by V. F. Mason
I have nothing to say to that, because in a way he is right. “Killing people is not the answer. You can put them behind bars to rot in prison and—”
“And you think that helps? They will get out and continue to do this shit with another victim. I cannot help those who do not seek help.”
This conversation is leading us nowhere.
“Why am I here, Kierian?” I finally ask about the big freaking elephant in the room. “I was in a cage yesterday, now I’m in the house, and you treat me to breakfast. Why did you kidnap me? It wasn’t enough to just have me as your girlfriend?”
“You want to know?” he asks as something dark crosses his face, but I don’t bother to read the signs anymore.
I can’t walk on eggshells around him.
“Yes! I don’t need breakfasts as if everything is normal. Nothing about this situation is!” He doesn’t even flinch at my shout; he just grabs me by my elbow and drags me in the direction of the basement. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you exactly what you want.” Rex barks at us, but Kierian snaps at him. “Stay.” And then we go downstairs, and all the while I pull at my hand, but it’s useless.
He throws me inside and places me on the chair located right in the middle. “It’s brand new,” he tells me, and I blink in surprise.
I hadn’t even considered that other people might have died on it. “I should appreciate the small things, I guess,” I mutter, while he straps me down and tightens the ropes on my wrists behind me as well as my legs. I have to keep my back straight—there is no other option—as the metal painfully digs into my skin and my bare feet become cold from the concrete under them.
“You are awfully cheery for a person who is about to get tortured,” he says, although something is off about his voice.
And then it hits me.
It lacks confidence. Does he hesitate to hurt me?
But he shatters my illusion as he takes the silver knife that glistens in the light, its tip so sharp. He rests his hand on the back of the chair as he traces the skin on my neck, but he doesn’t put enough pressure to draw blood. “Do you know what was constantly on my mind through all these months?” He slides the knife lower near my artery. “To see how you’d look here in my hell with blood decorating your skin. How I’d have the chance to fuck you after giving you pain.” I force my gaze away from him, hating the words. “And here you are in my basement, alone, helpless, completely at my mercy.” The blade travels lower to my breast, my stomach, and finally reaches my thighs as he dips the tip in a few places, deepening the previous wounds. I cry out softly. It hurts as if thousands of ants bite me.
He repeats the action on the other leg and then pulls my hair, angling my head back while I groan in pain, and he holds my stare. “How do you feel about love now, Ella? Is it worth it?” he asks, bringing the blade dangerously close to my cheek, but he doesn’t do anything with it. “In my fantasies, after I was done with this, I use other torture arts I’ve learned.” His hands move lower; he reaches my restraints and lightly squeezes the sensitive skin. I close my eyes, and although it doesn’t hurt me much, it still stings.
“Are you happy now?” I whisper, needing to know if hurting me soothes his raging desires, but he just growls and pushes back.
“No. Because it doesn’t bring me pleasure. I get no satisfaction from it.” He voice is laced with self-disgust and loathing, as if he prefers to hurt me than love me.
Than show me his tender side.
To have this excuse behind which he can hide from me.
That’s when an epiphany strikes me, and all the puzzle pieces make sense in my head. How could I have not seen it sooner?
“It’s not about punishment,” I breathe through the pain, as he freezes near his equipment, his hand pausing midair gripping his kitchen knife.
My skin burns from the tight rope wrapped around my wrists digging painfully into my flesh, while the cuts leak blood down my thighs, but I don’t pay attention to that.
“It’s about love, isn’t it?” I ask but don’t wait for his reply as the muscles in his back tense, yet he doesn’t move to face me. “It’s about seeing how far you can hurt me to destroy my love for you.” My humorless chuckle fills the space. “That’s why you wanted a relationship with me first.” Licking my dry lips, I pray for enough strength to survive this. “You are trying to understand how much a woman can love a man to be able to live with all this. Why she lived with it.”
He spins around, reaching me in two short strides, and locks his fingers around my chin, squeezing it hard. “Stop talking.”
Instead of listening to his warning, I continue to fire at him with my mental blows, barely croaking the words through his hold. “Despite the pain he inflicted on her and you, she stayed. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t blame him. You can’t forgive her that, so you try to understand. But I’m not her.” He lets go of me, breathing heavily. His hands travel to my hair, gripping it painfully, as I wince in pain but do not defer my assault. “I won’t love you despite everything, Kierian. If there is a chance to kill you and escape my captivity, I will.”
He doesn’t reply, but instead presses the blade to my neck, threateningly close to an artery, many expressions crossing his face as if he doesn’t know what to feel. “And that kills you, doesn’t it? Because compared to your mom, I have nothing to live for. She had you.”
He growls and unties my hands, clearly wanting to get rid of me. “Shut. Up!” he screams in my face, deafening me for a second, but I can’t stop.
Kierian is a prisoner of his psychological trauma that unfortunately my presence triggered. Why? Because the minute he saw me, he wanted me.
A normal man would have chased me down, and in time, we’d call it an instant attraction that led to a relationship.
But because he can’t explain his desire, he transformed the first attraction into this grand plan.
Killing any chance we might have ever had.
“I won’t!” Fisting his shirt, I bring him closer as he shakes with the impact of my words. “You will never break me. Never.” Licking my dry lips, I add, “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, but I can’t be with a man who wants to hurt me.” I don’t see where I put my other hand as I reach out for him and my palm connects with the knife, bringing forth an instant scream. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” The blood pours from the wound, and it hurts so freaking much. The skin prickles around it, and it seems deep. I suspect it will need stitches.
“Fuck!” he roars, and it surprises me so much I close my mouth. He frees me and picks me up, almost running upstairs.
There he places me on the counter in the bathroom as he takes out the first aid kid, then turns on the water and wipes away the blood. I can’t help the whimper of agony that slips out of me and the tears that are unstoppable at this point. So much for my stoic front.
“Why did you have to do something so stupid?” he asks gruffly, displeasure written all over him as he focuses on my palm and puts on gloves to clean it up properly. “You’re hurt now.”
In any other circumstance, that would have been sweet, his worry.
But now?
It’s quite funny.
“Wasn’t it what you wanted? I just sped up the process.”
Chapter Eighteen
Psychopath, 13 years old
Walking down the hall to the library, I ignore the stares thrown my way and place my headphones back over my ears as the hard rock blasts, eliminating the outside world.
Idiots.
Stepping inside the library, Miss Jane smiles at me widely, and I return it. She is the only person who has always allowed me to take more books, so yeah.
I stroll to the table at the far end, then go hunt for a book.
I shuffle through the shelves, searching; we are supposed to submit a history report about the Civil War. I have to have it done a few weeks ahead, because my chemistry teacher, Mr. David, has promised to show me a special chemical reaction plants have on a toxic mix o
f certain atoms. Although it’s forbidden to show me this kind of information, he seems to live in his own world and drinks up any attention from students who show an interest in his profession. He had dreamed about a big future in science, but he wasn't “smart enough.”
His words, not mine.
My eyes land on the strange additions to the pile of used books, and I pause while cracking my neck to the side. They are brought here by people who no longer want them, so they donate them to schools.
“Criminal Psychology,” I murmur, the title sparking my interest, and I pick it up. “How to understand the mind of a serial killer.”
Serial killer?
My history project long forgotten, I open the book while resting my back on the chair and read.
Because the book gives me the perfect description, play by play, on how to pull off a spotless crime.
It took me a few more months to create a plan to turn my life for the better, but back then, I didn't see it was a sign.
A sign I was just like the people I’d read about, and even though I thought I was doing it to protect myself, truth was I liked it.
That later on I would use it on other people.
Evil is not born after all; it’s made.
But if I had to do it all over again?
I would.
New York, New York
June 2018
Psychopath
Her words freeze my movements, but then I raise my troubled eyes to her, only to see her avoiding my gaze, as if she is afraid to look at me.
Stupid, beautiful girl.
She cut herself deep; it will throb like a bitch, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.
And I hate it, just like I hate the fact that I can’t hurt her.
I don’t want to hurt her.
Seeing her pale skin covered in bruises doesn’t bring joy or pride or whatever the fuck else I’d hoped for. My lips long to trace them with my tongue and make them all feel better; she deserves better than this.
My Ella.
“Or it’s only okay for you to hurt me, but not the other way around?” She still fishes for answers I don’t know how to give her.
Despite claiming everything under the moon, she loves me and searches for good. But there is no good in me.
My father killed it.
“No one is allowed to hurt you. No one. Even you,” I growl against her as her jaw drops open, and she shakes her head.
But then her brown pools widen as she notices me preparing the injection. “What are you doing with the needle?”
My brows furrow at the fear detected in each word. “It’s a pain killer. I will inject it into your palm so you won’t feel me stitching it.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
My mouth lifts in a smile. “Yeah. Learned at an early age.” And then God knows why, I add, “Mom taught me. Someone had to tend to her wounds. Mostly it was me if the places were hard to get to.”
She blinks and then casts her eyes down, sighing heavily. “It was hell, huh?”
I administer the injection and she winces, biting on her fist while she kicks the cupboard under her with her heel.
“Shh.” I keep her still then apply antiseptic and begin to stitch it. “Won’t be great work, so you’ll most likely have a scar.” Her healthy hand travels up my stomach to my chin and grabs it, to my fucking surprise.
“You didn’t answer me.”
A humorless chuckle echoes between us, while she grinds her teeth. “If it wasn’t hell, would you be here now? But it doesn’t matter what I lived through, does it? Nothing justifies what I do in your mind, so this is a moot point.” This fucking wound will sting. Why did she hurt herself? “We all have our own demons. No need to know mine.”
“But I already do,” she mumbles, but it’s so barely audible I think I’ve imagined it. She clears her throat. “I’m sorry about your mom. No one deserves that.”
My jaw tics, as do my hands, because the thought of an amazing yet not understandable woman always brings hectic emotions inside me.
No woman deserves the hell Mom lived through.
Looking back now, I see I could never have saved her, because I was just a kid. But I wonder how a man could have brainwashed her so much that she thought dying was better than escaping him?
Is it the same as what I’m trying to do with Ella? I don’t kill her, because my entire being doesn’t allow it, but I keep her here and wait for her to break.
Breaking a woman’s spirit… what will be the consequences?
And will that love have meaning?
We stay silent for the next fifteen minutes as I stitch the wound, apply cream, and patch it up with a bandage, securing it tightly around her palm.
Then I clean her thigh scratches, but she doesn’t even react to those.
Finally done, I pick her up and place her on the couch, while she mutters, “I can walk.”
“And do something stupid again? No thanks.”
“I’ll die anyway. What difference does it make when?”
Pulling her hair hard, I bring her mouth closer to mine as she breathes heavily. “I’ll advise you not to harm what’s mine, Ella. Or show me sass.”
Now she becomes angry, slapping my hand away. “I have either sass or hysterics. You think any of this is normal? You know how a woman acts in this situation?”
I shake my head. “Not from firsthand experience. I don’t kidnap women.” Or kids. Or anyone besides abusive fuckers who think they are the kings of the world.
“Well, she’d scream and beg. I can’t afford such behavior, as it won’t do me any good or help me escape you. So I don’t care that you don’t want me to hurt myself. You should have thought about it before you kidnapped me. You know I’m a fighter.”
“That’s why I chose you.”
She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing. “You want me to fight for this love?”
“No. I wanted you to fight for yourself.”
She rises and sways a little, and I make a move to help her, but she steps back. “Well, you got that in spades. This is a dead end, Kierian. A dead end. We have no chance,” she whispers with resignation and collapses back onto her seat with a loud thud.
Her stomach rumble fills the space and her cheeks heat up. “I told you to eat breakfast.” I quickly grab the untouched pancake plate and place it on her lap. “Eat.” She doesn’t object, just like yesterday, and it hits me. “More strength when fed, right?”
“I don’t have to justify anything to you.”
And she continues to munch on her food while I try to study the unfamiliar emotions inside my chest that make me act and sound like a hormonal teenager instead of a serial killer.
Chapter Nineteen
Psychopath, 14 years old
“I told you to fucking clean it yesterday,” Dad’s voice bellows from downstairs, and I snap my eyes open and turn on the bedside lamp, rubbing my forehead. There is a loud crash and a stifled cry as he raises the volume of the football game louder so it will eliminate all other sounds.
My door opens, a crack of light from the hallway visible as Kim slips in and quickly jumps on my bed, hiding under the covers as she plasters her small body against me. She trembles all over, whispering something under her breath, probably a song.
That’s what she usually does.
I roll my eyes; the kid is annoying. No matter how many times I’ve told her not to come in here, she won’t listen.
Oddly enough, the old man has left me alone since he married Suzanne, but she continues to get bruises once a week. He doesn't beat her like my mother for every small screw up; after all, we still have the attention of the neighborhood on us… but nevertheless.
She stays with him, just like my mom, albeit she never lets him touch her kid.
Or me, come to think of it.
She just whispers that he’ll change and once again become that loving and caring man who she fell in love with. I barely stifle my laughs any time
she mentions it, because honestly, the fucker isn't capable of such emotion. However, he never gets as violent with her as with my mom, and I did wonder when his barely contained fury will once again spill all over our house.
Showtime is here, it appears.
“He’s angry again,” Kim murmurs, peeking from the blanket, and I look down at her.
She has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and sometimes that pleading look begs me to do something I cannot refuse.
Maybe because I recognize myself in it. Only I had no one to beg back then.
“Please, no. Matt—” Suzanne doesn't finish, as another crash sounds in the distance, and I know what it means.
“He’s hurting her,” Kim says, ready to run and defend her mom, but I stop her and tuck her back in as I rush to the door.
I call over my shoulder, “Do not come. Stay put.” No child should see his or her mom being beaten. Those scars would stay with her forever.
I take the stairs three at a time, only to see Suzanne on her knees in front of Dad who has wrapped his black leather belt around her neck, a smile gracing his features while she holds on to it, trying to free herself while gasping for air. Her face has turned blue, and she is barely keeping herself up.
What a fucking asshole. “Let go!” I shout, and he turns his attention to me, surprise reflected on his face, but then the wide grin comes back.
“Oh, you finally decided to come, huh?” Approval laces his voice as he drags her to the side, loosening the tight hold for a second as she gasps for breath but then tightening it again. “Do you miss me torturing your mom like this? Want to stay and watch just like old times?” He licks his lips while Suzanne’s mouth gapes open, remorse and shock written all over her features as she gazes at me.
“Let go of her,” I repeat.
“You are too cocky for your own good. You think I won’t teach you a lesson since you’ve grown bigger and have the support of everyone?” True, slowly but surely, I’ve made friends with the popular kids, upped my grades, and generally built a circle of support around me so Matt won't have access to me.