by Elena Monroe
A prisoner, just like them.
There was a guy wearing a black vest with no jacket, making it obvious he was the help and not invited.
“Hey, where’s the McLaren?” I shot his way with a whole staircase between us before I descended.
He ignored me, like he hadn’t heard me, and when I got closer, I repeated myself.
“Sir, the cars can’t be accessed until Sunday.”
The monster living inside me had its grip on my senses when I closed my fist around his vest and pulled him dangerously close to me.
I repeated myself only to get the same answer as I dug my key fob out of my pocket with my free hand to prove to him it was my car… if that was even the problem.
Fucking sheep.
“No offense. I can’t, man. I would if I could.”
I could see how scared he was.
The monster inside me was climaxing just seeing his features drenched in adrenaline and fear.
You know what to do. The monster talked to me when I hesitated, pushing me, motivating me when I lost steam.
“Where are the keys?” I wasn’t really asking—more demanding and tightening my grip on him, which made him flinch.
He pointed behind me, like it was a loophole keeping him out of trouble if he didn’t have to speak.
Do it, Grimm.
The monster didn’t just want to climax at the fear in others; he wanted to come to the glory of fear being the last emotion they felt.
Without thinking, my hands were gripping his neck and chin, ready to pull in opposite directions. In one motion, not even that much force or muscle, his neck popped, and his body dropped to the grass.
A heavy exhale surpassed my lips, and I felt the monster satisfied, soaking in the fear and drowning out his personality, basic functions, any fight inside him...
Turning away, I made my way to the small wooden door on a stand with all the keys inside. I quickly found my McLaren keys, still not sure where my car was parked exactly.
Stepping over his body, I couldn’t give in to the guilt of every person I had killed. That was suicide, and I wasn’t convinced I was done here.
In high school, isolated and brainwashed by the Clave, I toyed with the idea of leaving this place behind and taking the ultimate dirt nap.
None of them stuck.
Every time I tried, something would happen and ruin it.
Tried to hang myself from the ceiling fan, only to fall, and the cord left a permanent mark under my tattoos.
Tried to drown myself, but our professor jumped in to save me, thinking I couldn’t swim.
Tried to overdose, to only suffer a wicked high that lasted a few days.
Speeding on twisted mountains roads only resulted in being thrown from my car, with just a broken arm.
I was always escaping death, but you could never escape me.
Price of being Death.
Looking around, I saw an entrance I had seen before that looked like it might be an underground garage. My father must have done this as a response to something.
Seeing the thumbprint scanner, I groaned out loud, knowing I was gonna have to drag the skinny kid over here just for his thumb.
Just my luck, huh?
Walking back over to his body that didn’t fall flat, but crumbled up like a piece of paper, I grasped onto his wrist and pulled him behind me all the way to the pad.
The universe was testing me, and I was fucking over it.
Holding his thumb to the pad, I waited for it to turn green, applying more force. The green lit up, and I could hear an unlocking that was clearly the door next to me.
Finally, my car. I spotted my car a few deep, wedged in between perfectly.
Dropping his wrist, I looked for the ramp or door wide enough for our cars when I spotted a ramp that had to go somewhere. I didn’t actually want to leave. The monster wouldn’t allow that, not with the promise of death so close.
Instead I slipped into my car, fished for my Xanax bottle, and poured two into my mouth. Sitting back, I waited with a smirk on my face for them to hit.
So long, monster. See you in a few hours.
Sinking back into the leather of my seats, I closed my eyes, trying to turn it all off, when really I was just pushing it all to the back of my mind. There was no off button.
Sleep eventually came when things felt heavier and darker.
GRIMM
I woke up to a light knock against my window, even though I couldn’t see anyone through the dark-ass tints.
Scrubbing my face, I tried to wake up from the kind of sleep Xanax gifts you—a deep, nightmare-less kind of sleep—one that wasn’t easy to shake off if you didn’t get the right amount of sleep.
I was only slightly an insomniac lately.
Pressing the start button, I made the car purr. I pressed the button releasing the window down to see Khaos holding an OJ and a plate full of eggs and veggies towards me. “Missed breakfast, bud. Brought you some fuel.”
As much as he was chaos and an adrenaline junkie, he was also from the biggest family—five sisters. He was the oldest, which only alluded to their parents being still in love enough to keep creating life.
Khaos always took on the role of caretaker—thriving in chaos, but flourishing in taking care of everyone else.
Bowen was the functioning alcoholic. Keyword was “functioning”. He could drink until his blood alcohol level was dangerous and still string sentences together.
“Thanks.” Taking the plate from him was another pitfall of Xanax—a waned appetite and then a wave of hunger that didn’t seem possible. Working out helped curb the pitfalls and create some routine, but I was a slave to the drugs dulling me down enough to not be dangerous.
“You coming to the ceremony?”
He meant the part where my dad picks names out of a hat of our guests, then the name of the prisoners, pairing them up with their fate.
Even if I didn’t go, that didn’t stop my name from being paired with someone I had to kill.
“I don’t know. I kill for a living… today isn’t any special.”
He pulled his phone out, shifting his focus as he typed and spoke out loud at the same time: “Did you hear? Someone killed the valet.”
I stilled at his remark, fishing for answers.
Staying silent, I waved him out of the way so I could open my door and stretch my legs, while still shoving down eggs and veggies. “Sucks to be him then. Doesn’t it?”
Khaos chuckled, knowing I was confessing without actually admitting anything. Every time someone died, I was the first person they turned to, naturally. If I did it or not didn’t matter.
Standing up all the way, I closed my car door behind me and locked it, like anyone would take my car. Everyone knew this was my car, and touching my things earned you a one way ticket to Hell.
Khaos started walking towards the door as I tucked the orange juice in the small sealed bottle under my arm. Now I had no choice but to follow… or stay in the underground garage with the cars.
The sun was shining so brightly that I squinted at the rays in my eyes. I lived in California, and the happiness of the bright blue sky still had me adjusting every time I saw the floating clouds. It was too happy for the second I was opening my eyes.
The grass was too lush. The sun was too bright. The mansion on the hill was too over the top. Everything about California was too much.
I spotted everyone on the terrace overlooking the fountain, gathered and munching on brunch still. Khaos was in a ripped shirt, no more sleeves, and motorcycle pants, so I didn’t feel completely out of place amongst the polos and golf clothes. Posh for now. Later they would dawn their military fashion sense that did nothing for them.
The four of us had blackout gear, bulletproof vests, and masks that we wore when we did a job, but even that was more panic-inducing than actually helpful.
Killing here felt different. Killing in front of each other felt like this pocket of space didn’t count against us. We
were all untouchable here, and we didn’t have to cover any tracks.
It felt wrong.
Let there be blood on my Gucci boots. I truly didn’t care.
My father looked me over and over again, like it would change my appearance into something he liked better than sweats.
I gave him the same stare back, like he’d turn into a dad I deserved. I was drilling it home, hoping he got the meaning behind what I wanted too.
Ignoring everyone else (my mother standing next to him, the four, the royalty and power players) in the Clave’s small inner circle, I kept shoving eggs into my mouth, hoping it made me off limits. Pushing back against the stone wall blocking off the bushes, I slid up until enough of my ass was comfortably on the ledge.
My mother picked the names of the prisoners, and my father said the name of the Clave member. Running through the names with smiles and enthusiasm, I waited for my birth name to come up.
“Jason…” my mother’s permanently slow and seductive tone sang through my annoyance when her eyes found mine.
Then my father spoke: “Teressa will be your player.”
He made it sound like a game, like they had a shot at winning or surviving when they didn’t.
There was no hope here… for anyone or anything. Here was where hope came to die.
Once the silence and attention stuck to my parents lifted, everyone gushed about their players. Jessica took no time at all to find me in her white pants and pastel blue top with loafers. She looked ready to play golf. No one looked like a killer here.
“Have you ever held a gun?” I shot off before she could gush. I could see her burst at every feature trying to hold it in.
“Of course I have. Russians aren’t afraid of death.” Folding her arms against herself, I could tell I pissed her off. “I waited for you last night…”
Her voice smoothed out, still raspy and thick with an accent though.
“And? I wasn’t going to fuck you anyways.”
That was just a fact. I was pretty sure most people just assumed I was asexual or not interested in women. Honestly? Some part of me probably was asexual or all the meds I was on had a negative effect on my sex drive.
I got what I needed when I needed it. I wasn’t starved or overworked like Vic.
Khaos shot me a look, questioning if I knew I was speaking out loud when I admitted I wasn’t going to fuck her. She was hot, nice tits, nice ass, red lips, white blonde hair, and an accent that made you wonder how dirty things sounded.
Too bad I wasn’t in the mood.
Abigail was hoarding all the sexual space in my mind. From what I could tell, she had a firm grasp and a sense of dedication I presumed was dead.
Khaos jumped in, taking her arm and placing it on his. “He’s not people-friendly. I’m Khaos. Why don’t I get you a drink?” Leading her away, I wanted to shout thanks, but he already made it clear “I'm not people-friendly”.
Polishing off my plate, a waiter came over, more than happy to take the plate off my hands. Cracking the orange juice open, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts long before my mother came over with a tight, small smile on her face.
Her hair was as black as mine. She was taller than the average woman in heels and had a strong sense of disgust at everything etched into where the fine lines would be if she didn’t get Botox every few weeks.
“Jason, why is he with Jessica? I picked her out for you.”
I swear every time I heard my birth name it scratched off a layer of humanity, leaving the monster more room to grow.
“I didn’t ask you to meddle again, mother.”
“I’m your mother. Asking isn’t necessary, dear.” Her grasp on the glass in her delicate hand was always her tell. She was trying to get a better grip on her facade.
“We’ve talked about this. Stop meddling. I don’t want you to find girls and fix me up. I’m good.”
She had been doing this for the last year, knowing as well as I did that nothing could be serious until I turned thirty-five, which was still years away. She was constantly trying to find ways to fix me.
I commended her on her efforts, for being the only one not giving up, but she had no boundaries. Not like your parents don’t have boundaries. Being the only son to my parents turned my mother into some kind of smothering lunatic.
She would walk in whenever she wanted, had a spare key to my place made, chatted up girls I rotated, and was constantly trying to push me into ones she liked—not me.
“You’re too stubborn. How do you expect to settle down?”
“With my money and the comfort of a desk job, because I was this long enough to make your sperm donor husband happy.”
“Jason! He’s your father.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Am I dismissed?” Hopping off the ledge, I was trying to end this conversation before it got ugly.
“Everything he does is for you… for us.” Her eyes got glassy and emotional, which was something my mom had perfected as a weapon for so long now that when it was real, it was hard to separate from the fake.
I wasn’t engaging. I walked back inside, trying to close off the excitement outside. There was no way I was faking happiness and tossing around ideas on execution.
This place looked like a horror movie, and it made me wonder how they even captured the people about to die.
I don’t know how long I had passed out for, but I woke up next to Jessica with her Mac on her lap, watching YouTube videos on using a gun. With my eyes barely open, I dragged my hand across my face, trying to wake up to another reality—one where it isn’t normal to look up tips and tricks to kill people.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out what gun I want to use,” she said, with no sense of joking in her voice at all.
“It’s a good start. Less dirty, less personal.” Twisting onto my back, I leaned into my pillows and took a deep breath, realizing that was tonight.
“What do you mean? Should I use something else? Crossbow?” I couldn’t tell if even that was a joke coming off her accent.
“A Glock is a safe bet. Rarely jams and isn’t too loud.”
“Know a lot about guns, huh?”
Even with my eyes closed, I heard the computer shut on her lap, and her body heat invaded the personal space that used to be there. My lazy arm bent at the elbow, hoisting my hand in the air, like it would stop her from climbing me.
“You can’t be grim and avoid killing.”
I felt her knees at each side of my hips, and her palms flattened on my chest. My eyes were still closed, forcing me to sense her, feel her, take half of her in instead of the parts I didn’t like—her not being Abigail.
Pushing her off the top of me, I sat up, not giving her the chance to climb on top of me again. Swiping up my pullover from the floor, I pulled it over my head in one motion, trying to cover up any temptations my tattoos yelled her way.
“Are you excited for tonight?” Her voice was clearly an octave higher and pumped full of fervor.
“So excited…” My flat tone was almost harsh as I got up from the bed altogether and padded across the room to my suitcase.
“It starts in 45 minutes… Not a lot of time.”
Was she testing me? Was she running back to my parents with whatever she could soak up? Either way, I don’t fake shit… feelings, orgasms, status, loyalty…
Opening my suitcase, I tried to glance over my shoulder without her noticing to make sure there was enough space still between us that she wouldn’t see. Grabbing the Ziplock bag with the blank passport, plane ticket, and a card with enough money to start a new life somewhere else, I tucked the Ziplock into my sweatpants band. Concealing it from not just Jessica, but everyone.
Leaving my room without a word, not bothering to close the door or close my suitcase, I made my way down the hallway. Shooting Khaos a quick text: Where are you?
Khaos was the person you went to for anything forged, documents, or illegal connections. He was a genius
when it came to this shit, and he was going to help me, whether he liked it or not.
KHAOS: I can be?
GRIMM: More like better be.
Khaos along with each one of the four and their fathers were down a separate wing, like we were all in some kind of time out from each other. This long weekend was about networking, showing off, throwing around how elite we felt for the guests; it wasn’t about sticking together like glue, which is exactly how they meant for us to feel when they forced us into being monsters.
Down the stairs, other long hallways, past people I didn’t care about at all, lounging around, hyped for tonight, I could hear the chatter and exchange of information about their players.
Mine was a journalist
Well, mine is conspiracy theorist
That was normal: pop stars off the rails, activists, journalists, conspiracy nuts, startup inventors trying to push clean energy, people who were destined to be influential… and anyone who pissed off the Clave.
All I knew was that mine was Teresa. The rest was neither here nor there.
I knocked on the door I assumed was his, since it had a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the knob, which wasn’t included in the guest baskets alongside the trial-sized soaps.
I didn’t hear anything before I wrapped my knuckles on the door for a second time with the Ziplock still wedged in the band of my sweats. Impatiently, I twisted the handle of the door not locked. So much for the “Do Not Disturb” sign. The door knocked against the wall, and Khaos was in bed shirtless, with headphones and a controller, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours.
“Can be, huh?” Fucker hadn’t left his room, but he was also a genius at making you believe what he wanted. No one ever called him on it, except me.
Tossing the Ziplock onto the bed, he sat up and took the headphones off, examining the contents without touching it. “This again, really?”
I could hear the judgment thick in his voice, somewhat laced with disappointment. No one ever understood the things I did, and now wasn’t any different.
My player was going to live, despite the rules.
“Just do it.”
Finally getting up, he grabbed his laptop, some portable printer, and some cord to, I assume, connect it all. Unlike my generation, I didn’t take part in being tech savvy or having social media profiles. I didn’t need the extra attention. It seemed fake and time consuming.