Mutilated Dreams

by Hadena James

  Mutilated Dreams

  Hadena James

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

  Copyright © Hadena James 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  Also By Hadena James

  Dreams & Reality Novels

  Tortured Dreams

  Elysium Dreams

  Mercurial Dreams

  Explosive Dreams

  Cannibal Dreams

  Butchered Dreams

  Summoned Dreams

  Battered Dreams

  Belladonna Dreams

  Mutilated Dreams

  The Brenna Strachan Series

  Dark Cotillion

  Dark Illumination

  Dark Resurrections

  Dark Legacies

  The Dysfunctional Chronicles

  The Dysfunctional Affair

  The Dysfunctional Valentine

  The Dysfunctional Honeymoon

  The Dysfunctional Proposal

  The Dysfunctional Holiday

  Short Story Collection

  Tales to Read Before the End of the World

  Table of Contents

  Also By Hadena James

  Bleed For Me

  Brady Wilchek

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Balance

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Nikita Kozlov

  Work

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Remorse

  Apex

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Spiraling

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Deals

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Home

  Beginnings

  Hadena James

  ~*~

  Bleed For Me

  The wine was warm with a musky taste. Valerie McGregor finished the glass and poured another, much smaller amount in it. From her balcony, she could see the French Quarter. It always smelled of alcohol, grease, and perfume. They were comforting smells.

  Growing up in New Orleans, she was surrounded by the sights and smells of life in the South. Her parents had money and she was a beauty, making her popular from birth. Everyone had told her that she would be a movie star or a model when she was growing up, and she had been, for a while.

  After leaving the bustling streets of New Orleans, she had gone to Los Angeles to become a model. Having a pretty face and a nice body hadn’t been enough though. Her dreams had crumbled, slowly, without her even noticing. Tired of waiting tables and working as a secretary to pay her rent, she had done the unthinkable; she had agreed to meet a man and engage in the oldest profession in the world.

  Only, it hadn’t been what she thought it was to be. He didn’t want to fuck her or get a blowjob, he wanted her to bleed. Bleed she did, from nineteen lacerations to her face and torso. He’d paid to cut her up and ruin her beauty. He’d paid to watch her slowly die.

  When the building security guards arrived the next morning, they found her nude body still strung up. The blood had congealed in a large puddle under her feet. The cold, tacky substance coated her body. The hiss of air that came from her as the paramedics cut her down had made several people jump.

  That had been ten years earlier. She still bore the scars, looking more like Frankenstein’s Monster than a woman. However, unlike the Monster, her physical scars were only pitiful to look at, while her psychological scars were terrifying. The girl everyone had thought was so beautiful hadn’t dated, hadn’t even been with a man in a sexual situation, since that night. She detested them, all of them.

  They had not caught the man that carved her up. Her psychiatrist had thrown out words like closure. They knew as much about closure as she did about the farthest reaches of the universe. She had felt abandoned, because once there was no justice.

  She moved back home after that. She welcomed the nightlife of New Orleans. She blended in with the freaks and fantasizers that wandered the French Quarter. Few, if any, noticed her when she went out after dark in this city, because this was the city of mystery, ghost stories, and vampires. She was just one freak among many.

  It didn’t help her anger. It didn’t help her rage. The therapists kept telling her that she just needed more time, but she had had time to come to terms with the new her. It still pissed her off. As did the stupid things that rolled off the tongues of her therapists about time healing wounds, and at least she had closure.

  The only thing that made the monster quiet for even a moment was hunting. The streets of New Orleans at night provided her with plenty of big game. Men who were beautiful, too beautiful to be trifled with by a woman like her. Men who thought a good smile and a wad of cash gave them license to do whatever they wanted, including destroying lives.

  She needed them to bleed to soothe her hatred. Tonight was one of those nights. The restlessness was coming over her as she sat on her balcony and stared at the crowds below. Summer was ending and the tourist season was still in full swing. Men and women of all ages moved through the streets and laughed loudly. The sound grated on her nerves. A headache was starting to form. It spread across her shoulders like the warm breeze blowing across her damaged face.

  A strange vibration ran through her that was almost electrical in nature. It made her skin tingle, and caused the hairs to stand up on her arms, and her heart to flutter. As the city came to life, so did she.

  She put the wine glass on the table and stood. Her muscles and ligaments popped as she moved. It took a few steps to work out all the kinks in her body, as she’d become stiff sitting the chair on the balcony. The mostly empty bottle of wine told her that she had sat there longer than she thought.

  Every detail of her outfit had to be perfect. Every aspect needed to emphasize whatever beauty might be found in her destroyed face. It needed to draw attention away from the scars, dragging the eye along much more attractive lines. She settled on black leather pants with knee high boots. The boots flared where they ended, allowing movement of the joint they covered. The three-inch heels made her long legs look amazingly longer. She forewent panties, knowing the outline would show through the leather. A black lace push-up bra went on next, giving her cleavage that would have made most strippers envious. Over this went a deep plunge red camisole top made of silk. She tucked it into the leather, knowing that she would have to send it out for dry cleaning to get the wrinkles out of it. The final touch was a sheer black peasant’s blouse.

  As long as a person avoided looking at her face, she would pass as a model, she thought, and gave a dry laugh. She still needed make-up. Make-up was essential, even in a city like New Orleans. It had to be applied just right or it would cake in the scars. She bought only the very best to help with these problems. She hated the idea of wearing pancake make-up, preferring her once natural beauty to that of the fake, thick, goop that would be required to make her
appear normal.

  Once the make-up was applied, she stared at her reflection. The face was better, but the scars were still visible. Jagged tears zigzagged across her cheeks, her brow, and her chin, even one along her eye. She hated that reflection, and she hated the woman it showed.

  It wasn’t just the physical scars that she saw. There were other adjectives and nouns to describe that woman. Words like victim, whore, shame, guilt, and ugly came to her mind immediately. If she stared too long, she could think of worse ones. Tonight, she shoved it away, tearing her gaze from the mirror.

  Of course, it was her fault. She knew that. Everyone involved in the case knew that. If she hadn’t decided to turn a trick for a quick bit of cash, she wouldn’t be sitting alone in her New Orleans apartment. She wasn’t a victim, she had volunteered. She had volunteered to be brutalized and left for dead. She had known the dangers and she had done it anyway. The therapists and everyone else told her not to blame herself, but it was hard not to when she knew, deep down that she had volunteered to meet the man who had turned out to be a monster.

  She entered the street her heels clacking against the hard surface. If the streets hadn’t been crowded, they would have sounded like gunshots. The throng of bodies dampened the sound. She knew how to walk, sashaying her hips, using the heels to help maximize the effect of the sway.

  The nightclub she sought was nestled between a Voodoo shop for tourists and a restaurant serving authentic Cajun food. The club catered to the darker side of humanity. There were Go-Go Dancers in cages. Most of the patrons were dressed in black with heavy make-up. The music was loud. A KMFDM song blared over from the speakers, not one of the few everyone knew, but one that only those that followed the band would know: WWIII.

  The crowd was mostly local Goths. The kind that dressed in flowing clothing, danced slowly even when the song was as hard and fast as WWIII, and they wore too much eyeliner. These were not on the menu. Some of them were pretty, some of them had money, but they were more likely to harm themselves than others. The ones she wanted were the ones that had wandered in off the street because of the beat and the Go-Go Dancers. The ones that thought themselves better than those darkly clad dancers.

  She spotted one, leaning against the bar, his eyes checking out every short skirted, darkly clad girl that walked past. He was slumming and he knew it. His interest in these women was more about the conquest than about the woman herself. He would shower her with pretty words and whisper erotic things into her hair. His hands would explore her lacy folds. In the morning, he would kick her out faster than he would remember her name. It was another conquest to brag about to his snobby buddies, and he was exactly the type of man that would find her mental anguish appealing.

  She imagined she was a few years older than he was, but she still had her charms. She still knew how to work her long legs and sashay at the hips when she walked. Her ample breasts and the dark interior would ensure that his focus was not on her face or her age.

  The heels of her boots clacked against the hardwood floor, but the sound was lost amid the music and noise. As she slipped between the crowds of people, her body moved with sensuality. She sidled up to the bar, making sure to be too close to him and ordered a drink. Her preference was tequila, but hard alcohol sent the wrong messages when it was ordered straight up. Women didn’t sip tequila from glasses filled with ice. They drank it mixed into fruity, frozen things so they couldn’t taste it. The bartender passed her the Amaretto Sour she had ordered. The man next to her paid for it and started chatting with her. He was drunker than she had expected, which worked in her favor. It took less than twenty minutes to convince him to go somewhere else.

  That somewhere else was a derelict house that sat on the outskirts of the French Quarter. Local lore had it once belonging to a witch, the evil kind that practiced black magic and consorted with the devil. In a city full of magic, even a place like this was avoided. No one dared to come here for fear of curses, hexes, and evil spirits. It would have been the perfect inspiration for Clive Barker or Stephen King to weave a spell around.

  The windows were still intact. The doors were still on their hinges. Voodoo priests and priestesses had put charms and wards around these entrances to keep the evil trapped within. The wrought iron fence was covered in some sort of vine and had rusted years ago, allowing parts of it to break under the weight and strange growth patterns of the plant. The two story white stone mansion had been vacant for decades, but shutters were blistered and peeling. Fire had scorched one side of the stone and the black shapes imprinted on it were terrifying, even at night. One light burned in the front room; a single lamp that had been placed there some years earlier and was always on.

  She produced a key from her handbag, unlocked the door, and let her prey into the Witch’s house for a night he would never forget.

  Brady Wilchek

  Brady Wilchek sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He refused to look into any of the mirrors, as his brain was frantically searching for some sort of memory to help his situation. However, it was only dredging up memories regarding how he used to look.

  His days of getting the girls were over. The dazzling smile couldn’t overshadow the terrible scars. Long, lazy days on the beach were a thing of the past. Even if he did adjust to the face, he would never be able to take his shirt off in public again.

  His father’s pasty, potbellied body flashed in his mind, but cruelly stuck his own face on it. Evan Wilchek liked his wine and his women. His money assured him that some buxom beauty was always hanging from his arm, but that wasn’t the life Brady had intended to lead.

  In Brady’s future there had been a beautiful wife, not exactly a trophy wife as his father preferred, but a beauty all the same. He would have worked in a corporate law office as one of the good-looking junior partners. He had envisioned yachts, vacation homes, and children. His wife would have been smart as well as beautiful. She would be willing to stay home with the children, possibly even home schooling them, and there was no doubt that his children would be intelligent.

  All of that was gone. His life now would require that his wife had to be impressed by his money, not his looks or charm. She would probably have too much plastic surgery and she would be a bimbo. He wouldn’t get a job in law. He didn’t have the looks. Lawyers were good looking, and he now looked like Dr. Frankenstein had patched him together. He didn’t have a fall back career. He guessed he would end up working behind the scenes at one of his father’s stupid hotels. The days would be spent miserably staring at the sea just yards away, but it might as well be miles, since he would never set foot on the sandy beaches of the Florida Keys again.

  Kids were also out. While he imagined money would buy him time with his wife, he doubted it bought him breeding rights. They would have to adopt. Unfortunately, no one was going to let a monster like him adopt a child. His looks would traumatize the poor kid.

  Without children, his wife would get a stupid little dog that fit in a stupid little purse and she would carry him around all the time, taking him everywhere. Brady would feel the burden. Those kinds of women existed when their husbands couldn’t fill some void that needed filling, like producing children.

  Some gang of thugs had ruined his life because of their envy of his looks, of his money, of his talents, and of his opportunities that had been vast enough to cause them to do this. Or maybe they had done it just because they could. Had his friends forgotten him? Perhaps his friends had done this to him. He was the alpha of the group, and it was a position dictated by his superior looks and deep pockets.

  His mind reeled as it tried to comprehend how this had happened to him. He vaguely remembered going to a club, but everything after that was blank. He didn’t know if there had been anything special about the club or if his friends had gone with him. He wasn’t even sure why he had gone. They were here for a wedding, not to go clubbing.

  The wedding consumed his thoughts. He was the best man. Had it already happened? Had Pete and Andrea a
lready gotten married? He didn’t know what day it was, or if it had been postponed due to his absence. Surely, Pete hadn’t gone through with a wedding when his best man was missing. That would be a shitty thing to do. Although, if Pete hadn’t, he’d have to find a new best man. There was no way that Brady could be the best man now. He’d look awful in all the wedding photographs.

  At twenty-four, Brady wasn’t ready for his life to be over, but he didn’t see any good coming of his situation. His entire life had hinged on law school and he had been accepted. The college would no doubt revoke that now. They wouldn’t want someone who looked like him running around their campus.

  He let his head fall onto the hospital gown that covered his chest. The gown covering the wounds hurt, yet, he couldn’t stand the idea of people looking at them. He sighed and closed his eyes. There were good plastic surgeons in Florida, but he doubted they could help. Nevertheless, he would contact them and see what could be done. Anything would be an improvement. Once he was fixed as much as possible, he might be able to get a somewhat cute girl. She wouldn’t be the woman he wanted, but cute would do. Someone cute might be willing to have sex with him and not make it all about the money. Yeah, cute might work. If it didn’t, he’d fall back on his wallet to get a woman he could tolerate.

  One

  He closed his eyes, as the meds were taking him down into a world of his own making. Some parts would be heavenly, others would be the psychopathic form of hell, but all his dreams would be haunting. Malachi’s torment was apparent when he slept.

  I often wondered what kinds of things tortured Malachi Blake, and if I had anything to do with them. Malachi was the keeper of many secrets. A few of them were my secrets, dark secrets, and the kind of secrets that might land one in a federal prison. Some things never needed to be known by anyone outside of this room.