The Truths we Burn (The Hollow Boys Book 2)

by Monty Jay

  The Truths we Burn Monty Jay Copyright © 2021 by Monty Jay

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other.

  Cover Art by Opulent Designs

  Editing by Sandra with One Love Editing

  Proofreading by Sandra Shipman & Kara Hildebrand

  Formatting by AJ Wolf Graphics

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Trigger Warning

  Playlist

  MAP

  ACT I: Morning Star

  Chapter One: Genesis

  Chapter Two: And…Action!

  Chapter Three: The Book of The Scorned

  Chapter Four: Night Terrors

  Chapter Five: A Man’s Sow, He Shall Reap

  Chapter Six: Up Close and Personal

  Chapter Seven: Garden of Eden

  Chapter Eight: When the Levee Breaks

  Chapter Nine: The Fire That Never Goes Out

  Chapter Ten: What the Devil Deserves

  Chapter Eleven: Oh, How the Fallen Fall

  Chapter Twelve: Extraction

  Chapter Thirteen: Exodus

  Act II: The Rise of a Fire God

  Chapter Fourteen: White Noise

  Chapter Fifteen: Ten of Swords

  Chapter Sixteen: Your Past Is Calling

  Chapter Seventeen: Boiling Point

  Chapter Eighteen: Breathe

  Chapter Nineteen: Self-Inflicted Wounds

  Chapter Twenty: The Gauntlet

  Chapter Twenty-One: What’s Due Is Done

  Chapter Twenty-Two: A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Devil’s Backbone

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Double-Edge Sword

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgive Me Father

  Chapter Twenty-Six: All our Secrets

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Accidents Happen, Right?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: When Abel Killed Cain

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Time to Pick a Side

  Chapter Thirty: Punishment

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Phoenix

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Pain & Pleasure

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Hate But Make it Holy

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Eternal Flame

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Inside The Mind Of A Killer

  Thank You

  Book Preview

  The Lies We Steal

  Chapter One: When Darkness Calls You Home

  Afterword

  Books By Monty Jay

  Stay Connected

  To the Sage Donahue’s of the world. Don’t you dare apologize for becoming what you had to in order to survive. You forged yourself from the flames. Bow to no one.

  “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!” - Dante Alighieri

  TRIGGER WARNING

  I like for readers to go in blind for the sake of the plot, however, I felt it was necessary to state before that this is a dark romance. It deals with sensitive subject matter, sexual assault, graphic violence, gore, issues of religion, topics that some my find triggering and others. If you have a problem with any of these topics, please do not continue.

  PLAYLIST

  King of Fools- Rafferty

  Devils Backbone- The Civil Wars

  Gangsta’s Paradise- Coolio

  Jungle- Emma Louise

  Get Out Alive- Andrea Russett

  Running (Dyin to live)- 2Pac

  Animals- Living in Fiction

  Runaway- Lil Peep

  GO TO HELL- Clinton Kane

  Talking Body- Don Vedda

  This is War- Matthew Raetzel

  Red Roses-Lil Skies

  She Thinks of Me- Landon Tewers

  Lucifer, My love- The Templars

  DiE4u- Bring Me The Horizon

  Die With Me- Gemini Syndrome

  FEEL NOTHING- The Plot in You

  Pretty Poison- Nessa Barrett

  Empty Slow- Lil Mavi

  Play With Fire- Sam Tinnez

  Without Me- Fame on Fire

  Wolf in your Darkness Room- Matthew Mayfield

  Most say Lucifer fell for his rebellion.

  I say God’s favorite of all the angels fell in love.

  Captivated, enthralled, consumed with the only woman he could never have.

  The only woman to exist.

  Adam’s first wife, Lilith.

  He watched from the heavens, furious that Adam made her lesser. Refused to make her his equal, although they had been created from the same pit.

  Oh, the fury that burned inside Lucifer when God punished Lilith for her rebellion against her husband, turning her into a demon.

  And so, Lucifer fell.

  Like lightning from the heavens, he fell.

  So that he could raise the kingdom in the underworld. Carving a throne from the ashes of Hell, becoming a king.

  Creating a home for Lilith. A place where he could make her more than an equal.

  A place where he would make her his queen.

  rook - the past

  Masochism.

  Pleasure in being abused or dominated. A taste for suffering.

  I always liked that definition—a taste for suffering. It’s almost poetic, and I didn’t know the Merriam-Webster dictionary could be anything but conventional.

  While being dominated isn’t something I necessarily enjoy in the bedroom or in life, I can always get down with a little scratch-and-bite action. For me, at least, it’s less about domination and more about the hurting.

  Some call it sadomasochism. That’s what I like.

  You see, I really love pain.

  God, it’s like the cure-all. The magic bullet. The ultimate escape.

  The way bruises hover on my body and ache for days after. Sometimes I like to press them when they are still purple, just so I can remember where they came from, ya know?

  I love the way pain explodes inside my skin, reminding me of all the things I deserve punishment for. The constant reminder that even on Earth, we must all pay for our sins.

  Hell would be a walk in the park.

  I practically ruled it.

  “It’s all your fault, Rook.” His voice stings like coals against the soles of my feet. “The Lord examines the righteous, but the wicked, those who love violence, he hates with a passion!”

  “Then shouldn’t he hate you as much as he hates me?” I spit back.

  A son is supposed to be his father’s proudest achievement. I am his reckoning.

  The straightlaced, self-righteous lawyer had disappeared the fucking second he passed the threshold of this house. The tie had loosened, his hair disheveled from pacing, and I can smell his whiskey-coated breath as I walk away from the kitchen, headed to the front door.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me, you bastard!”

  Sometimes it’s not even the physical pain I need. I enjoy verbal abuse; it bites into me just as deep, just as brutal, making my toes curl, my body light up with chill bumps. It’s the only time I feel normal.

  And nothing has been normal since I was seven.

  Before I was excommunicated from my own father.

  My scalp burns as he curls his fingers into the back of my scalp, gripping my thick hair and jerking me back into his space. Damn, man, I should cut this mop.

  The earlier Bible verse rubs my skin raw, blistering my b
ones. Violence done without the name of God is something hideous, but as long as you’re quoting scripture before beating your son, it’s alright.

  It’s holy, the work of prophets.

  If we were going by Dante’s rules, I’d fall just above my father, spending eternity in the river of boiling blood in the seventh circle of Hell, while he walks for eons in the pits of hell, dancing in the sixth ditch of Malebolge.

  Was any of it true?

  Did sins rank worse in the underworld? Different punishments given based on your crimes against humanity?

  “Pulling fucking hair? What are we doing now—we in a bitch fight?” My words are simply fuel to the already raging fire inside of him.

  I could fight him back when he tosses me to the ground, do more than catch myself as my palms dig into the wooden floor, keeping me from banging my head on the hard surface, but I don’t.

  His wingtip shoe punches into my ribs, making me grunt at the abruptness of the discomfort. I roll to my back, breathing out with a grin and staring up at the ceiling, wondering if God is laughing the way I am right now, happy that the devil is being punished on earth.

  My laugh comes out cold and breathless.

  It’s amazing what you find funny when you’ve seen what I have. When you’ve been through what I have. Comedies featuring Seth Rogan and Will Ferrell just don’t do it for me anymore.

  “You’re getting old,” I choke out. “I can barely feel these now. You should hit the gym.”

  “Ah!” he yells loudly, charging down on top of me, both knees on either side of my chest, his fist connecting solidly with my face. I taste the blood from my split lip, the metallic sting warming my tongue. “I should just kill you! You should have died—it should have been you!”

  Throbbing pain shoots through my skull as he grabs the front of my shirt, picking up my upper half from the ground only to toss me straight back down. Damn, that’s going to give me a headache.

  Over and over again, he lifts me up just to sling me back down. I’m swimming in my head, stars dancing in the corners of my eyes. Another concussion added to the growing list of injuries received from the man who created me.

  “Then do it! Kill me!” I shout in my haze, feeling every ounce of this. Drowning in it. Allowing it to submerge me completely.

  I hear his heavy breathing when he stops shaking me, and I stare up at the man who once taught me how to throw a baseball, who would toss me up on his shoulders so I could see over crowds, a man who used to look at me with fatherly love.

  Now all I see inside of his eyes is the bloodshot misery I put there. The anguish I gifted him. I’d killed the part of him that believed in happiness, in good, in everything light.

  This is my land of atonement.

  This is what makes the pain feel so fucking good.

  Knowing I deserve it.

  “I hate you.” He seethes. Spit flies from his tongue and smacks me on the face. “You’re nothing but the devil. You will pay for this, all your wickedness.”

  There it is.

  My darling nickname. His favorite for me.

  The devil.

  El diablo.

  Lucifer.

  I had been an angel once, when I was a kid, before I was cast out of the good graces and left to burn.

  Church used to be somewhere I didn’t mind going. When my mother was alive, and we were all happy. Now I’d catch fire walking through the door.

  We stay there, staring each other down with enough contempt and fury to power New York City during a goddamn apocalypse. Deep breathing and damning history that will never be washed cleaned from our memories.

  I have taken the man who thinks logically and analytically, turned him into a brash, impulsive beast. I made him into an older version of myself, both of us caught in our own version of purgatory.

  I’ve ruined my father.

  And every day he makes me pay for that. With his hands, his words, his religion.

  A blaring horn seems to snap him back to a bit of his sanity as I swallow, trying to shove the dryness down my throat. “Welcome to the club.”

  I push his hands off me as he climbs off my body, leaving me lying there without a hand to help me up. Not like I thought he would assist me, but it was worth noting.

  Even at seventeen, I stand taller than him as I rise to my feet. A couple of inches allows me to stare down at him, my hair falling in front of my eyes some. “At least have the balls to finish the fucking job next time.”

  His shoulders heave as he takes breaths, coming back to reality. He stalks to the kitchen to grab the whiskey glass on the table, raising it to his lips and pouring it down his throat.

  The irony of it all is that he grabs his Bible off the counter next to it.

  “You think God is going to help you while you’re drowning your liver? Gluttony is pretty high up on his lists of what not to do.”

  I might be a bastard, but at least I’m not a hypocrite.

  Ignoring my statement completely, he states, “Don’t you question my faith, son. And I don’t want you hanging out with them anymore. Burning down that willow tree was the last straw, Rook. You have no idea the strings that needed to be pulled to clear you of that.”

  I chuckle, grabbing my hoodie from the back of the couch. I pull it over my head, tugging it down my body. “Final straw. First straw. Doesn’t matter, man.” Turning to face him as I walk backwards, I spread my arms wide. “You can’t keep me from them. It’ll never happen. Just like I can’t keep you from polishing off that entire bottle tonight. Remember, I’m the devil. The devil does as he pleases.”

  I don’t bother denying the tree. He knows I did it. Hell, everyone knows I did it. But without any proof, with no witnesses, there isn’t shit they can do, and that is the beauty of it all.

  Walking around knowing everyone sees me as a chaotic arsonist, from the police to teachers—they all know what I am.

  The Antichrist is what they call me. Pooled from the loins of Satan. Hell on planet Earth, or in this case, hell for Ponderosa Springs.

  I love it.

  How they clutch their rosary when I walk by. Whisper three Hail Marys because just glancing at me is a sin.

  I love that they know all the things I’ve done and can do nothing to stop me. Not now, not ever.

  There is no stopping me.

  Stopping us.

  And you know what? Fuck that tree.

  He looks at me, dead eyes full of disgust. “You make me sick.” He grabs the neck of his whiskey bottle and walks away to the den, not speaking another word to me before I leave.

  I tug the door open, slamming it behind me with a thud, not missing a beat as I walk down the driveway towards Alistair’s car. The tinted windows shield his hateful ass from me, but I already know there is a permanent scowl awaiting me behind the glass, even if he’s in a good mood.

  Slipping into the passenger seat, I lean back into the headrest with a deep breath. There is a pause of silence, and I can feel Alistair staring at the side of my face.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Caldwell?” I ask, still looking forward.

  “Yeah, you have blood on your fucking chin. Clean that shit up.” He reaches into the glove box, tossing white napkins into my lap.

  I take them easily, wiping at my chin. The red stains them almost immediately. Tomorrow, the cut will be nothing but a dull ache, and in a few days, I’ll probably peel the scab back just to feel it hurt all over again.

  Unless he hits me again and splits it back open.

  Either way.

  “I spar with you almost every other day. You can hit him fucking back.”

  Rubbing harder to make sure it’s all off, I respond, “I can handle it.”

  He shakes his head, pulling out of the driveway and heading towards the Peak to meet up with the other guys. The last few days of summer are fading to black, senior year of high school slowly approaching, and I’m not looking forward to seeing so many faces.

  I spend ninet
y percent of my time surrounded by the same four people, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  I reach into my black jeans for my pack of Marlboro Reds and pull one stick from the pack.

  “It’s not about you handling it. I’m aware you can take a punch. It’s the fucking principle, Rook. How are you just going to sit back while your dad beats the shit out of you?”

  Balling up the napkin, tightening my fist around the material, and tossing it onto his floorboard, I lean back and shut my eyes. Out of habit, I flick the Zippo through my fingers, rolling it around a few times before striking the flint and putting the flame to the tip.

  “How about you let me worry about my father, alright? I’m fine. One more year and we’ll be off at college, far, far away.” I inhale the smoke deep into the bottom of my lungs. “I’ve been dealing with this since I was a kid. I can do one more year. So just drop it, bro.”

  An aggravated grunt fills the car before I watch him press his foot farther onto the accelerator, and I barely blink when we hit eighty-five and climbing. If we die in a crash, we die in a crash.

  Everyone ends up in the same place at some point, six feet under. Doesn’t matter how we get there.

  Ya see, we all feel the same way. Well, all of us except for Silas’s lovestruck ass.

  Thatcher, Alistair, and I want out of this town so damn bad we would claw our way through barbed wire to get there. Even if it means dying. We will get out of this place. Each of us has different reasons, but it all comes down to the history that’s attached to us. The memories we can never escape here because this town is a coffin.

  It suffocates you with your past, never letting you move on. Never letting you forget.

  “I hate when you say ‘bro.’ It’s fucking annoying.”

  I laugh, pulling my hood onto my head. “Yeah, well, I hate when you’re a grouchy asshole, but that’s not changing anytime soon.”

  “Whatever, smartass.”

  Music drowns out our voices as we tear down the road. Alistair has mad control issues, so until we reach our destination, I’m stuck listening to metal, which is fine every once in a while. But my ears start getting numb after the seventh guitar solo. For two people who are so close, our musical tastes couldn’t be more different.