It almost seems like he doesn’t want this man anywhere near me, like a possessive beast, but surely this is an idiotic way of thinking on my part, right?
Or is it a normal thing in such circumstances?
After all, he is my captor.
The fury at such a conclusion hits me so hard my hands fist and my entire body shakes with it, fueling my blood with much-needed anger that replaces the fear paralyzing me on the spot.
I rush to the glass, pointing a finger at him and screaming, “You are a monster!”
The corner of his mouth pulls up while amusement flashes in his eyes, the only fleeting emotion I’ve ever seen in them, and he clacks his tongue. “And she’s back.” He leans closer, and our noses would have touched if it weren’t for the glass separating us, and then he adds, “I much prefer your spirit. All the more fun to destroy it.”
“I don’t need any gifts from you. Let this man go!” I shout again, ignoring his weird words, but his only reply is, “No can do.” Then he walks off to the table, and I follow him, going to the other wall so I will have my eyes on him always. The chain follows me, rattling loudly in the space accompanying the man’s continued whimpers.
Maybe if I can distract him enough, then his victim…
What?
Will be able to escape?
Even I’m not that stupid to hope for it, but what if stalling will make him lose his interest? Especially if he is doing this for my sake.
If he wants a reaction, I will freaking give it to him!
Arson trails his finger over the weapons displayed on the table, picking up a long blade along with a bottle that reminds me of gasoline. “What are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores me, strolling back to the victim who mumbles, “Is this about Caroline? I swear she’s lying.”
What? Things are escalating so quickly I can’t keep up!
Arson sighs heavily, spraying gasoline all over him while the man thrashes, opening his mouth and closing, coughing on the mixture. “Please let me go. I have two sons, and I’m the only working man in the family,” he says between gulps of breath, not that it helps him much. Arson continues to pour the gasoline, the pungent smell coating the air and floating around us making me cough too. “You have the wrong man.”
Arson throws the bottle aside, putting on leather gloves, and then asks, “Do I?” He rubs his chin before resting his index finger on it. “So there must be a mistake.”
The man blinks and then nods eagerly, the blood and gasoline sliding down his face to his neck as his chest rises and falls, probably in anticipation of freedom.
He’s clearly never met monsters before, because if he had… he’d know that Arson is just playing with him and his life has no meaning.
Because the real person he wants to hurt, psychologically torture… is me.
I’m much too familiar with such ways to even be surprised by it.
“Want to know an interesting fact?” Arson muses, flipping the lighter between his fingers, and the man stills, awaiting his reply like his life depends on it.
Unfortunately for him, his fate was decided long before he arrived here. “I never make mistakes.” He flicks the lighter open and instantly fire erupts from it, serving as a triggering device to the man who screams in fear, crying loudly and twisting in his restraints once again.
Nothing but a psychological tactic to fray his nerves. I doubt he will kill him like that, considering the earlier knife wounds.
Serial killers always have their most favorite devices, right? By how much blood is dripping from the man, it’s clear even if he dies it will be by the blade.
Arson chooses this moment to grab the baseball bat hanging on the wall and delivers a blow to the man’s stomach, digging the tip of the bat into his open wound. And when the man wails uncontrollably, I finally can’t take it anymore.
If I don’t stop this madness, he is going to kill him!
“Stop it,” I say, and he pauses midway before hitting the man again. He turns his gaze to me, a question flashing in his silver pools.
“Why should I?”
“This is about me and you, not him.”
He says nothing, just continues to stare at me, but that’s all the answer I need to confirm my suspicion that this poor man is a decoy and nothing more.
“Why?” he asks instead. I bang my hand on the wall, huffing in frustration that he once again hits the man, and the crack reverberates through the wall telling me he must have broken another bone.
He drops the bat, and I sigh in relief when he abandons the whimpering man who spits a mouthful of blood on the floor. Arson walks toward the door of my cell again.
I rush to that wall, and we watch one another for a second through the glass, his face giving nothing away, yet his presence seems enormous, shrinking everything around me to minimal proportions.
I would consider him the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life if it weren’t for his dark soul that presents his true evil nature to me in its full glory.
“Please don’t kill him.”
He presses the code on the keypad and enters, making me stumble back a little while I blush when he scans me from head to toe, imagining I look like hell. “What will I get in return?”
My brows furrow at this, and I ask, confusion lacing my tone, “What do you want?” He didn’t create all this stuff without some clear goal, right?
It couldn’t be sexual either, because men like him don’t wait for such stuff; they just take by force.
“The same thing I wanted earlier.”
Oh my God, his rule about not repeating himself is really annoying when he becomes cryptic like this.
I frantically search for what he said. Through the haze of three months in this hell, I search for his forgotten words and then they click in my head. “You want my surrender.”
He chuckles, for some reason finding it amusing. “For the time being, you need to do what I say without causing any trouble. If you do as I ask, and it brings the needed results, you’ll have your freedom.” He twirls his finger in the air. “But without all these dramatics, because quite frankly they bore me to death.” He snaps his fingers before pointing them at the man. “And that’s what happens when I’m bored.”
I swallow past the bile in my throat, digesting this information while shock prickles my skin.
He kills people when he is bored? Levi’s words suddenly take on a whole new meaning. Does he expect me to be his clown here or something?
Even though everything in me rebels at the idea of following this killer’s orders, what choice do I have? He doesn’t want me dead now for whatever reason, but he will kill this man as a way of punishing me.
Agreeing to his terms ensures my chance of surviving, because I doubt he is going to keep me here, but instead will give me a way out.
A win-win situation as long as I play it right and not poke the bear more than I should.
Despite what most people think, resistance is not always bravery. Sometimes it borders on stupidity that earns more abuse than any good.
So even though everything inside me screams to kick him and that he is a monster who belongs in the pits of hell, I nod in agreement while whispering, “Okay. As long as you promise me not to stab him to death.” I emphasize the word stab, getting at least minor pleasure in knowing he won’t be able to kill him in his favorite way.
The corner of his mouth tips up at this, sending an alarm through me, but I don’t have time to focus on it much as he announces, “Fair enough. I promise not to stab him to death.” His strong hand wraps around my elbow, digging his fingers into my skin and then pulling me outside, where he tells me, “Just one more thing before we go.” He walks back to the table, picking something up, and I blink in confusion when I notice how he flips the lighter back and forth between his fingers.
But then my gaze lands back on the man and a horrified gasp escapes when I see how much blood he has lost and quickly run to him, wanting to help him somehow now that he won�
�t be killed.
Do they have any kind of medication here? I’m not sure herbs or anything else of my expertise is going to cut it.
I step closer to him, wincing at the stickiness under my feet, but before I can utter another word while his hopeless eyes drill a hole in me, Arson tugs me back and drops the lighter on the floor next to him. It instantly ignites the gasoline around the man, circling him before traveling up his skin and burning him right in front of me while whispered hisses of pain escape his mouth.
“No!” I scream, wanting to dart toward him and somehow free him from this agonizing death, but Arson holds me by the hips in his iron grip, stilling my movements, not letting me get closer to the fire.
Instead, we stand still as the man burns until nothing but his skeleton remains.
Slowly, I slide down Arson’s body, my knees hitting the hard floor, all while my mouth is hanging open in shock while true fear, something I’ve never felt before in my life, spreads through me, making me aware of the monster behind me.
In all my life, full of sorrow and fear, I’ve never known a monster like him.
A vicious creature who feeds on misery… because don’t my tears sliding down my cheeks bring him satisfaction now?
“You are a monster,” I rasp through my tight throat while whimpers erupt from me.
A beat, and then his chuckle fills the space, but oddly enough it lacks any amusement and rings of hollowness. “We don’t all have the privilege of being an angel, darling. Monsters are needed for balance in this world.”
An angel.
I hate this word with a passion.
Because maybe if I wasn’t an angel… monsters wouldn’t have wanted to destroy my life.
Arson
Despite what most people believe or think, goodness is a privilege not everyone has in this world.
Sometimes you don’t have a choice about becoming a despicable soul, always ready to kill as long as it feeds the deep craving inside you.
We see it, we want it, we hunt it, and then… we kill it.
Interesting thing about darkness though?
It can hide under the most perfect deeds, showcasing the façade of greatness and goodness that has the power to change the world.
And the only people who recognize it?
Are the monsters judged by everyone.
Chapter Eight
“I should be afraid of the dangerous light sparkling in his silver eyes.
My heart should beat faster from the fear fueling my blood.
My eyes should watch him like a hawk to expect his next brand of torture.
Monsters never rest, after all.
But for some odd reason, none of the above happens.
Instead, something inside me pulls at the strings of my soul, wanting to understand him.
And that’s the scariest thing I could ever do.
I’m his captive.
In this story, the captor doesn’t get what he wants but instead dies by my hand so I can free myself from his hold.”
Callista
Callista, 17 years old
Bending my elbows, I lift dumbbells up and down, making sure to keep my spine straight when the loud clearing of a throat penetrates through the music.
Spinning around, I see our housekeeper, Marianna, motioning for me to turn off the music, because she clearly is not in the mood to shout over it.
I grab the remote and do it, breathing heavily. “What is it?” I ask, wiping my neck with the nearby towel while searching for my bottle of water.
Locating it in the right corner a few feet away near the barrel, I stride to it with Marianna following me, her screechy voice grating on my nerves.
But then again, I can’t remember a time the old witch didn’t grate on them. “Pastor and Madam will be back in two hours along with the guests. You should change.”
Like I ever listen to the old hag.
“How much time do you think I need to make myself presentable?” I drop the bottle back on the floor.
“If Pastor wants something, it needs to be obeyed.”
“And what am I? A soldier to listen?” I’m asking it purely to see how her cheeks redden and her breathing heaves some more, while she shakes with barely controlled fury.
God forbid she yells at me or tries to hurt me more than slight bruising. Who knows what would happen to her then?
After all, I’m the adopted daughter of the mighty Pastor who fiercely protects those who belong to him and threatens to harm anyone who even looks at them the wrong way.
Too bad my hate for him is so strong; sometimes in his presence, I can feel acid from it filling my mouth and can barely control my desire to run away, or at least try to.
“He will hear about all this,” she warns and then spins around, marching toward the door, loudly shutting it.
I scream into my towel, muffling the sound while biting on the cotton, but it doesn’t bring the usual relief in such situations.
Because the desire to go against orders and test my boundaries is so strong I can barely control it, but I know ultimately, I can’t do it.
Showing a little defiance to the witch is one thing, but outright not listening to Pastor and face his anger?
That’s a luxury I can’t afford, because he would never physically hurt me, of this I’m sure. The man treats me like a princess, giving me everything my heart desires, and punishes anyone who so much as looks at me wrong or claims I’m not his real daughter.
I have everything but the freedom to live like I want, which makes all other things meaningless.
My mother though will be the one to pay the price, and the idea of her hurt… it’s not something I would ever be able to stomach.
Exhaling a heavy breath, I stroll toward the door leading upstairs, while I think about my life over the last few years.
After Pastor announced so loudly that they got married, Mom hugged me close and promised me that all our nightmares were over. At once, he moved us into his spacious mansion on the hill surrounded by the green forest.
Kicking open the door, I quickly go up the stairs and end up in the hallway where several women from the town hurriedly rush from the kitchen, preparing everything for the coming guests. The delicious smells floating in the air indicate we will be eating Italian food tonight.
That is the only ray of sunshine during these boring-as-hell dinner parties where investors give even more money to Pastor in exchange… for what, I’m not sure, because it’s not like we have factories or businesses in this godforsaken place.
And I know the meaning of these words only because I found some old book in Pastor’s library a while back that spoke about economics of our government, and although it was outdated, I have to soak up all the new words and knowledge that I can.
Otherwise, I’ll forever stay ignorant, living under the veil of illusions Pastor has created around all of us.
I briefly glance over the first floor for the hundredth time, noticing the beauty it portrays despite the coldness seeping from the foundation of this house.
The narrow hallway leads in several directions, one of them being the huge living room/dining room combination that could hold around twenty to thirty guests, complete with crystal chandelier reflecting light on it.
Expensive carpets in the most vivid of colors are scattered over the floor, and they match the gold-and-red-papered walls of this place. Brown furniture made out of the finest wood fill the rooms glistening under the sunlight streaming through the huge windows that are bracketed by luxurious silky white and black curtains.
Porcelain vases are scattered all over the place, even on the dining table, which is covered in the most expensive china, so clean I can see my reflection in it.
Old paintings hang on the walls, showcasing some battle moments in our history, and while I still hate them all with a passion, Pastor for some reason can stare at them for hours while drinking his scotch in his chair by the fire.
All this only makes life here even more
unbearable.
I run upstairs where another endless hallway greets me, but this time with paintings of my mother, her beauty showcased in each one of them.
As Pastor claims, she is the love of his life without whom he could never live. Too bad this obsession includes me too.
I turn the handle to my room and go inside, resting my back on the wood while sighing in exasperation from the suffocating smell of Marianna’s perfume.
The perfectly ironed dress lies on the bed along with shoes while my nightstand has a hair clip matching the whole thing.
Dropping the towel on the floor, I grab the edges of my shirt, wanting to go shower, when a clacking from the window snags my attention.
Frowning, I glance its way, but when no sound comes, I resume my undressing just as another clack echoes.
Only then it registers in my mind that someone is throwing rocks at my window.
I run to it and glance down to see Caspian saluting me from the ground.
Sliding the window open, I lean on the windowsill and stick my head out. “What are you doing?” I hiss, looking around the perimeter and exhaling in relief when no guards are in sight. “Get out.”
Caspian puts his hand on his chest. “Oh my! How can you hurt my heart so much, Juliet?”
Oh, God. I’m going to kill him! “Caspian!”
He lights up a cigarette and exhales smoke while I count to ten, so I won’t scream at him again.
Caspian does whatever he pleases, not caring about the rules of this place—like boys and girls not mingling outside school until they turn eighteen.
He ignores it, always talking to me and coming to secretly meet me, asking me one single question.
Which echoes in the night right now when his deep voice asks, “Are you all right?” But despite concern lacing his tone, I can never guess what meaning it holds, because his mask of indifference always stays in place. “You will tell me if you aren’t.” Since it’s worded as an order and not a question, I stay silent while he adjusts his leather jacket. “My old man said anything?”
His father came by earlier, preparing the garden for the guests who like to stroll around it after a round of whiskey.
Arson’s Captive Page 8