by Athan, Jon
Although she was not freed from the rope, Ashley was finally able to move. She could squirm and adjust her limbs. She couldn't help but laugh, relieved and hopeful.
She said, “You're doing good, Cal. Just grab his saw and cut the rope.”
Calvin slipped and slid as he ran back to the workbench. He grabbed his father's coping saw, then he returned to the support beam. Sweat dripping across his brow, he carefully sawed into the rope restraining her shoulders and chest. The thick rope snapped, then it plunged to the floor. He continued the process and cut into the other restraints with the saw.
Tears of joy gushing from her eyes, Ashley was overwhelmed by her sudden happiness. She appeared delirious, unable to stop herself from simultaneously laughing and crying. Her laughter grew louder with each broken restraint. She gripped the sides of the support beam as Calvin sliced into the final rope, which was tied around her ankles.
Snap – the rope fell to the floor.
Ashley staggered as her bare feet touched the frigid concrete floor. Her legs wobbled due to the weeks she spent hovering over the ground without movement. She also felt a twinge due to the black bruises on her ankles. The pain worsened with each step, but she persevered. She stretched her arms and back, then she stretched her legs.
As he watched her, Calvin asked, “Can you walk?”
As she reached down to her toes, Ashley said, “I'm sore, I'm hurt, but I can walk.”
“Cool. So... are you leaving now?”
Ashley glanced back at her brother and nodded. She said, “Yup. I'll go. I just need to get some stuff from my room and I... I want to take one last look at mom.”
“What if she sees you? What if dad gets home? What–”
“Don't worry about a thing, Cal. I'll take care of everything.”
Calvin sighed in disappointment, then he said, “Well, if you're going to your room, you're going to need the keys. They changed your locks. I don't know why. I think they keep the keys on their dresser.”
Ashley smiled and said, “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Like Mother, Like Daughter
Ashley stood at the top of the stairs and stared at the last door in the hall. A slit of light poured into the dark hallway from the master bedroom. The somber love ballad echoed down the hall, sashaying into any conscious ears.
The battered teenager plodded forward, stepping over the creaky floorboards and quietly approaching the bedroom. She pushed the door open an inch and peeked inside.
Jane peacefully rested on the bed, napping on her stomach and facing away from the door. There wasn't a single problem on her mind. A curling iron was heating up on top of the dresser; a key ring with two keys sat beside the curling iron. An evening dress clung to the full-length mirror next to the dresser.
He wasn't lying, Ashley thought, these sick bastards were actually going on a date. She shook her head and shuddered, disturbed by the idea. Her parents were as sick as she imagined. She leaned into the room and grabbed the key ring with her fingertips. She stopped as the keys jingled. She slowly turned towards her mother – she still slept.
Ashley crept away from the room, the sound of her steps masked by the music. She approached her bedroom and unlocked the door – the first key worked. She entered her room and closed the door behind her. The room appeared cleaner than before – not a single speck of dust in sight. Yet, the room also appeared abnormal. It didn't feel like her bedroom anymore.
She opened her closet and retrieved a heavy black coat. She figured she'd need to stay warm in order to survive without a home. She tossed the coat on her bed, then she continued with her packing. She grabbed a button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, then she tossed the clothing on the bed. She stopped and gazed into the closet. She didn't have a bag to pack more clothing. A bindle wouldn't help, either.
Ashley murmured, “It's for the better. I'd rather starve out there than die in here. I have to leave, no matter what. I can't stay.” As she approached the dresser, she whispered, “I can have a better life out there. I don't need them. I don't–”
She paused upon catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her dresser. She blinked erratically, tightly closing and quickly opening her eyes. Long patches of hair protruded from her poorly shaved head. Her face was swollen and bloody. Her blood reached from her nose down to her chest. Her figure did not fare much better. She had felt the pain for weeks, but she didn't see the results of the abuse. She was shocked by her reflection. She could not recognize herself.
With a trembling hand, Ashley pointed at herself and whispered, “Th–That... That's not me. It can't be me. No, no, no... Please, God, no.” In disbelief, she ran her fingers across her buzz cut head and whimpered. She said, “It is me. How... How could they do this to me? Why would they do this to me?”
She leaned over the dresser, her stomach turning as if she had caught a bug. A mixture of anger and depression blended within her, forming a wicked concoction of rage and hatred. She clenched her fists and gently tapped the sides of her head, frustrated.
Ashley muttered, “They have to pay... They all have to pay...”
She glanced over at her nightstand and considered calling the police. To her dismay, her cell phone was nowhere in sight. She couldn't remember where she left it. She didn't think her plan would work anyway. She feared the police would ignore her pleas or fall for her parents' lies. Her parents revealed their conniving ways so she assumed they could easily escape from the police's clutches.
Ashley muttered, “No, no... They deserve worse than prison. They have to be disciplined. I... I have to teach them a lesson. Yeah, they have to learn the hard way.”
She clenched her jaw and glared at her grotesque reflection. A fire burned in her livid eyes. Her limbs shuddered as she gritted her teeth. She was determined to exact her revenge on her parents – by any means necessary.
***
Ashley trudged down the hall and approached the master bedroom. She pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. She huffed and rolled her eyes. Despite the squeaky hinges, her mother remained asleep. The woman's purring snore was muffled by her moist pillow, but she still appeared comfortable – not a care in the world.
Ashley casually walked into the room, tiptoeing her way to the mirror. She grabbed the dress, then she rolled the garment – as if she were preparing to snap a wet towel at a friend. She wrapped the ends of the rolled dress around her hands to create a makeshift garrote. From the dresser, she scowled at her mother. She was ready to fight back.
The teenager jumped onto the bed and straddled the small of her mother's back. Jane awoke, wiggling like a worm in mud. She glanced back at her uninvited guest, then she gasped. She couldn't say a single word. Ashley tossed the dress over her mother's head without releasing the garment, then she pulled back at her neck.
Jane tried to roll, flailing her limbs every which way, but to no avail. The dress cut off her circulation, slowly and painfully strangling her. Veins protruded from Jane's forehead and neck. Her cheeks turned blue and her lips became pale. Her bloodshot eyes practically bulged out of her skull.
She scratched at her neck and tried to dig her fingernails under the garment. Her freshly-manicured nails only sliced into her throat, though. Blood spurted from the small lacerations, soaking the dress and her white pillow. The sound of blood plopping blended with Jane's hoarse gasps for air.
Ashley released her grip on the dress and allowed her to breathe. She was not showing mercy, she just didn't want her to die before she could teach her a valuable lesson.
Upon being freed, Jane gasped for air and rubbed her sore throat. She coughed and grunted, shocked by the attack. Her eyelids flickered as she twitched, too. She couldn't comprehend the situation. Her sadistic personality retreated and her bashful demeanor re-emerged. As soon as she lost her upper-hand, she reverted back to her shy and helpless self.
Ashley punched the back of her mother's head and yelled, “I hate you! I h
ate you so much, you sick bitch! How could you do this to me?! How?!” She grabbed a fistful of Jane's hair with her left hand and struck down at her with her right, beating the back of her dome like a drum. She barked, “I fucking hate you!”
Ashley, following her lust for vengeance, was blinded. She didn't notice her little brother standing in the doorway.
Eyes wide with fear, Calvin peeked into the room and watched the brutal beating. He realized he foolishly released a beast from their basement. He was too frightened to interfere so he quietly retreated to his bedroom.
Ashley slowed the beating and whimpered. Her mother was still conscious, but she could not continue striking her. Her fist and wrist were already injured and the beating only worsened the pain. She wiped the tears from her cheeks as she glanced around the room. Her eyes stopped at the dresser. An idea materialized as she stared at the curling iron.
As she staggered towards the dresser, Ashley said, “You tortured me for weeks, pretending to teach me 'lessons' as if you actually cared about me. It was all bullshit. You just needed someone to hurt because you were so weak. Well, let me teach you a lesson. You like to play with fire, don't you, mom? Well, I have something hot for you.”
She disconnected the curling iron, then she returned to the bed. She lifted her mother's gown to the small of her back, revealing her firm ass. The young teenager couldn't help but smile – her mother was not wearing underwear.
Ashley placed her knee on the edge of the mattress and leaned closer to her mother's head. She gently caressed her hair and massaged her bruised dome, purposely mocking her mother.
She whispered, “No panties? Really? You called me a slut. You burned me because of what you thought happened. But, you're not wearing any panties. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?”
Disoriented by the beating, Jane mumbled, “I–I'm... Just stop... S–Stop this...”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Calvin could have walked in here. He could have peeked under your gown. He could have molested you, just like he did to me.”
“He–He didn't...”
“He did. Now, let me teach you something about sex and shame.”
Ashley placed her knee on the small of Jane's back, then she separated her mother's thighs. She spread her cheeks and her vulva as she prepared herself.
As she felt her moist crotch, Ashley smirked and said, “I can't believe it: you're wet. I beat you and it makes you horny. You must really like it rough. Look at this cum... Oh, wait, I think it's called 'vaginal mucus.' Well, let's hope it's not flammable.”
With her snide remark, Ashley thrust the searing curling iron into Jane's vagina. Jane lifted her head from the pillow and shrieked, shocked by the unnatural penetration. A sizzling sound emerged from her vagina, the noise echoed with Jane's bellows. The woman convulsed on the bed, flipping and flopping.
Ashley giggled as she rode her mother's back as if she were riding a mechanical bull. As if she were handling a sex toy, she playfully thrust the scorching curling iron in-and-out of her mother. Deeper, deeper, deeper, she thought, taste your own medicine. The hot metal burned and mutilated her genitals.
Ashley enjoyed the torture, savoring her vengeance, while Jane endured the most insufferable pain. With a flushed face, webs of veins protruding from every inch of her skin, Jane coughed and grunted. She couldn't scream anymore. She stopped wrestling, too. She held her breath and shuddered as the curling iron penetrated her over and over.
Her daughter, however, did not stop. In fact, the metal penetrated deeper with each thrust – pounding on her cervix. The woman's face fell into the pillow. Her shuddering stopped in an instant. She was not breathing.
Yet, Ashley continued to thrust into her with the curling iron. Tears streamed across her cheeks, but she still fought to keep a smile on her face.
As she raped her mother with the hot steel, Ashley said, “You deserve this. You brought this on yourself. I hate you. I hate you so much!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Sins of a Father
“Honey, I'm home!” Logan shouted, a smug smile plastered on his face. He closed the door behind him as he balanced two brown paper bags in his arms. He glanced up at the ceiling and yelled, “Anyone wanna give me a hand?”
There was no response. The wind whooshed, the floorboards groaned, and some hinges squealed. Jane did not strut down the stairs to model her new dress, Calvin didn't offer a helping hand in exchange for five dollars, and Ashley remained unusually quiet.
Logan furrowed his brow as he waited. His wait was fruitless, though. He reluctantly strolled into the kitchen and placed the paper bags on the counter. From a quick glance, he could see the wine and chocolate he purchased for the after-party. He was eager to take a swig of the wine, a quick drink before the big date, but he figured he could wait – if that was what his wife wanted.
He approached the archway and yelled, “Jane! I'm home! I brought wine! Do you want a drink? Or are you just going to keep messing around?” No one answered. He whispered, “What the hell are you doing up there?”
Logan was unnerved by the silence. He approached the stairs and glanced at the basement door. The door appeared to be secured. He couldn't hear his daughter, though. Her silence was worrisome.
He knocked on the wall and shouted, “Calvin! Calvin, come down here right now! Come give me a hand!”
Calvin did not respond, either. The house was seemingly abandoned while he was shopping. The floorboards creaked and howled, but no one responded to his calls. The home had a malevolent aura, like a house with a haunting past.
Logan coughed to clear his throat, then he walked up the stairs. He stopped at the top of the stairs and examined the hallway. The doors to his left and right were closed. The door at the end of the hall, which led into his bedroom, was left wide open – calling to him. Sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, he slowly walked to his room. He ignored the other bedrooms, closets, and the bathroom.
Wide-eyed, Logan gasped and staggered as he stared into his room. His wife rested on her stomach, her face planted in a bloody pillow. Her gown was tossed up to her waist and her legs were spread wide. The handle of the curling iron protruded from her vagina. Blood stained the sheets under her crotch, too. The woman was ravaged – raped and defiled.
Limp and disoriented, Logan leaned on the doorway and wheezed. Tears welled in his eyes as he indistinctly mumbled. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't conjure the words to speak. He slapped his forehead as he whimpered, then he staggered into the room like a drunk after a night at the bar. He fell down to his knees at the foot of the bed.
With trembling hands, he grabbed his wife's cold feet. He gently ran his fingers across her soles. She was ticklish, so he figured his touch would end the cruel prank. To his dismay, she did not awaken and her death was not a joke. He sobbed as he gently massaged her feet. He always massaged her feet when he wanted to apologize.
As saliva dripped from his mouth, Logan cried, “I'm sorry, Jane. I should have been here. You should have gone with me. This... This wouldn't have happened if you came with me. God, why did I leave? Why didn't we just stay? It's all my fault. Please, forgive me.”
Infuriated, he bellowed at the top of his lungs – a blurt of incomprehensible noise. A thick vein bulged from the center of his brow as he screamed like a child throwing a temper tantrum in a toy store. Struggling to contain his rage, he repeatedly slammed his fist on the edge of the mattress beside Jane's leg. The mattress vibrated with each furious blow.
Logan yelled, “Goddammit! Jesus Christ, why would someone do this? Who... Who the hell would do this? Who?!”
“Me,” Ashley said as she emerged from behind the door.
Before Logan could turn and fight, Ashley struck her father with a heavy wrench. The wrench hit his temple and knocked him unconscious. He squirmed and twitched a bit, but he wasn't getting up after such a devastating blow.
Ashley smirked as she watched her father with a set of deviant eyes. Sh
e grabbed his ankles and dragged him out of the bedroom.
***
Logan coughed and grunted as he awoke. His vision was blurred, his hearing was muffled. The side of his head still hurt due to the skull-rattling strike. He could feel warm blood trickling down his cheek from the wound on his head.
With one eye tightly shut and the other barely open, he glanced around the room. The room spun around him, but he was able to recognize his environment. The austere man found himself in the living room. The furniture was moved aside, pushed towards the walls and into the hallway. He sat on a kitchen chair towards the center of the room. The recliner sat three meters in front of him.
As his vision adjusted, Logan stuttered, “Wha–What are you doing? What did... What did you do to me?” He tried to stand, but he was quickly brought down. Baffled, he murmured, “What the hell is going on?”
He stared down at himself, flustered. His torso was tied to the backrest, his arms were tied to the armrests, and his ankles and shins were tied to the chair's legs. The same rope he used to restrain his daughter was used against him. He squirmed and shimmied, but to no avail. The blow to the head weakened him. He could not escape.
Logan's eyes widened as Ashley strolled into the room, walking with a peppy spring in her step. She fell into the recliner and crossed her legs, sinking into the comfy seat.
Ashley said, “It took you long enough to wake up. I thought I accidentally killed you. I had to borrow some of your tools to knock you out and tie you up. I grabbed some other things, too. I hope you don't mind.”
Logan scowled and said, “Let me go, Ashley. Cut these damn ropes. Get me off of this chair. Do... Do something, damn it!” Ashley giggled and shook her head. Logan said, “You won't be laughing when I get out of here, girl. Believe me, if you thought it was bad before, it's going to get worse.”