Then, I try to limp back to my dorm.
It's purely by chance that I see sister Celeste on my way back, and for the first time, I open my mouth.
"Sister Celeste," I start, my lips quivering until I start bawling, telling her everything that happened to me. "Why? What did I do to deserve this?" I ask her, hiccupping from too much crying.
Raising my eyes at her, I'm met with a disapproving gaze. Not at all the understanding one I was hoping for.
"Assisi," she starts, her tone stern, "I can't believe you would make up such strange stories about your sisters." She shakes her head at me, tapping her foot anxiously. "You're always getting in trouble, one way or another."
Me? I'm always trying to avoid trouble. How is it my fault that everyone hates me?
I open my mouth to say just that, but Sister Celeste speaks first.
"I don't want to do this, but you need a lesson. You can't go around accusing your peers of such heinous things. This is exactly why everyone doesn't like you."
I look at her in confusion, and it slowly dawns on me that I'm the guilty one.
"Come," Sister Celeste pats me on the back steering me towards the west wing.
"But that's not my dorm." I whisper, almost wincing when she makes contact with my tender skin.
"You won't be sleeping in your room tonight," she says, and I frown.
I don't get to ask more questions as she leads me to a building I've never been to before. It looks older than the rest, and I get this strange feeling as we step inside. Goosebumps appear all over my skin, from the chilly air, or because I'm scared, I don't know.
Leading me down a narrow path, she unlocks a door with a key and pushes me inside. The room is bare save for a table next to the window.
"It's not the first time I've heard about you causing trouble, Assisi," she looks down at me accusingly.
"I've done no such thing." I try to defend myself but before I know it her palm connects with my cheek and I fall to the ground, my eyes blinking rapidly the tears from the stinging slap.
"Sister Celeste..." I whisper, shocked at the turn of events. Isn't she supposed to be someone I can turn to?
But as I look at her, so smug, I see Cressida's expression in her and I know that she's just another bully.
And I'm the most hated person at Sacre Coeur.
Dragging me towards the window, she flings me about while she gets some items from the table.
I scramble back, scared of what she means to do to me.
"Assisi," she starts, and I freeze as I see what she has in her hand.
Soap.
"You must learn not to speak ill of your sisters." She repeats, kneeling down in front of me, the soap in her hand staring at me threateningly.
It's not the first time this has happened to me, and likely won't be the last.
But as she forces me to open my mouth, brushing the soap over my lips and making me suck on a small bit, I don't know what's worse—my blistering wound, or the bubbles in my mouth, the chemical taste that won't go away for hours.
She watches in delight as my face contorts, half in pain, half in disgust, continuing to force more soap on me.
More and more until I'm heaving on the floor. I spit and spit but the taste won't go away.
"Ungrateful brat," she says, her words biting. Standing up, she throws the soap on the table, giving me one last look.
"I hope after this you'll learn." She awaits for my answer, and I can only give her what she wants.
"I won't speak against my sisters again," I whisper.
"What's that?" She asks me to clarify, and I do. My tears are already dried as I give her the words she so wants.
"Good," she gloats, "now to make sure you will remember this," she raises an eyebrow at me, "you'll spend the night here."
She doesn't wait for me to reply as she leaves the room, the sound of the door locking letting me know there's no way out.
I crawl on my knees until I reach the soap, my face scrunching in disgust, the taste still on my tongue.
But I'd learned something in my years in Sacre Coeur. Wounds fester and they get infected. And the burned cross on my chest won't be any different. I'm not even sure if soap will help, but it cleans hands, right? It should clean wounds too.
I wrap my fingers around it and lowering my uniform, I bring it to my wound, slowly rubbing it on it.
"Ahhhhh," my voice comes out in painful spurts, the sensation searing through me and bringing me close to my pain threshold. But I bear through it, knowing that if this gets infected no one will help me.
I grit my teeth and hold my tears in as I wash what I can of the wound.
By the time I'm done, I'm sapped of all my strength and I collapse on the floor.
It's dark... so dark and cold.
My teeth clattering, I turn to my side, wrapping my hands around my knees and folding my body to conserve heat.
God... am I so cursed? Am I so evil?
Everyone seems to think that I am...
Chapter Three
THE PAST
AGE TWELVE,
Sharpening my knife, I look at Marcello's work of art from the corner of my eye. Begrudgingly, I have to admit that he has a knack for this sort of thing. Whereas my end product is often messy, his is neat, every detail in place as if it had been thought out well in advance. And it had. Marcello is not one for impulsivity — he leaves that to me. No, his work is exquisitely minute.
"You're done?"
His tools fall to the ground with a thud. He nods, bringing his sleeve to wipe some of the blood from his face.
Only a couple years older than me, Marcello is the son of an Italian capo—our family's associates.
Since our very first assignment together some years back, the adults had decided that we worked best together and they'd repeatedly paired us so we could do the most unsavory work.
A bored expression on my face, I examine Marcello's handiwork. The dead man had been a rat that my father had caught feeding information to the Albanians.
I'd observed enough to know that ours was the most strategic position. With access to all the major ports, we were the first to know when a special shipment would arrive. Of course, everyone vied for that type of information, which made our organization the perfect target for infiltration.
My father had been the one doling out punishments in the past. But since he'd witnessed the damage Marcello and I could do to a prisoner, he'd decided to leave the rats to us.
A cut runs down from his neck to his pubis, splitting the man in two. His arms and legs had been nicely broken and folded inside in a grotesque manner. This was all about the show, since his body will spend at least a couple of days in the grand hall.
A reminder never to cross the Pakhan again. After all, no man wanted his body desecrated and exposed in a sick spectacle.
I know I will enjoy my own time when the exposition is done, since I get to do a thorough examination on his remains.
Vanya is already restless thinking of the opportunity.
In the last few years I'd learned to control myself better, and I'd made a promise to my father that the only men to die by my hand would be the ones with a death warrant over their heads. In return, he'd offer me any bodies he could spare to satisfy my morbid curiosity.
He doesn't realize though, that it's not only my curiosity, but Vanya's too. We share the same obsession with how things work... what makes humans tick. And we enjoy our time dissecting and discussing the insides of a corpse.
Vanya's not only my twin. She's my partner in crime. And however much my parents may be against my sisters coming near me for fear of their safety, Vanya's never been one to let others dissuade her when she's made up her mind. And we've already been inseparable since birth.
But while she may be just as deviant as I, she's also the more humane of the two. The only one who can ground me when I feel my control slipping.
I may have promised my father to not kill his men, but that doesn'
t mean it's easy for me. It's not a conscious decision when it happens. It's more like a compunction. One word from Vanya, though, and I comply.
I move out of my chair to assess Marcello's work from up close, noting some marks of hesitation.
"What's gotten into you?" I narrow my eyes as I survey the jagged lines. Lines that any other time would be perfectly straight.
Marcello's not looking at me. He's staring into the pool of blood on the ground, his expression a mix of regret and melancholy.
"Don't tell me you've gone all soft." I tilt my head to study him.
The messier the work, the harder it's going to be for me to salvage something out of the body. And it's completely unlike Marcello.
He grumbles something under his breath, taking a step back and heading towards the makeshift bathroom. Turning the faucet on, he splashes some water on his face.
I'm getting impatient, and Vanya will, too, if we don't end this soon. I'd already promised her the afternoon, and she always throws a fit when I don't fulfill my promises.
Marcello quietly steps back into the room, his head hung low. I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at him.
"My sister," he starts, and I turn to face him, surprised at his words. "It's my sister's birthday. She'll be three today."
"I didn't know you had a sister." I simply state. I've never seen Marcello like this... full of unknown emotions.
It's a state I can't deal with.
"Had... that's a good way of putting it." He says with a bitter laugh.
I frown, confused.
"I don't even know her name," he continues, sighing deeply before plopping himself on a chair.
I move closer. Marcello threads his fingers through his hair, suddenly looking tired and much older than his age.
I may not empathize with his feelings, but I do know what Vanya means to me, and a world without her would be completely bleak.
"What happened to her?" I don't know what prompts me to ask him that, since I should just ignore him and go about my day. Somehow, though, my curiosity gets the best of me.
"In a convent... she's better off there. I still wish..." he shakes his head, getting up and heading for the door.
I purse my lips, trying to identify what's happening with Marcello and how I can help him get back to his normal working capacity. We are a team after all, and one half doing a poor job will affect the entire whole.
Just as I'm going through all the possibilities, the door to the basement opens to reveal my father. He's dragging in two battered bodies with him.
"Your lucky day, son," my father winks at me as he throws the bodies to the ground.
Lucky indeed.
Marcello's issue is firmly forgotten as I look at the newest additions to the torture room.
"Permission?" I ask, needing to know what I can and cannot do.
My eyes on the bodies, I wet my lips in excitement, all types of punishments going through my mind.
"They're all yours. We caught them stealing from the depot. We already have one for the hall."
Father regards Marcello's work, his lips tugging upwards at the abomination currently residing in the torture chair. It doesn't look human anymore, and as the new prisoners also glance upon the horror show, they realize their turn isn't far off.
Bringing some of his men in, he takes the work of art meant for display, and I take advantage of the brute force of the soldiers to ask for a few favors of my own. Seeing that Marcello isn't going to take the lead on this one, I might as well take advantage and fulfill one of my own fantasies.
Vanya will be so giddy when I tell her, since we'd developed this particular hypothesis together.
"Hang the prisoners to the ceiling," I start, pointing at the men on the ground. "Feet down."
Soon, father and his men are gone. I'm left with a melancholic Marcello, and I decide it's high time he stopped moping around.
And what could be more fun than the 2Ms—murder and mutilation?
"Marcello." I call out to him, and I proceed to lay out my plans. I explain to him that this is a competition, and the aim is to cut as much of the body without killing them.
"They are most likely to die from blood loss, so we need to be careful with our cuts. The one who cuts the most of the body and whose prisoner still lives is the winner." I say, satisfied with the game and excited to be on the winning side.
Maybe I am taking advantage of Marcello's tumultuous state to gain some leverage in this competition, since his cuts won't be as precise as always. But maybe this will be what he needs to get his head in the game.
After I've finished explaining the rules, he nods thoughtfully, agreeing with my terms.
We each build our own stash of knives, blades, saws, and other tools before proceeding to the prisoners' side.
"Start!"
We take a blade each, and we start cutting. True to his work ethic, Marcello starts out small—he saws the ankles off.
Assessing my own project, I try to think strategically. Every single piece I cut will increase the bleeding.
Closing my eyes, I picture an anatomy book I'd read, looking for the major arteries and how they traverse the bodies. My best bet is to be mindful of the femoral artery and cut as high up as I can. As I mentally run through all the scenarios, I get another idea.
Smiling, I look at my stash, pleased to see a small flamethrower. It seems I'd anticipated it before even thinking it through.
I take one of the saws and I start cutting, centering my incision right where the hip socket meets the femur. I need to be as fast as possible to ensure minimal bleeding.
But while I have my entire plan accounted for, there is one thing that Marcello has over me—strength. Puberty has given him the advantage of stature and strength, so I'll have to find ways to bypass that.
Taking a small chair, I climb on top of it so I'm at eye level with the prisoner's stomach. I stoop slightly for better access and I continue cutting.
When I reach the artery, the blood comes out in spurts, bathing my clothes. I barely avoid the stream to my face as I'm quick to use the flamethrower to cauterize the wound.
Marcello narrows his eyes at me when he sees my trick, and I just smirk.
"Not against the rules." I smirk.
He shakes his head but doesn't comment further, using his own method to slow down the blood flow.
Smart.
He's switched positions, bringing up the man's legs closer to his chest and securing them there with a rope. The position ensures that the blood won't flow as fast due to gravity.
Finishing one thigh, I turn to the other. Every now and then I check to make sure the prisoner is still alive.
The sounds of steel against bone and the muffled cries behind the men's gags reverberate in the room.
When I'm done with the second thigh, the artery cauterized, the blood flow minimal, I stop to think of my next steps.
Marcello sighs as he watches the blood from his own prisoner pool down. He'd tried to go the faster route too, aiming for the thighs. But without fire to close the artery, the blood is simply flowing freely.
"You win." He shakes his head, taking a step back and untying the man's legs so that the body is once again in a vertical position.
Blood rushes out in spurts, just like a fountain, pouring down and flooding the ground.
I lick my lips, the sight tantalizing enough to make me forget my own project.
But not quite.
"What now?" Marcello comes around to survey my work.
I'd already gotten rid of his legs, but now it's even trickier. Any higher and the organs will spill out.
A devious smile stretches across my face. Ah, too bad Vanya won't be here to witness this.
"Help me out, will you?" I say, stepping off the chair. "I am the winner after all." I wink at him, taking the chainsaw and plugging it in.
"You don't mean to...." Marcello's eyes widen slightly.
"I don't have much use for him now. I've won, and statis
tically speaking, the chances of me cutting more without killing him are very low. This way we can enjoy the show," I grin at him.
Starting the chainsaw, I climb back on the chair, aiming for the man's midriff and pushing the revolving blade into his side.
I should have used goggles.
I realize that belatedly as pieces of flesh and bits of organs jump into my face. I shake them off, continuing to cut through.
Marcello looks done with me, and I'm not even halfway through.
"You could help me, you know." I add drily. He's the one with the extra strength.
"Really?" He retorts ironically, but does end up taking the chainsaw from my hands, cutting the last part of the man's torso.
He barely takes a step back before the man's entire chest cavity falls to the ground, the intestines slowly unwinding in a serpentine, blood, bile and stomach juice all mixing in a foul combination.
Marcello scrunches up his nose, quickly putting some distance between him and the half-body still hung to the ceiling.
I raise my eyes, taking in the eyes stuck in perpetual horror, the ugliness of life and death combined to both enthrall and disgust. My feet take me closer, and I can't help but be mesmerized by the sight of red—of mayhem and destruction.
It's like a long forgotten memory is trying to surface, a need to hurt and be hurt swallowing me whole as I remain rooted to the spot.
It's much later that I realize I must have lost track of time. Marcello's already gone. My father's cleaners are at work.
There's also my older brother Micha, watching me from a corner, his lip curled up in disgust.
"Freak," is all he says as I meet his gaze with mine.
I don't reply. I don't have to. I merely let my mouth open up widely in a full smile. His composure is immediately shaken off, and he scurries off, muttering something to himself.
For all his bullying tendencies, Micha is nothing but a coward. And no matter how much he picks on me, I know he fears what I'd do to him.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 3