Wicked Little Words

by Stevie J. Cole

He releases me as I hear a moan from inside. A scream. The door slams. A lock clicks.

  I have to cover my nose and mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit from the putrid smell of urine and feces and—I gag again, that awful smell actually coating the back of my throat as I drag in a breath. I bend over my knees, my eyes watering. This smell—this smell—is copper and sewage, rotting cabbage and flesh.

  “No use in trying to get out. There’s no one around for miles. I’d catch you before you got far,” Edwin says, and I swear I can hear a smile.

  A soft sobbing fills the room. I hear a slow drip, drip, drip. I don’t want to know what that noise is coming from. I don’t. My hairs stand on end, my stomach churning as my legs give out, and I fall to my knees, my head hung to my chest. And after only a second, I drop onto my hands, my palms landing in something cold and wet. I close my eyes. Dear God. I’m afraid to move my hands.

  There’s a soft buzzing sound, and an overhead fluorescent flickers on. I keep my eyes trained on the floor for I feel that may be the safest place for them, but nowhere in here is safe. The floor is covered with bloody boot prints. Underneath my hand is a mass of yellowed, congealed fat. That dripping sound that has yet to cease—it’s coming from the blood trickling off the table right in front of me.

  I want to scream. I attempt to scream. However, nothing but a rush of air leaves my lungs.

  “Stop crying, whore.”

  I watch his boots cross the room and stop at the end of the metal table. Her cries grow louder, more desperate and helpless and godawful until they are full-on screams.

  “Chastity,” Edwin says with such a sense of calm it makes chill bumps scatter across my skin. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet… Miranda?” A moment of quiet. “Miranda?”

  Slowly, I lift my head and stare at him, my jaw trembling from the utter fear pummeling through my veins at this very moment. My eyes land on Edwin, one hand on that table and a soft—dare I say genuine—smile on his face.

  “Stand up, dear.”

  I do as he requests, although my legs protest as I rise to my feet.

  “Come here.” Crooking his pointer finger, he motions me toward him.

  It’s not until I’m halfway across the room that I find the origin of the overwhelming stench that hangs like a thick, moist fog in here. Crumpled in the corner of the shed is a body. Decomposing and rotten. A sludgey mess oozes out from underneath the corpse. An axe rests in the middle of the head. The split is deep, the skull exposed, brain matter hanging from the open, disintegrating flap of skin above her ear. Dried blood and goop covers the entire torso, and gnats buzz around the corpse.

  My body shakes, and my stomach muscles bunch and tense as my body repeatedly threatens to expel the contents of my stomach. I divert my stare to the floor once again, back to the boot prints and fat and skin.

  I can hear the girl on the table breathing. Her breath is hard and labored—staggered and riddled with sobs. Her toes come into my line of vision. Her ankles are cuffed to the table. Dark bruises cover her shins and the top of her feet. I swallow and lift my gaze to Edwin, purposely avoiding the rest of this girl.

  “Miranda, this”—he motions toward the table as he arches a single brow—“look…”

  My gaze falls to the table, and I stifle a cry. The blonde lies completely nude and bound to that metal table, just like the girl in our book. Her breasts have Xs cut across them. Burn marks cover her stomach. Small crisscross patterns are slashed over her thighs, her lip busted, her eyes purple and swollen. I tell myself this isn’t real—just a bad dream. A story in a book. This is fiction because surely this is not my life right now.

  “This is Chastity.” Edwin trails a finger over the shredded skin of her breast, flicking the loose flesh.

  She cries. I shudder. He grins.

  “I’ve been saving her for years. I wasn’t quite sure what for, but when I realized what you and I were meant to be, I knew why she was put into my life. Fate.” He steps away from the table. “Fate, Miranda Cross. Just as you were meant for me, she was meant for us.” He holds his hand out as though he expects I’ll take it, but all I do is stare at him. A slight smirk plays on his lips. “Don’t be difficult.”

  “I—”

  He reaches behind him and pulls out a chair. “Have a seat.” I shake my head, and within seconds, his bruising grip has latched onto my arms. “I said—have a”—he slings me down into the chair, and it tips back onto the hind legs before falling forward—“seat. You see, Miranda, details. It’s all in the details, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Edwin, I—”

  He’s grabbed rope from a rack beside the table. All it takes are three short strides for him to be right behind me, the rope wrapping around my waist and chest as he binds me tightly to the chair. He scoots the chair next to the table Chastity is laid out on before pulling his Macbook from a drawer built into the table.

  “As I was saying…” He plops the laptop over a puddle of blood in front of me. The splat sound makes that pit in my stomach feel like a lead weight. “Details. I’ve always prided myself on vivid descriptions. The accurate descriptions of death and dying. No matter how good of an imagination you have”—he chuckles—“nothing short of experience can justly recreate it.”

  This man is mad. Insane. And I’m locked in this shed, tied to this chair with him and her and that poor dead woman in the corner. Rain pummels over the roof of the shed. The muffled sound of thunder barely rattles the walls, and from the way the ground just shook beneath my feet, that noise should have been much louder. Screaming will do me no good—just as his victims in the books are told. Screaming will do no good. There's no one for miles.

  “Edwin.” I swallow, fighting the urge to allow my gaze to fall to Chastity. “Please, don’t do this.”

  He cups my jaw, his thumb rubbing over my cheek. “It’s what must be done. You’ll see how beautiful this will be. How perfect we will be together. How wonderful our words are. And when they read them…” A pleased smile interrupts his speech. “They will read our words. Our words. They will read our words.”

  Edwin checks my restraints before he boots up the laptop. While he waits, he drags a satchel from beside the table and lays out tools: a knife, an ice pick, a hammer, a lighter, and… a hacksaw. He runs his fingers over the jagged teeth, his eyes locking with mine.

  Shaking my head, I glance at the computer screen. He jabs over the keys. The writing program opens, and he scrolls to the end of the document then shoves the computer back in front of me. “Write.”

  “Write?” I stare at the keys. “Write what?”

  “My every move. Every cry and sound she makes.” He picks up the knife and holds it over her face, his attention now directed at her. “As much as I enjoyed that mouth of yours on me…”

  He places the blade inside the corner of her mouth, slowly slicing from it to the middle of her cheek. Her legs pull against the restraints. She screams—fuck, does she scream—her back bowing from the metal table only to slam back down.

  He leans over her, his face inches from hers. “Shhh.” He takes the knife and tears through the other side of her mouth and cheek, his eyes glued to hers. “I don’t hear you writing…”

  “I… I…” I shake my head as I stare at the keys, my heart banging against my ribs with such force I fear it may stop at any moment.

  When Edwin slams his fist on the table, the handle of the knife clanging against the surface, I jump and Chastity wails. “Fucking write.”

  The knife rips through her fair skin, ruby blood weeping from the cut and mixing with her tears…

  Edwin peers over my shoulder and nods. He points a bloody finger at the words on the screen. “Worthless. Say ‘her worthless tears.’”

  I type in the word, and he pats me on the back, making me cringe.

  One thousand thirty-four words later, Chastity is barely able to keep her eyes open. They flit and flutter. She moans. Every once in a while, her fingers twitch. And I’m in te
ars, sobbing as my fingers shake over the keyboard.

  Edwin uses the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat beaded on his brow, blood smearing across his forehead in the process. “I want us to do this last bit together. We’ll write it together once we’re finished.” He reaches for me, and I jerk away. “Come now, Miranda.”

  He picks up the blood-stained knife, slips it underneath the rope, and quickly cuts it loose. Just as I go to stand, he grabs me by the throat, his fingers digging in so hard I can’t manage to drag in a decent breath. He lifts me, my jaw pressing hard against his hand. I can’t help the desperate gurgle that comes from my throat nor the way I’m clawing at his hands.

  “Don’t make me kill you.” He releases me, takes the hacksaw from where he left it in her thigh, and hands it to me. “Take it.”

  I back away with a small step.

  “Take it.” He shakes it at me, a piece of mangled flesh falling to the floor.

  Another quick, short step backward.

  “Where do you think you’re going to go, huh?” His eyes narrow, his gaze flicking to the locked door. “There’s no way out.”

  And there goes my heart. Racing. Jumping. Skipping beat after beat as a dizzy heat washes over me. Edwin grabs my arm and drags me back to the table. He squeezes my wrist. His jaw tightens as he pries my fist, finger by finger, open. He takes my hand and wraps my grip around the slick handle of the hacksaw, covering my tiny hand with his huge one. I fight him when he attempts to move the saw over her throat, but after a few shakes and jerks, his other arm wraps around my throat in a chokehold. Eventually the blade is right above her throat.

  “I’ll help you,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against the crook of my neck. “Don’t worry. The bone makes a damn terrible noise, and the spine”—he kisses right below my ear—“it’s a bitch to sever sometimes, but we’ll do it together.”

  I go limp, and the second that blade touches her skin, the first sensation I get—those vibrations of the saw tearing into her flesh and bone—I scream and shout and cry out to a god I never believed in.

  What hell have I been delivered to? My eyes veer to the screen of the computer, to those wicked little words I’ve typed, and I know it’s too late. My soul has been taken, and there is no way back from this.

  “Limousine”—Brand New

  The cold rain comes down in sheets over the windshield. The headlights of my patrol car bounce over the trees and the side of the cabin. I turn in to the driveway, not bothering to cut the engine when I jump out of the car, flashlight in hand.

  Drawing my gun, I hurry up the steps to find the door wide open, all the lights on inside.

  “Detective Peralta,” I shout as I step inside the house. It’s silent except for the ticking sound from the grandfather clock at the far side of the room. “Miranda?”

  Silence.

  I make my way down the hall, freezing when I come to the last room on the left. The door hangs from the hinges. The window is slightly cracked, and I walk over to it, shaking my head. Just before I turn to leave the room, I notice the shed on the back of the property.

  Hurrying back outside, I round the side of the house, my boots splashing in the mud, the cold rain soaking through my clothes. I aim the flashlight at the shed, the light reflecting off the droplets pouring down. On the ground in front of the door is a padlock. I reach for the door and raise my gun. The second it cracks, blood-curdling screams filter out into the night. I take a breath as I nudge the door the rest of the way open, shock rippling through my body.

  Miranda glances back at me, her eyes riddled with fear, a hacksaw clutched in her hand and hovering over a dismembered bloody mess of a body. Blood is splattered all over her porcelain skin, her clothes.

  “Make him stop! Make him stop, Jax,” she cries.

  I drop my gun to my side and stagger back a few steps before I grab onto the doorframe to steady myself. My eyes flit around the room in a desperate attempt to make sense of this all.

  “Make him stop!” she shouts again, her voice strained.

  Taking a step inside, I slowly lift the gun once more. Another steady step inside, the smell of death and blood making even my trained nose sick. “Miranda, put the saw down.”

  “He won’t let me. Edwin, please,” she begs. “Please let me go.”

  “Miranda…”

  She shakes her head, covering her mouth with a blood-covered hand.

  I aim the gun.

  “Shoot him.”

  I swallow, my pulse hammering through my temples. “You’re alone, Miranda.”

  Her eyes widen, her gaze veering to her left. “He’s right there, Jax. Shoot him.”

  She looks so certain. So sure that it makes me question myself momentarily. I glance to her left, but there’s no one there. “Miranda…” The gun is now shaking in my hands.

  I glance at the corpse on the table, two large Xs cut across her breasts. My stomach sinks. Bile rises in my throat.

  When I met Miranda, I knew there was some common thread, some connection, but I thought it was fate. She shares my burden too. I’d thought that but had no way of understanding just how fucking true and sick that commonality was. I had been hunting for the person who killed my sister, and all along, it was Miranda.

  Fighting the urge to cry, my nostrils flaring, I raise my gun, staring down the sights into those hazel eyes I thought maybe, just fucking maybe, I’d found myself in. I close my eyes, the sound of her moans echoing in my head, the way she felt pinned beneath me searing through my skin. I swallow. I open my eyes.

  "Jax… please. Help me." Her voice is barely above a whisper, fear in her eyes.

  My throat goes tight. I shake my head. My finger twitches over the trigger and…

  “Paint It Black”- Ciara

  Three months later

  I stare at the white cinder block walls, humming “Singin’ in The Rain.” I can’t get that damn song out of my head for some reason. There’s nothing in here aside from the rickety cot I’m sitting on. No windows. No sheets. No pens. Nothing. Four walls and a damn cot.

  “I know it’s difficult to understand,” Dr. Roberts says.

  My gaze veers back to her, and she offers a sympathetic smile. I hate when she does that. I’m not fucking crazy. They all think I am, but I’m not.

  “Detective Peralta said when he found you in the shed, you—”

  “Fuck him,” I say, gritting my teeth. I stare at the wall, my heart thumping against my ribs. “I hate him.”

  And I do. I still haven’t figured this all out. To be honest, it’s about to drive me mad. Actually mad. Edwin is real, and no one will listen to me. But I’ve realized that Edwin must have used Jax to set me up—blame me for his murder spree. And I’d thought Jax wanted me. I’d believed him when he told me I was beautiful. Tears blur my vision, and I rock back and forth on the cot, trying to loosen the damn jacket. I close my eyes, and all I can see is Jax—that face, that smile, those dimples. I can feel his warm lips on mine, and my chest tightens at that bittersweet memory because I know everything he said and did was a fucking lie.

  Shaking my head, I try to push away the thought of how he sounded when he came. “Jax told you I was insane. That I killed those girls. Did Jax tell you he fucked me? Just like a dirty little slut. He fucked me and used me.”

  Anger ripples through my veins, my skin heating, my temples throbbing as I recall the way he felt buried deep inside me, his hands on my hips. Just the thought of him makes me want to scream. I struggle against the fucking jacket, thrashing from side to side.

  “Elizabeth—” Dr. Roberts reaches for that little red button, and I freeze. If she pushes that button, the attending will rush in and jab me with a nice sedative. I don’t want that.

  “I’m not crazy. I bet Edwin paid Jax to set me up. You know Jax saw Edwin. He arrested me and left Edwin there with those bodies. He’ll see,” I say, a subtle laugh slipping from my lips. “Edwin will kill him too. Watch.”

  And I hope he does
. The thought actually makes me quite giddy, because Jax is a bastard. He made me believe there was some decency to humanity, that maybe I could be loved by someone. Love is bullshit. Everything about it is an ugly lie. Edwin was right—sex and money are all men are after.

  “Let me know when he kills him, will you?” I smile.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “My name’s Miranda.” I clench my jaw. “Miranda Cross.”

  She inhales, tapping her pen over the edge of her clipboard before she glances at the clock. “No, your name is Elizabeth Ann Mercer.”

  I shake my head adamantly, fighting against the tight restraint of the fucking jacket they insist I stay in. “No. It’s not.”

  “Yes. You are EA Mercer, New York Times best-selling crime author.”

  “No. That’s Edwin.” How he did this, how he managed to set me up like this, I still haven’t figured out. But I can’t really be surprised. He’s a genius.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “I’m not answering to that. Miranda. I’ll answer to Miranda.”

  She casts a stern look in my direction before jotting something on her notepad.

  “If I’m not Miranda Cross, explain to me how I worked at the Little Novel Bookstore off Fifth and Main in Atlanta. How I was enrolled in Emory.”

  “You were never enrolled in Emory. You attended UNC. And that bookstore only exists in your books, Ms. Mercer.”

  “No, I remember. And James. Creepy James…”

  “All in your novels.”

  I stare blankly at her. How can she be so stupid? Those places are real. I’ve been there. I’ve held those books. A brief memory flashes through my mind…I’m at my desk—no, at Edwin’s desk—a steaming cup of coffee next to me as I type in the name “Little Novel Bookstore.” I see the text pop up on the screen. I feel pride when I type the description of freckle-faced James. I did know a freckle-faced James…

  I shake that thought from my head. “Just ask Janine. She’ll clear all of this up.”

  Dr. Roberts arches a brow. “I can’t ask Janine, Elizabeth.”