteen…” I growled, pushing the knife deeper inside of his throat as he cried. My upper lip twitched with rage, but my hand steady as a surgeon.

  “Luke was a child and you, you sick fucking pedophile, tried to rape him and take advantage of him. Well, lucky for Luke, he fought back. Hard. Kicked you in the nuts so hard you never went near him again. But you didn’t stop. Oh, no, Eddy the pedophile rapist never stopped. You went to the next youngest person in the house. Aurora.”