Arson’s Captive

by Mason , V. F.

  I almost laugh at this, because really, I’m not afraid of this elderly man who looks like anyone’s grandpa—sans the weird clothes of course.

  Not that I had grandparents in my life, but danger is the last thing I would associate with him.

  It doesn’t change the fact though that he must condone what this unknown asshole does to me, so my usual respect for the elderly is gone. “I don’t want it.”

  He stops abruptly at my harsh tone, but then concern fills his gaze when I cough loudly, the soreness almost killing me and my throat begging for liquid, but I hold my ground. If I show them they have power over me by dangling their food and beverages, or whatever else they think of, they will find more ways to torture me.

  These monsters might be different, but all of them use the same ways to make their victims succumb to their desires.

  To my shock, the man kneels in front of me, sliding the mug and several pills my way. “Please drink this along with the vitamin C for your throat. Otherwise, you’ll be in pain.”

  “I’m in pain now,” I tell him, lifting my dress so he can see all the bruises on my skin that I found earlier when trying to detect where the pain was coming from.

  Turns out it’s my stomach, where I got kicked hard when I fell on the table after my refusal to comply with one more of Pastor’s orders the other day.

  He blinks when his gaze shifts to my neck and collarbone, and then a horrified gasp leaves him. “Arson couldn’t have done it.”

  My brows furrow at this odd statement. Does he mean fire couldn’t have done this to me?

  Are those the only bruises he cares about or what…?

  But then I blink in surprise, and ask, “Arson, as in the man who keeps me here?”

  He nods and I close my eyes with dread, willing myself to calm down.

  This freaking guy’s name is Arson?

  How much did his parents hate him that he got a name like that? It explains why he flips lighters all the time and was spreading gunpowder. Does this psycho go around burning stuff?

  What the old man said disturbs my mind, not letting me forget about it. “You are so sure he couldn’t have done this to me?” The man nods again, clasping his hands together in distress. “He keeps me here against my will.” I cough again, a little blood appearing on my fist, and the man quickly produces a handkerchief from his pocket, throwing it my way while still maintaining distance between us.

  Snatching it up, I wipe my mouth and give up on any dignity, because I can barely talk with the stinging, and I need to, because this old man is telling me things that might help me in the future.

  I’m not above using anyone or anything as long as it helps my cause.

  Morals don’t exist when you engage in a dangerous game with monsters in their kingdoms.

  Wrapping my palms around the warm mug, I lift it to my mouth, tentatively sipping it, and almost groan in pleasure when the liquid travels down my sore throat and brings much-needed relief. For a few seconds, I’m silent while the man continues to stare at me, pushing pills in my direction again, but I refuse those.

  Who knows what these pills really are? For all I know, they could be feeding me drugs so they can then do whatever they please with me.

  Although Arson already acts like he can do whatever he pleases with me, so I’m not sure he needs pills to make me compliant.

  Maybe he enjoys when women resist him, so he can bring them the most pain?

  Clearing my throat, I wince a little before asking, “Why do you think it’s not him who hurt me?”

  Part of me, the one I dislike in moments like this, hopes he will tell me that Arson doesn’t kill women or that it’s not his style to touch the innocent.

  That maybe, just maybe, this hell is a bit better than home, that I was wrong about him, and he still has some motives for doing what he does.

  Even his butler is helping me out. Surely a man who wants to hurt me doesn’t care if I’m in pain or not?

  However, the man shifts uncomfortably, stands up, and walks to the table. He puts the forks and everything else on the table before grabbing his tray and pressing it against his chest.

  With his back facing me, he mutters the words that forever strip me of my illusions surrounding this place. “When Arson tortures someone… the person doesn’t live long enough to talk about it.”

  Well, then.

  Isn’t that just lovely?

  Arson

  I pour myself a glass of vodka and toss ice into it, making the cubes clink against each other as I sip it. Dropping onto the chair and kicking my legs up on the table, I think about my plan and almost clap myself on the back for coming up with such a solution.

  Almost, because the fury fueling my blood doesn’t let me. Instead, just the thought of putting this beautiful creature in danger angers me, makes me want to kill anyone who dares to touch her.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  She is just a means to an end.

  But even then, she is my means to an end, and as such…

  If anyone so much as looks at her wrong, they will pay for it with their life.

  I don’t care who I kill, as long as it serves my amusement.

  I press on the remote that reveals a huge TV on the wall opposite me in this spacious office and turn it on to see my beautiful yet stubborn captive through the various cameras focusing on the cell from different angles.

  She walks back and forth, the mug in her hand as she sips it, while probably searching for a way out. If she had asked me, I would have told her there isn’t one.

  I designed the cell myself so that even fire won’t touch it; after all, why keep a captive if one can’t take care of them, right?

  The best for the best.

  Should be everyone’s motto in life.

  I chuckle when she kicks one of the walls and then says something, her hand motioning along with it, and by her face I guess she is cursing me.

  Ah, captive. You are so temperamental.

  She shouldn’t tempt a monster like me with all these antics, I might just create a situation to test her boundaries like no one else before, just for the fun of it.

  All the deeds should bring pleasure. Is there any point to them if they don’t?

  The three barely audible knocks echo on the door before Levi, Lachlan’s butler, comes in holding a silver tray that reflects the sunlight streaming from the huge-ass window.

  Why Lachlan wanted something so fucking bright in his office, I never understood.

  But then I’ve learned not to question the underground king of New York very often and to accept that some answers will be forever left vague for me.

  The sun also allows me to see his uniform smeared in sticky yellow stuff and the shattered dishes gathered on the tray. “Miss Chloe refuses to eat.” Leave it to Levi to be all polite and shit, without even so much as a flinch when he speaks about the woman who basically dumped her dinner on him.

  Not sure what he said to her to warrant this reaction. One minute, she was accepting the mug, then next, he turned his back to her and she started screaming while throwing the plates and food at the butler.

  “Okay, then,” I reply, taking another greedy gulp but don’t miss the silent judgment filling the room.

  Meeting his stare, I see his brows furrow and he shakes his head at me. “She needs to eat.” There is disapproval lacing his tone, but I don’t give a fuck about it.

  I respect the old man and all, given that he is loyal to the likes of us, but I draw the line at him telling me what to do with my victims. “If starvation is her choice, she can starve.” Even as I say these things, I roar inside at the thought of her going without food, but it’s not like it should be any of my business.

  She means nothing to me; women mean nothing to me, and besides, don’t they all scream for men to respect their choices?

  I fucking do so, and I’m still the bad guy?

  “What is the point of her torture?” he asks, still not leaving, and I roll my
eyes internally at the concern, because he shouldn’t get attached to victims like that.

  “She needs to accept this.”

  “This what?”

  “Her life now.” He blinks in confusion, so I finish my drink, elaborating only so Levi leaves this alone without getting too emotionally attached. It might have severe consequences for him, because no one and nothing stands in the way of my desires.

  Not anymore.

  “She is resisting her current social position, and it won’t do. Where there is resistance, there is no compliance, and that means she is useless to me.”

  Levi gasps, covering his mouth with his palm, and shakes his fucking head at me again. “She is a young woman,” he emphasizes like it’s supposed to mean something to me.

  “I’m aware.”

  “She has been put through hell. Have you seen the bruises on her? Even her stomach hurts!” he exclaims, and I fist the glass in my hand so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t break.

  Oh, I’ve noticed those. Someone tried to tarnish what’s mine in that fucked-up town of theirs where they worship a human instead of God.

  If I hadn’t lit it on fire, I’d have done it after seeing her wounds.

  Sans women and children of course—we managed to get those out of harm’s way. Still unsure what Lachlan’s situation is over the whole Pastor thing, and don’t give a shit either way.

  Serial killers have certain boundaries we don’t ever cross, for example talking about our past. There is a strong possibility you might get yourself stabbed in the process.

  My mind goes back to her wounds, the angry deep gashes from a belt that will take a week to heal if not more, and she needs medicine for that. No one gets to hurt what belongs to me and live; right in this moment, I regret killing them off so quickly.

  I could have enjoyed burning them to the ground while they choked on their blood for hours and hours, slowly chopping off parts of their bodies and throwing them in a fire.

  Ah, regrets.

  They are the worst thing life has to offer.

  “Feed her three times a day and bring ointment next time so she uses it. Also find some other dress for her and burn the one she currently owns. I’ll make my own visits, but for now that’s it.”

  “For how long?” he asks, not even thinking about leaving, and annoyance zips through me, pulling my mouth in a smile that should warn him off.

  Family butler or not, he should know his place, or he might get burned in the fire of my creation too. “Until she surrenders.”

  “That might take forever!” he exclaims, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  I shrug, saluting him with my drink. “The more fun in breaking her spirit, then.”

  Chloe will learn that when an angel falls into the pit of hell, they no longer have God and goodness to save them.

  The devil rules it, and if she is not careful enough, her wings might catch on fire and she’ll never get them back.

  “Every darkness should have morals. This is pure cruelty, son,” Levi says before twisting the knob, going out and shutting the door so hard it rattles items on the bookshelves inside the office.

  Cruelty is a fickle thing.

  Most people associate it with something bad that pollutes the person, making him do despicable deeds while enjoying every second of it.

  They say such people should be put down or never born, for they corrupt and destroy innocent souls.

  What happens though when cruelty is the only way to survive in this fucked-up world?

  Chapter Seven

  “My victims always beg me for one thing.

  Mercy.

  Funny how in the last moments of their life, people always realize they want to live.

  They start imagining shit they’d like to do, even though they wouldn’t do it given the chance, and they start to believe they need to tell someone they love them even if they ignored them all their lives.

  In my opinion, when one leaves life, he or she should accept it easily, knowing they’ve done and said all they could have possibly done in their circumstances.

  To die without regret… isn’t it the most divine thing of all?

  All the people I kill though die with regret.

  So why should I feel any remorse in killing them if their life hasn’t been one worth living anyway?”

  Arson

  Callista, 8 years old

  “We are starting today with a new cursive letter. Pay attention how I write it, because then you’ll practice it in your notebook,” the priest announces to the class while everyone nods, humming a quiet “Yes” in reply.

  If there is one thing I’ve learned in the last two years in his class, it’s that he doesn’t like anyone raising their voices, because they annoy him.

  He once told us all kids are spoiled brats who need to learn how to obey their elders so God will allow us in heaven someday or we’ll all rot in hell for our bad behavior.

  I never believed it. Shouldn’t God love all his children regardless of their deeds?

  However, I got to know this is not the place to ever question the priest; otherwise, you might not like the consequences. Not sure what they are either, but one of the girls who didn’t read the poem for the class last week cried for days after his private instructions to her in his office.

  Needless to say, it made me want to be the best in class even more, because I never want to stay alone with that awful, weird man who always smiles before hiding it when someone messes up.

  He must truly like punishing kids.

  The priest takes a piece of chalk and writes down a complicated sentence with several hard words. The chalk scratches so loudly against the board I wince when my teeth start to hurt from the sound, and I notice Caspian having a similar reaction to it as me.

  Catching my stare at him from across the room, since all the boys sit on the opposite side, separated from the girls by an empty row of tables, he winks at me and points at the paper with his finger, silently telling me to go back to writing.

  After that day in church where Pastor saw us for the first time, Caspian offered me his friendship, and nothing in my life was ever the same.

  We were moved to the red house located right in the middle of this small town, with easy access to all the important places here, like school and church, becoming the center of attention for everyone.

  The house has two spacious bedrooms plus a living room where instantly all the furniture was in place. Good clothes were provided, and our fridge was stocked with all kinds of delicious food. Some of it we couldn’t even afford back home, but here we had it all.

  It’s because Mommy got the job as the main housekeeper in Pastor’s mansion, and she looked after his house when he was not around too. I heard some women murmur it’s the highest position for women out here, and they couldn’t understand why he would give it to a newcomer.

  So on most days, Mommy worked at the mansion, while I studied in school and then spent time with Miss Lori who had an herbs class, teaching everyone who wanted to know about the environment and herbs that might help us heal.

  Pastor doesn’t believe in doctors, so Miss Lori is considered our healer.

  Her class is the highlight of my day. I love learning how a certain tea can help someone soothe the pain in their stomach, or how adding certain spices eases the urge to vomit.

  The more I attend those meetings held in the field, the more I want to become a doctor one day to save the lives of those in need.

  Mommy always laughs though at these thoughts, claiming I’m too little to make such decisions and I’ll change my mind several times before I settle on something.

  But I never agree with her, since most of the kids prefer to attend either cooking classes or construction ones, so isn’t it a sign I really have the potential to be a doctor?

  To my big surprise though, our house is right next to Caspian’s. His dad works as a gardener in the mansion, so they have the same privileges as us. With the only difference bein
g sometimes Caspian visits the mansion during Pastor’s and his friends visits too, but he never speaks to me about these times.

  Come to think of it, he doesn’t speak for a long time after that generally.

  His family is a bit different than mine; they rarely smile at each other or show affection to one another. And although Caspian is older than me by five years, for some reason, he studies in my class, since he didn’t know how to read or write.

  I’m so distracted with my inner musing the tip of my pencil breaks on the paper, making it fly across the room right under the priest’s feet.

  One of the girls on my right gasps, clamping a hand over her mouth, and sends me a pitiful look as if she already knows the verdict for this blunder.

  The priest pauses his hand midair to the board, his spine straightening, and then he turns around, his cold eyes flashing in pleasure before he masks them with annoyance. “Who did this?” He kicks the pencil lead with the tip of his shiny black leather shoe, and I open my mouth to say it was me when Caspian’s voice breaks the silence. “I did it.” He gets up from his chair, casually leaning on the wall behind him, and stares right into the priest’s eyes.

  I blink in shock at his bravery, since most of us avoid his gaze like the plague for fear of offending him, but Caspian doesn’t have such reservations.

  Snapping out of it quickly though, I get up too and announce loudly, “No, it was me. I’m sorry.” The priest’s head shifts in my direction and then back at Caspian, and I frown when I notice his earlier happiness gone.

  Shouldn’t he be happy I came forward and he has someone to punish?

  He moves his gaze from me to Caspian once again before clearing his throat, picking up the chalk he dropped earlier. “See this, kids?” He moves his hands in the air between us. “This is what good Christians do. Defend one another while speaking the truth. Their heart was in a good place; I will not punish them. You all have a lot to learn from it.” But even though he says the words, his voice is so scratchy as if someone is trying to tear these words from him. “Sit down, both of you, and eyes on the paper. No distractions.”