by K. L. Savage
He sticks the shovel into the dirt, breaking the surface, and the sound makes me wonder how many bodies are buried here. I look down and see my feet. How many am I standing on?
“I’ll be willing,” I say, and that makes him stop digging. “And if you don’t like willing, I’ll fight. You’ll never have to hurt another person again. You can keep me around.” I swallow. My nerves are getting the best of me, but I have to try. Macy deserves the effort. I have to bring her home where she belongs.
I rub my shirt sleeve over my cheek to dry the tears. I don’t want him to see that I’m scared. He leans the shovel against the wall, and I make a mental note. All I have to do is get the shovel. If I can get that, I can get us out of here.
“Do you not speak?” I ask him, waiting for a reply, but he answers by staying quiet and staring at me. “That’s alright. We can learn to talk.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys, then inserts it into the lock. The door swings open, and he crooks his finger for me to come closer. I push aside my fear and glance at Macy’s body. She needs me to do this.
I follow his order and close the space between us. “What?” I question and make the mistake of inhaling, because his body odor almost has me dry heaving again.
His hands slap on my shoulders, and he shoves me to my knees.
If this guy thinks I’m going to… He’s in for a surprise.
“You stupid, wishful fuck,” I say, right as I slam my fist between his legs.
He grunts as he doubles over and cups himself. I rear my knee next and slam it between his legs so hard I hear a crack. I don’t know if it’s my bone or his hand that breaks, but I don’t care either way. I swing my fist through the air, through tear-filled eyes, and hit him as hard as I can across his face. I dodge right and run for the shovel, gripping the handle with every ounce of strength I have.
I swing and slam it against the guy’s head, and he falls face-first onto the ground.
Rage, sadness, and guilt have me whirling the shovel again. I bear down on the handle, and the metal tip chops through each wrist. It takes a few tries. Crunches of bones break, blood flows and sprays. I’m exhausted. I’m running out of steam. My head is still bleeding. He doesn’t deserve to touch anything again. I want to make sure he will never be able to grab or hurt another child.
When I’m satisfied and gagging from the amount of blood clumping the dirt, I toss the shovel behind me and run to grab the keys from the puddle of blood surrounding my sister’s killer. My arms are like jello.
I’ll never be weak again. It’s a promise, to Macy and to me.
I hurry out of the cell, close the gate, and lock it. “You’ll never get out of here. I hope you die.” I shove the key into my pocket and wipe his blood off my fingers by rubbing them against my jeans.
“Macy!” I yell her name as I run and drop to my knees. My chin wobbles as my emotion breaks free. “No, please. Macy.” I turn her head to me and push her hair out of her face. She died. Scared. Abused. Tortured. And I failed her. “I’m so sorry, Macy. I love you. I love you so much.” I cradle her against me and hold her for a minute. I run my fingers through her hair, squeezing my eyes when I remember when she bounced up to me last night. She held a brush in her hand and asked me to comb her wet hair. Most brothers would have told her to get lost, but not me. I loved going to her tea parties, and she’d always dress me up. I wore a crown on my head and glitter on my eyes more times than I can remember. She loved putting makeup on me. I let her. I didn’t care. I liked seeing her happy. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” I chanted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t protect you. I tried. I swear, I tried.” Tears fall down my cheeks, and I squeeze her tighter. This isn’t fair. “Why couldn’t it have been me? Why?” I roar to nothing, to everything, but no one can hear me.
I lay her on the ground, and my brows pinch when I see she isn’t wearing her silver locket. “Where did it go?” I scurry to her cell, my heart breaking when I notice the scuffle in the dirt, where he … took everything from me. I see her locket in the corner, and I dive to grab it. The chain is broken where he must have ripped it from her neck. The locket it fine. I stuff it in my pocket and run back to her. I take my shirt off and place it over her body so she’s covered.
I pick Macy up and get the hell out of there. I shut the door behind us with my foot and climb up the steps and open the door. It leads to a dining room. The man is a hoarder. Newspapers are stacked everywhere. I can hardly see the floor.
I can’t carry her long much longer. I’m too weak. I look around for a phone and see one hanging on the wall. I hope it works. I lay Macy on the floor and inhale, exhausted. I pick up the receiver and feel no relief when I hear a dial tone because the best part of me has died. For Macy, I dial 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.
“Me and my sister were kidnapped. I got out. The guy is locked away, but my sister, he … he killed her. Please. I don’t know where we are. We’re still in his house.”
“I’ll stay on the phone with you until help arrives. Are you sure your sister is dead?”
I bite my lip into my mouth and look down at her lifeless body, still and unmoving. I drop the phone, and the black twirling cord causes it to sway. I slide down the wall, crying as the dispatcher mumbles from the receiver. “She’s dead. I’m sure of it,” I say, laying my chin on top of her head. How is it possible she still smells like bubblegum? The scent of her favorite shampoo.
I don’t know how many minutes or hours go by. I don’t care. I hear the sirens get closer, and I think about all the things I used to be afraid of. They are all fake because I know who the real enemy is, and they don’t only live in the dark—they live in the light too.
Monsters aren’t these imaginary things horror movies portray. The real villains, the real boogeymen, they are people.
CHAPTER ONE
PIRATE
Day two in rehab
Present Day
I can’t stop shivering.
My fucking MC, my damn brothers, tossed me in this rehab center because they were worried for me. I never felt so betrayed in my damn life. Fuck them. Who needs ’em? Not me. I don’t need anyone.
It’s been too long since I’ve had my last drink. I need it. My body aches for it. The bed is drenched in sweat, and the simple sweatpants and t-shirt I’m wearing are sticking to my skin. I roll to my side and toss more damn cookies. My abs are sore from all the throwing up I’ve been doing. I wouldn’t be throwing up if I had some goddamn rum. I’ll take anything at this point. They might have rubbing alcohol in this place.
If I could just move … but I can’t.
I’m strapped down so I don’t injure anyone.
Ha. I remember that. I punched a guy right in the face when he stuck a needle in my arm to give me fluids. Only fluid I need is the kind that burns my fucking throat. It’s going to feel so good. I can’t wait to get out of here and get back at it. Alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain.
Nothing feels as good as the heat in my stomach and a heavy bottle in hand. When I get out of here, I’m done with the MC. I can’t believe they would turn their backs on me like this.
“Bubba!” I hear my sister’s voice calling out for me. It’s the first time I’ve heard it in eighteen years. “Bubba, help me! Why aren’t you helping me?”
My teeth chatter as I turn my head left and right. I’m freezing. Why the hell is it so cold?
“You’re going to be okay, Patrick. I know it’s hard, and the journey might be long, but everything will be okay.” Some lady covers me with a blanket and runs her hand through my wet hair.
“Bubba!”
“Why is my sister here? How is she here?” I thrash against the restraints, and the woman’s hands press against my shoulders.
“No one is here. It’s just you and me, Patrick. You’re going through alcohol withdrawal. What you’re seeing isn’t real,” she croons at me as if I’m a baby.
; “Bubba?”
My eyes dart to the corner of the room, and I see her. Vividly. Her braids are perfect. Her blonde hair is shining, and her pink dress isn’t dirty or torn. She looks like she did when we left for school that morning. “Macy?” she’s so real. She’s here. “Macy. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry.”
“Who is Macy?” the lady who is rubbing a cloth over my head asks. “He’s having hallucinations,” she tells the man standing next to her.
“All these alcoholics are the same. I don’t feel bad for them. They do this to themselves. I’m glad there is nothing we can do until the detox is over. He deserves the agony for doing this to himself.”
“Mr. Lundon.” The woman’s voice is brash, but I don’t care about her. My focus is still on Macy.
I don’t care what the guy says about me either. He’s right. I did do this to myself. I deserve every ounce of torture my mind portrays.
“You have no idea what this man has been through. If you cannot show some compassion, you need to leave.”
Aw, the old hag gives a shit.
I don’t.
He doesn’t give staying a second thought. He turns on his heel and marches right out the door, passing Macy. How does he not notice her? She’s right there!
“Macy,” I croak, watching her come closer. Her glittery pink shoes match her dress. She was always determined to have her outfits match. “Macy, you’re here.” A tear rolls out of the corner of my eye, pathetic and weak, just like I was all those years ago.
“You left me, bubba. You let the bad man get me.” Her flawless appearance morphs into filth.
My eyes round from the sudden change in her appearance. “I’m going to get us out, Macy! I’m going to get us out. You have to trust me.”
“You lied to me. You didn’t save me. It hurts. He hurt me everywhere.” Macy vanishes, then reappears in front of me, and her face is dirty. Her cheek is bruised. There’s a handprint around her throat, and her dress is torn.
“Macy, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. I tried.”
“Macy isn’t here, Patrick. It’s just you and me. Hey, look at me.” A cold hand gently turns my chin to the left. I’m no longer looking at Macy, but into light green eyes. They crinkle around the edges from her wrinkles as she frowns at me. “It’s just me and you, Patrick. Do you know where you are? You’re at a rehab facility. Right now, the Macy you are seeing isn’t real. A figment of your imagination is playing tricks on you.”
It’s not a trick.
Macy is here, and the guilt is consuming me. Usually, I have a drink to help numb the agony, but there are no drinks here. I have to feel the immensity of what happened all those years ago, and I can’t. I’m not strong enough to get through the memories without alcohol.
“She’s here. She hates me.” I drift my eyes to the right of the silver-haired woman trying to help me to where Macy stands. “She’s right next to you.” Her eyes are clouded over with death, but that doesn’t stop Macy from staring at me.
“You let the bad man get me,” she repeats.
“I didn’t!” I yank against the restraints, and the leather straps pinch my skin and rip my arm hair. “I didn’t mean to. I tried. I tried to have him take me.”
“Take you? Who, dear?” the old woman tries to interrupt me again. “Patrick, no one is here but you and me. Okay?” This woman has the patience of a saint since she keeps repeating herself. She lays a cold rag against my forehead. The wet cloth feels so good against my sweaty skin, but I’m still shivering. This process doesn’t make sense. If the lady taking care of me would let me have one more drink, the pain would go away.
I lift my body off the bed and get my face as close as possible to the nurse. “Please, one drink. Just one. One drink to make her go away.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and my mouth waters from the prospect of getting to taste rum or vodka. Rum is my go-to.
“I can’t do that, Patrick. You’re going to feel better in a few days. Okay? I know life is hard now, but it won’t always be.” She pushes my hair out of my face, then changes my IV bag with fresh fluids.
My eyes fall from her to Macy, and Macy screams when someone pushes her onto the floor. It’s the man. That’s impossible. He’s in prison for the rest of his life. It’s physically impossible for him to be here.
“Leave her alone!” I shout, and the memory of hearing her get abused plays on repeat. She screams the exact same way. “I can’t take it anymore!” I sob and then flinch when I hear a tear of clothes.
It’s the tear of clothes that haunts me the most because I know what happened after that.
“Bubba!” she cries for me.
I turn my head and stare at her reaching out for me just as the man snaps her neck. “Macy!” I scream. “Macy, oh God, just kill me already. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take it.” I flail my head back and forth. I need to get out of here.
“Bubba, get the bad man. He’s hurting me. Why aren’t you helping me?” She still speaks to me even though she’s dead. Her head is laying unnaturally, and she starts to push herself off the ground.
“I got us out. I did. I got us out.” I reassure myself and replay that night in my head. I got us out too late, but I did it.
“Patrick, it’s a hallucination. It isn’t real. Know that. Fight this. I know you can. You’re better than the alcohol. Don’t let it win.”
“It is real,” I whisper as a cold dread floats into my body when my sister’s screams die. “It’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.” I slide my eyes to where Macy is, and this time, she’s all alone. No one is there. The man is gone. I’m trapped just like I was before.
I can’t get to her. These straps across my wrists keep me caged. I’m in another dungeon with only one way out. I have to face the monster inside me, but I don’t want to. I want to be locked in a cage with nothing but alcohol to lose myself in. I don’t deserve an escape. I deserve to die the slowest death.
“Your breathing is slowing down. Macy isn’t here anymore, is she?” the nurse asks.
With hesitation, I glance to the floor, but nothing is there. Macy is gone. I nod.
“See? It’s all in your head. You poor thing. Mr. Lundon has no soul. I don’t know why he is here, but I want you to know, I care.”
“You shouldn’t.” I glance at her name tag as a wave of dizziness hits. “Gale. You shouldn’t give a fucking shit about me.” I turn my head away, and a buildup of pressure in my chest gives me the urge to roar, to let out this horrible weight inside me. I swallow it down. I deserve it. I want the agony to eat me alive.
“It’s my job to care. It’s going to be a rough few days before all the alcohol is out of your system—”
“Damn shame. I’m better drunk than I am sober.”
“You need to have faith, Patrick. You have to if you’re going to survive this. This withdrawal is no joke.” Gale bends over the bed and glares at me, her lips pursed. She looks like she’s about to bitch out her grandchild. “This can kill you.”
My faith died a long time ago. What happened to Macy killed me in all the ways that mattered. “Good. If this doesn’t, the booze will,” I inform her with a snort. “I’m not worth your effort, Gale.” Something shines out of the corner of my eye, and I see Macy’s locket laying on the windowsill, sparking in the light. I force my arms against the restraints again and growl when they don’t budge. “I need that. I need her locket. Please, I have to have it. I’ve worn it every day for eighteen years, please! I need it.” My body bends off the bed, and my wrists ache as I drain all the strength I have to get free.
I need that damn locket. I won’t let them keep it. I won’t let him keep it.
I stop fighting when I see him next to the locket, bending over to pick it up. “No. That’s mine! You sick fuck. That’s mine.” The metal straps are attached to bend, threatening to break, and hope fuels me. I’m going to get the fucker. Again.
This time, I’m going to kill him.
“Patrick. I need you to calm dow
n! There is no locket.”
I watch as he clips it around his neck and rubs the metal surface with his tainted fingers. “Pretty,” he says in his unused, graveled voice. “She was pretty,” he taunts me. “She felt good too.” He closes his eyes and inhales, smiling at the memory.
I jerk against the bed again to get free, but then he’s gone like a puff of smoke vanishing into the air.
The room spins, and my stomach flips. I launch to the side of the bed just in time to puke again, and Gale jumps out of the way. I groan and flop on my back. Gale wipes my mouth with another damp cloth. I’m dripping with sweat.
This is so exhausting. Every inch of me feels like it’s been wrung out until there is nothing left. The only thing left is the haunting memory, but it isn’t the memory that’s killing me; it’s the carelessness to keep living.
Life is too hard when death seems so easy.
If—no—when I die, the constant torture will stop. I won’t hear her screaming for me every moment my heart beats. Macy’s voice is a constant, reverberating in my mind, pleading for me to save her.
The effort, the energy, the ability to give a shit to ‘fight another day’ is gone. And you know what? It’s absolute bullshit. Everyone’s horrors are different, and some are more severe than others.
Eighteen years ago my life changed forever. I witnessed something no one should ever have to hear and see, and I’m still living in that moment. Time may have passed, but I haven’t come with it. My feet are glued to the floor in that basement. My mind is locked in the chamber, and I’m staring at Macy, the last time she was alive.
And when I manage to open the cell door, I don’t take a step out. I keep myself inside. I don’t know how to move on when life stopped mattering the moment Macy died.
I’ve yet to find something or someone who matters enough to make me realize this life may be worth living after all, and I won’t.
If I believe I’m not worth a damn to myself, then I’m not worth a damn to anyone else.