Do I try and sell it again? Or are we past that? I need to say something. I need to hear my own voice…
“I think we were here,” she said. Her voice was a weak, defeated offering—as she’d intended. She was inches from his penis for the second time.
He gripped her scalp harder. “Well then what the fuck are you waiting for?”
Amy swallowed dry again. She had no spit whatsoever. If she were with Patrick it would be difficult to do a decent job. But she didn’t need to prolong this act. She didn’t need to be concerned with performance. She would take him in her mouth for as long as necessary. Once the moment presented itself, she would chomp down with everything she had then jerk away violently like a wild animal. Hell, the dry mouth would even give her a better grip wouldn’t it? Fuck yeah. Keep the damn thing from slipping out.
Amy knew the assault would not stop her attacker, but she was hoping (praying) the intense pain would buy her the precious seconds needed to hop off the bed, snatch the giant lamp on the dresser, and then bring it down onto Jim’s skull, knocking the son of a bitch out. Maybe (hopefully) even killing him.
After that? After he was incapacitated? She had a plan. A damn good one.
Amy allowed the tip of his penis to touch her lips, her breathing coming in short, rapid bursts. She opened her mouth and allowed the first inch to enter. She didn’t need to slide too far down onto his shaft. Biting the head off would do just fine.
She bit.
And her teeth clacked together, catching nothing. Jim had suddenly pulled out, his member unscathed. Still gripping her scalp, he ripped her face into his, their noses mashing. She saw lunacy in his eyes, smelled his sour breath as he started laughing.
“You think I’m fucking stupid?” he said. “You think I’m gonna let you bite my fucking dick off?” He gripped her hair harder, causing Amy to cry out. “You’ve got to be the most predictable bitch I’ve dealt with yet.”
Amy’s panic was electric. There was no plan B. Not even a sliver of one.
Jim stepped back and yanked Amy off the bed by her hair. She cried out again, moving with him willingly to relieve the pain on her scalp. Jim spun her around and pushed her up against the dresser, stomach impacting along the furniture’s edge. With one hand still gripping her hair, he began to tear at her pants. Amy struggled but his strength overwhelmed her.
She was bent over now, her hands slamming down onto the dresser’s counter, knocking over a small jewelry box and spilling its contents.
Jim’s pants were still around his ankles, his manhood still erect and prepared to violate her.
Amy’s pulse was off the charts, her chest and head pounding, each throb threatening a blackout. And then, as if handed to her by an invisible savior, her frantic hands fell upon a metal nail file that had spilled from the jewelry box.
She snatched it up and leaned forward, hoping her upper body would shield her find. She needed something else. She needed him to release the grip on her hair so she could spin around. She had no available target from where she was positioned. She needed to face him.
So she screamed. She screamed until her throat hurt. And it worked. Jim let go of her hair and slapped it over her mouth.
Amy didn’t hesitate. She thrust her hips backward into his groin, doubling him over and knocking him back a step. She then spun, and with both hands gripping the metal file, drove all six inches of it deep into his scrotum.
The expression on Jim’s face was that of a man who had jumped into a frigid pool. He froze, his breath gone. What followed was a pitiful groan of both excruciating pain and disbelief. Blood began to seep from the wound, and when Amy let go of her weapon, she saw that it remained stuck and standing to attention in a deliciously ironic similarity to his erection from only moments ago.
Jim backed up another step and looked down at his wounded groin. His hands shook as he went to touch the file. It looked as though he considered pulling it free, but fear of possibly making matters worse caused him to jerk his hands away.
Amy used both hands on the heavy lamp’s neck, her adrenaline giving her the strength to lift it overhead with little effort. A forceful grunt that started in her abdomen matured into a ferocious battle cry as she brought the lamp down onto his skull, shattering the whole of its porcelain bulk on impact. Jim hit the floor hard—out cold.
Amy spit on him a fourth time.
* * *
The occupants in the bedroom across the hall heard Amy’s scream. They heard Jim’s low, guttural groan follow. Then another scream. The sound of something breaking.
It all made Arty smile. He thought his brother’s groan was one of ecstasy. He thought Amy’s screams were those of terror. He thought the sound of something breaking was Jim getting carried away like he usually did.
Moments later, when he heard his mother’s cry for help coming from downstairs, and he took in the upsetting scene now being broadcast on the television, Arty realized he had it all wrong.
54
Amy was a whisper as she exited the bedroom, gently pulling the door shut behind her with the face of someone waiting for a balloon to pop; not a click or a clank could be afforded with Arty holding her family a mere few feet across the hall.
Her wrists and ankles still tied (there was nothing else in that jewelry box that could cut through her binds; and she certainly wasn’t about to pull the nail file from Jim’s bare balls, lest the pain wake him up), she shuffled softly past the closed door that held her family.
Upon reaching the stairs, Amy decided to do something she hadn’t done since she was a child: she sat on that first step, then slid and thumped the rest of the way down on her butt. However, unlike a child, who would almost deliberately thump their butt as hard, and loud, as they could on each step, Amy’s butt was fine china.
Arriving at the bottom, Amy hopped through the den and into the family room where Maria Fannelli lay in her recliner, asleep, the iPod’s headphones still in her ears—still blocking out any and all noise.
Straight ahead, past the family room, was what Amy was hoping she’d find. It was the kitchen. And in that kitchen would be a knife. A knife she could use to cut her binds, and a knife she could use to make a life-threatening deal.
55
When Arty looked at the television and saw Amy holding a kitchen knife up to his mother’s throat, his first thoughts were of his mother’s safety.
Then of his brother Jim, and why he had allowed Amy to escape.
Then of a way to regain the upper hand.
56
Maria Fannelli’s headphones were ripped from her ears, waking her instantly. She was seated in her recliner with someone standing behind her. Someone with one hand wrapped around her forehead and the other holding the blade of a kitchen knife against her neck.
To Maria’s great surprise, the stranger was a woman. A woman had broken into her home and put a knife to her throat.
The stranger’s demands were odd to Maria. The strange woman had first begun to yell at the ceiling for someone named Arthur to come downstairs. Now, the stranger insisted that Maria should be the one to yell—to yell for this Arthur to come and help.
“Call him,” the stranger said as she pressed the blade hard against Maria’s skin. “Call him and ask for help. Tell him you’re scared and that you need his help.”
Maria’s voice caught. She coughed once, cleared it, and barely spoke above a whisper. “Help. I need help.”
“Louder. Tell him you’re scared.”
Maria swallowed and her throat bounced against the blade. “Help! Help I’m scared!”
“Louder!” The stranger pressed the knife harder against Maria’s soft skin.
“Help! Help I’m scared! Please help!”
Silence followed. The stranger was breathing heavy and seemed to be listening for sounds above them with great intent.
“Arty, you fuck!” the stranger yelled. “I know you can see me! I’ll cut her throat, I swear to God!”
Maria wante
d eye contact with the stranger behind her. Wanted to read her face, understand what was going on. She tried to turn her head. “Why—”
“Shut up,” the stranger said, forcing Maria’s head back around. “Shut up and I won’t hurt you.” The stranger paused and listened again. A brief shuffle of footsteps from above. “ARTY, GODDAMNIT! GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE OR SHE’S DEAD!”
And just as the stranger was about to repeat her threat, a man with dark hair and dark eyes appeared in the doorway, holding a gun to a little boy’s head.
57
“Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican stand-off, yeah?” Arty said.
Amy did not expect this. She envisioned Arty sprinting down the stairs the second he looked at the television. She envisioned him helpless and begging for his mother’s life. Instead it appeared as though he was able to keep his wits about him, present his own ace in the guise of her son.
“Let my family go and I won’t kill her,” Amy said.
Arty pressed the gun barrel of the six-shooter into Caleb’s temple and cocked the trigger. “You kill her and I kill him.”
Amy came close to dropping the knife. The sight of her son with a cocked and loaded gun to his head nearly caused her to lose her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to take Caleb into her arms and somehow whisk him far away from the nightmare.
“Mommy,” Caleb said. His brown eyes were wide and glassy. Amy absorbed his fear and it all but drained her.
“Mommy’s here, baby.”
Arty’s free hand released its grip on Caleb’s shoulder. He patted the boy gently on the arm. “There, you see, Caleb? You’ve got nothing to worry about. Mommy’s here. Now go on over to her.” The little boy turned and looked up at Arty. “Go on,” Arty insisted.
Caleb took a step toward his mother and Arty instantly snatched him back by the arm, causing the boy to stumble and fall at Arty’s feet.
Arty laughed and pulled Caleb upright.
Caleb started to cry. Arty made an awww face at Amy, pretended to knuckle away a tear of his own.
Amy felt close to insanity. She wanted the man in front of her dead. No—she wanted him killed, and she wanted to be the one to do it. No apprehension, no struggle with morality. Dead. Killed. By her.
“You won’t win,” Amy said through clenched teeth. “I won’t let you win. I swear on my very soul that my family will live through this and that you’ll rot in hell.”
Arty looked as if he hadn’t heard her. “I saw what you did to Jim,” he said. “It was upsetting. Upsetting, but I have to admit, a little exhilarating too. We’ve never had the game taken to this level before. I think it will be that much sweeter in the end, don’t you?”
“It’ll be sweet when you’re dead.”
Arty chuckled. “When I’m dead? What exactly were you planning to do? Kill everyone in the house? I thought you were just trying to make a deal here; trying to save your family.”
Amy was flustered. It was her move, and she didn’t know how to play it. She could only keep spitting threats and pray Arty would back down first. “Arty, I’m telling you one last time, and I am not fucking kidding, I will cut your mother’s throat from ear to ear unless you let my family go.”
Arty studied her. He did not appear concerned in the slightest. “Nah,” he eventually said, waving a dismissive hand at her, “you won’t do anything. It’s not in you.”
“I just stuck a nail file into your brother’s ball sack. I think it’s in me to cut an old lady’s throat.”
58
Patrick didn’t know what was going on downstairs. What he did know was that Arty had left the room, taking Caleb with him, and that his brother Jim had not taken his place for a while now. That left him and Carrie alone.
“Cawee,” Patrick garbled through his gag. “Cawee, helt Danny.”
Carrie stayed curled into a ball in the corner of the room.
“Cawee!”
The little girl twitched and finally looked at her father. She blinked several times before focusing in on his face.
“Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag.”
Carrie stood to her feet but remained in the corner.
“Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag!” He prayed she understood him.
She walked towards her father and touched his knee. Patrick smiled with his eyes and said, “Honey, helt Danny hake hi gag ott.”
She reached up to his face and pulled at Patrick’s gag. His daughter’s hand on his cheek brought on an instant stream of tears. Less than an hour ago he was sure he would never experience her touch again.
“Good, honey, good,” he said the second the gag was pulled down to his neck. “You need to do one more thing though, honey. Do you think you can do that? Can you do one more thing for Daddy?”
She nodded, her expression still projecting the glazed look of emptiness it previously held. This concerned Patrick, but wasn’t something he could afford to ruminate over now. At least his daughter was acting, and at this point in time, her ability to take action, despite a lifeless demeanor, was most vital.
“Good, honey. Daddy’s very proud of you so far.” He then spoke slow and concise. “Now, what I want you to do next, is to take one of the knives out from the wall behind Daddy. Can you do that? Can you take one of the knives out of the wall?”
She nodded.
“Good girl. Do it now then, sweetie.”
Carrie reached past her father’s shoulder and clamped her little hand around the handle on one of the knives sticking out of the dry wall. She tugged once, twice, and then a third before the knife squeaked free causing her to stumble backwards, nearly falling over.
“That’s my baby girl,” Patrick said. He could feel his stomach swirling with adrenaline, his brow beginning to dampen; he expected Arty or Jim to appear at the door at any moment and pounce on his daughter. The thought terrified him and brought a quick and desperate tone to his voice. “Carrie, you need to cut Daddy free as quickly as possible. Do you see how Daddy’s forearms are tied to the arms of the chair? All I need you to do is cut one of them free. I can do the rest once you cut one of them free. Can you do that? Can you cut one of Daddy’s arms free?”
59
“So what are we gonna do here, Amy?” Arty asked. “Are you really prepared to commit murder? Here, in front of your son?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Oh I’m quite sure you could kill me or Jim…” He pointed at his mother. “But an innocent old woman like this?”
“If it hurts you I can.”
“No you can’t—you’re trying to bluff. You had this all worked out in your head already, didn’t you? You thought I’d see my mother with a knife to her throat and break down, give you whatever you wanted, right?” He pressed the gun barrel harder into Caleb’s head, causing the boy to whimper louder. “But I’m not a fucking idiot, Amy. And I don’t think the way you do. That’s what makes me who I am. It’s what has enabled me to survive as long as I have. That and the love of the woman you’ve got a knife pressed to.
“So, do you really think I’d let you bluff me into taking my freedom away while placing a knife to the throat of the most important person in my life? I won’t let that happen, Amy. And I don’t panic. Ever. That’s why this little prick I’m holding here has a gun to his head. And it’s also why I’m certain that I’d lose no sleep whatsoever after putting a bullet through his tiny skull.”
Amy’s chest hitched as she inhaled quickly, the image painted by Arty’s words nearly crippling her.
“But you?” Arty continued. “Killing a sweet old lady? It’s downright laughable. Someone like you would end up in therapy the rest of their life. Become an addict or a drunk. Maybe even off yourself once the grief sunk its claws in deep enough. How ironic would that last one be?” He grinned.
Amy’s body shook, her eyes filmed with hot tears of rage and frustration. He was reading her inner dialogue near verbatim and filling her head with doubts. She tried desperately to shut them out, but the more he spoke
the more his words dented the armor shielding her psyche. Could she kill an innocent woman? Maybe. Would it be something that affected the remainder of her life? Yes, of course it would. But then again, everything that’s occurred these last couple of days would affect the rest of her life. Now was not the time for self-doubt. She had bluffed and it had failed. What lay in front of her now left no other options. Her baby’s life was on the line. Her family’s.
The self-doubt had to be crushed. Arty’s words would need to be treated as fuel to her fire. She would, and could, go through with it if need be.
She repeated this mantra over and over in her head until it drowned out any negative thoughts that might cause her to balk. It was for her son. It was for her family. She would kill ten innocent women if it meant getting her family to safety. This innocent woman was an object. An obstacle. An obstacle that may have to be eliminated in order to save her son and family.
She repeated it again; she needed to objectify this woman’s throat beneath her blade:
She is an obstacle. And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.
And then again, tears of frustration drying up in the presence of her newfound defiance, her brow becoming furrowed with a purpose:
She is an obstacle. And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.
“She’s an obstacle,” she said aloud. Her voice was solid. She didn’t blink. “And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.”
Arty stared at her, his expression different now. Amy believed she had convinced him of her sincerity, of her will and inability to break. And just as he was about to retort with something Amy hoped was acquiescent, Maria Fannelli spoke:
“Young man, I’m not sure who you are, or what it is that you want, but if that little boy is this woman’s child, then I urge you to put that gun away and release him to her before I call the police.”
Bad Games Page 21