Arson’s Captive

by Mason , V. F.

  Mom stills in our hold, her eyes darting between us while fear slowly enters them, because one thing she’ll never allow him to do is hurt me.

  She did the same with my father, putting herself in the line of fire as long as it didn’t touch me, but I can’t let her do it alone.

  “No, Mom. Don’t go.” God knows what he will do to her.

  Our gazes clash for a second, and finally I see resolve there when she addresses the Pastor. “I’m going to leave you. My daughter and I won’t stay for a second longer in this house.” She finally snatches her elbow from him, stepping back, and I let her go as well, afraid that with my grip I might hurt her too. “When people hear about this, they won’t support you.” She presses the papers closer to her chest, lifting her chin high. “Your reign will end. I can’t believe I chose wrong again.” She shifts her eyes on me. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I should have never brought us here.”

  I open my mouth to reassure her it’s okay and she doesn’t have to worry about it because we are together and that’s all that matters, but I’m interrupted by Pastor’s voice.

  “You could have had everything.” He clacks with his tongue. “Never threaten me. It doesn’t end well.” And with that, he kicks her in the stomach. Mom yelps as she stumbles back to the stairs, her foot catching the edge of the top step. Before I can lunge or grab her, she falls down the stairs with a loud yelp, rolling over and over until her head hits the wall at the end of it with a crunch that sends shivers down my spine.

  “No!” I scream loudly as I race down after her, shaking my head when I see the pools of blood slowly forming by her head and her neck lying in a weird position.

  It shouldn’t bend like this!

  “Mom,” I whisper, touching her lightly but afraid to do any other damage or break something else. “We need a doctor,” I say, and then scream to the staff, “Someone, come here! Please call for the doctor.” Since no one is coming, I touch Mom’s neck with my blood-soaked hands, searching for a pulse, but it’s not there. “Mommy, please,” I beg, but I know it’s useless, because her neck is broken.

  She’s not coming back.

  “Mommy, please,” I say again, desperately hoping to feel her pulse and praying she’ll be all right despite the fall.

  Instead of help to my pleas, I hear the heavy steps of leather shoes slowly stomping down the stairs, and then Pastor fists my hair, tilting my head back, which sends prickles of pain all through me, but I barely register it.

  How can it match the ache in my heart when it was shattered into pieces by Mom’s death? “Callista,” he says mockingly with a bright smile on his face. “People who don’t appreciate kindness deserve punishment.”

  And there, with my dead mom in my arms and a monster looming above me promising me retribution, I know for a fact that God doesn’t exist.

  For how can I believe in him when he takes innocent souls and lets the monsters reign in this world?

  Callista

  “Okay, think rationally,” I tell myself, stretching my legs on the bed while studying the room around me. “If he didn’t hurt you, it means he has no such plans for tonight.” Which should be a relief of course, but I can’t relax, because it confuses me to no end.

  What I don’t understand scares me, because it has the power to surprise me in the most horrendous ways.

  People might say being cautious takes away the joy in life, but I don’t agree with them.

  The room is huge, nearly triple the size I had back in “heaven,” with various pieces of furniture spread throughout the space. A couch is in the right corner in front of a flat-screen TV hanging on the opposite wall, so big I didn’t know such TVs even existed.

  Swinging my legs onto the floor, I wiggle my fingers while my feet pad across the cold marble as I take several steps forward, turning to face the king-size bed with two bedside tables. Black lamps are on either side of it, but harsh light coming from the chandelier above me could almost blind a person.

  There is also a fridge next to the couch, and I quickly open it only to huff in annoyance when I see countless bottles of alcohol.

  Rolling my eyes, I shut it while musing on Arson’s humor. Does he think his captive will want some liquor while she’s in her room?

  I notice a set of double doors farther to the left, and frowning, I walk toward them and slide one open only to gasp when the spacious wardrobe, similar to the one Mom had, is revealed with so many clothes and… everything really.

  On one side are male clothes that consist only of black and gray items while the other side is clearly the female section, since it’s full of colorful women’s clothes, shoes, and bags.

  Running my fingers over the expensive things, I wonder who they belong to and why they are here when it’s clearly my new cage.

  Or did Arson bring me here on a whim and this room is really his… girlfriend’s? Do serial killers have girlfriends?

  A bitter laugh escapes me, and I let it out, despite the misery running through my system.

  How can someone love a serial killer anyway? If he has a girlfriend, she sure doesn’t know what he does on a daily basis, because no sane woman would ever be with such a man.

  Snatching my hand back from the clothes as if they’ll burn me, I press it to my chest and get out of the wardrobe, trying not to think of the uneasiness that sinks into me at the idea of him in a relationship.

  Oh God, I’m going insane.

  I shake my head from stupid thoughts that are the result of me being held for three months in a cage, so the word rational doesn’t pop into my vocabulary for now. I go to the balcony door that is open, and the wind whooshes over me, plastering my dress against my legs and sending gray curtains billowing in different directions.

  Rubbing my arms from the slight chill, I go outside to see a round table with two chairs and gasp at the beauty in front of me.

  Grabbing the banister, I practically hang on it as the land comes into view under the moonlight shining brightly on the horizon, giving it a magical yet mesmerizing look that I could study for hours and hours.

  Even though he has no exotic plants or an actual garden, somehow the endless space that allows a person to roam freely over it without huge trees blocking their path brings peace to my heart.

  Only for a moment in time of course, because all this is an illusion, and I’m still his prisoner.

  Sighing heavily at all this, I breathe in the fresh air and go back inside, spotting another door across the room, and walk there, discovering the bathroom.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror, studying my dirty hair that reminds me more of a chicken’s nest. The strands are oily and stick to my face. My green eyes seem exceptionally big on my pale face, but all in all, I didn’t lose much weight.

  On the rare occasion I did eat, maybe the food I ate was full of fat and carbs.

  For a second, I wonder if maybe Arson purposely gave me such food so I’d have nourishment even if most of it ended up on Levi’s suit, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on it.

  This would mean that somewhere, deep down, this man has a conscience or a heart. And I know for a fact he doesn’t.

  Plastering my hands on the sink, I close my eyes and imagine running far, far away from here to start my life anew somewhere else.

  Where no one will rule me, order me, or think they are the kings of my life.

  Somewhere I can find peace and do what I love, helping people in their most difficult times.

  But running away for now is impossible, so why not use all the opportunities to get better before finding a solution?

  They say there are no deals between angels and devils; inevitably, an angel becomes smeared in the devil’s darkness and loses their access to heaven forever for the sins they’ve committed.

  But this angel doesn’t mind, because heaven is the last place she wants to be.

  Arson

  Walking toward the kitchen counter, I’m picking up a bottle of water from the fridge and grabbing a glas
s with ice when a ringing sound coming from my laptop halts my movements.

  I see the video chat app popping up and know full well who the caller is, so I hang up on him.

  Because fuck him and his stupid jokes.

  Pouring myself a drink, I take the glass, wanting to take a greedy gulp before checking on Chloe.

  My little captive who still doesn’t know the rules of this game she became part of thanks to her beauty.

  A beauty that even all that filth can’t cover, awakening my body in a way it shouldn’t, because fucking her was never on my agenda.

  Before.

  But now I wonder if I should indulge myself.

  Knowing her, she’ll try something stupid that I’ll have to rescue her from. Her resistance is really amusing, and I guess that’s what keeps her alive, but the choices she sometimes makes are beyond my comprehension.

  If a serial killer wants to play with you, fucking play along—otherwise, you are dead.

  We all seek the thrill of our illusions after all, and compared to everyone else, I never make excuses for who I am or what I want. No matter who you kill, how you justify your actions, or what kind of past you have… nothing excuses succumbing to the little voice inside your head that demands killing.

  So if someone is a monster or demon or the devil… they should embrace it without guilt or conscience stripping them of their happiness. Lying to yourself is the worst kind of sin, because you deprive yourself of the joy this life might bring.

  The ringing comes again, and I squeeze the glass so hard it almost creaks. I press the Connect button, because the fucker won’t let go until he gets his fill.

  “Arson!” Santiago’s voice echoes in the space as he grins wildly at me from the other end of the video. The dark-haired man lounges on a leather chair with a drink in his hand while his blue eyes sparkle with anticipation.

  Usually, he has this look reserved for when he kills someone in the vilest of ways in his domain, so why is he this fucking happy right now?

  “What the fuck do you want?” I ask, flipping the lighter between my fingers and wondering if I can go outside to play with fire for a bit to rein in my emotions.

  But then the memory of fear flashing in her eyes whenever I have a lighter in my hands stops me from doing it.

  Such fear is usually born from a life of abuse, but her body doesn’t have any burn scars, so is it a childhood trauma? Her mom’s life should have been hell, considering the heaven shit was disguised as a shelter for abused women.

  Not once though did she shout for her mom or try to plead with me for her loved ones, which can mean two things. Either her mom is dead or she has no attachment to her.

  I’m betting on the former.

  “Hello to you too,” another voice greets me, and my glass pauses midway to my mouth, while I curse inwardly at the unexpected addition.

  Of course, I should have known Callum MacRae wouldn’t miss this opportunity.

  Bored with this conversation already, I fire another question while finishing my drink. “Is there a point to this?”

  “A little bird told us your captive is finally out,” Santiago says while adjusting the camera so I can see both of them clearly as Callum drops onto the couch next to him. “We called to celebrate.”

  “Yeah, how long has it been?” Callum rubs his chin with the rim of his glass as he shares a look with Santiago, and he snaps his fingers a few times. “Three months.”

  “Our boy here got the girl.”

  “A captive. Get your facts right, Callum.”

  “Potayto, potahto,” he replies to Santiago, and they share a laugh while I mentally count to ten, so I won’t find a way to kill them through the device.

  “More like Levi called to complain,” I conclude, because there are no other “birds.” Lachlan is too busy with his own thing to pay attention to what I do and with whom.

  Everyone else knows better; otherwise, I will burn them to the ground so that even their ashes won’t remain.

  Literally.

  Santiago rattles the ice in his glass. “Not so much complained but shared that you might be unavailable. Of course we couldn’t resist calling you.”

  “Why are you together?” I decide to ignore his question, because it doesn’t deserve a response. And since when does Levi have such a big mouth anyway? Through the years I’ve known him, the man has always kept his mouth shut, and anyone in that mansion could have trusted him with their deepest secrets.

  Now he is a worse gossip than the women at the farm!

  All of a sudden everyone is interested what I’m doing and with who, while in the past everyone avoided me at all costs, not wanting to cross paths with me.

  Maybe I should go on a crazy killing spree again so everyone backs the hell off.

  “We’re in New York,” Callum informs me, and I still, while fury slowly sinks into my bones at this information.

  Callum resides in Houston, where he scouts his victims in the night and operates various clubs by day, giving off nothing but a billionaire vibe. He never listens to anyone and plays only by his rules, one of the reasons he hates it here. He doesn’t like answering to Lachlan, who is king here. But a certain florist, his wild orchid, is apparently worth it.

  Santiago Cortez resides in Chicago, where he enjoys the life of luxury he was born into and kills anyone he sees fit. He hates New York with a passion and steps on the soil here only in rare circumstances.

  Why would either of them willingly come here without a reason?

  Unless…

  The memory from a long time ago pops in my head, a memory so strong that I thought it was forgotten for how much hurt and devastation it holds.

  When they throw me inside the cell, I land on my back, crying out in agony. The harsh concrete digs into my slashed back, sending prickles of pain right through me, and it hurts so much I’m afraid to even breathe.

  “Oh, shit,” Santiago says, quickly coming to my aid and looming above me while Callum presses a wet cloth to my face, trying to stop the blood dripping from my forehead. “We need to get him on the mattress.” Even though I can’t see it, I know Callum nods and then two sets of bony arms, not much stronger than mine, grab me from both sides as they drag me to the thing, all while I whimper in pain when my back repeatedly hits the concrete despite their efforts to lift me up.

  But how can they, if they are not in much better condition than me? Starved and almost beaten to death with the only difference being that no matter what happens to them, they still manage to stand. Maybe that’s because they’ve never encountered him and his brand of torture.

  Like spraying gasoline on my stomach and then lighting it before quickly pouring a bucket of water on me. According to him, there is no greater arousal to a man than the cry of a child in agony.

  “We’re sorry, Artem,” Callum tells me when they finally place me on the mattress, not that it brings me any relief as the tight clothes still manage to rub my wounds the wrong way. “I’ll bring the first aid kit,” he announces, disappearing from above me, and Santiago replaces him, giving me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  None of his smiles ever do, even though he is the only one who manages the expression in this hell we’ve been living in.

  “It’s going to be okay, amigo,” he assures me, lightly patting my head, and then grabs the kit from Callum, taking out antiseptic if the disgusting smell penetrating my nostrils is anything to go by. “Let’s roll him on his stomach.” I groan at their suggestion but comply with it, exhaling in relief when I lie down on it and give my back a momentary reprieve.

  But it ends too soon when Santiago places antiseptic on my back, burning my skin, and I cry out again, muffling my screams in the dirty mattress that probably has the power to infect us with something.

  After all, no one bothers to care about boys who are nothing but toys in the hands of rich men willing to pay any amount of money as long as their sick desires are met.

  “Fuck, it’s really b
ad this time,” Callum mutters, applying ointment on it, and I bite on my fist, hoping to get away from this pain, but there is no escape.

  No imagination in the world is powerful enough to erase my present from my mind.

  “I will kill him,” I say weakly, barely breathing, while the guys continue to fix me up as much as they can under the circumstances before Jonathan comes for either one of them and punishes them for my state.

  After all, we should never greet him in a bad mood as he doesn’t like it. Apparently, it upsets his mood to deal with our shit.

  “What is he saying?” Santiago questions, leaning closer to me. Even though I hate it with all my being, how weak my voice becomes and how I always have to repeat myself, I do, promising myself there will be a time in my life when I won’t ever have to do that again.

  There will be a time in this life when I’ll be so strong and powerful everyone will listen to me carefully, too afraid to miss any of my words. “I will kill him.”

  Confusion coats their voices when both of them ask, “Who? Roger?” The man who did this to me. The loyal client who travels from another country twice a month to enjoy the weekend with me.

  “No,” I say, because that’s not who I vow to kill if I ever get the hell out of here. “He… he will pay for this. For sending me here.” I don’t elaborate anymore, too exhausted from all the pain to keep my eyes open. Slowly, I drift off as the guys tend to my wounds, lullabied to sleep with only one purpose.

  Forever destroy the one person who betrayed me the most in this life when he was supposed to protect me.

  The day will come and no one’s laughter will be greater than mine.

  “Arson.” Callum’s harsh tone tears me away from the past, and I focus my stare once again on them, but this time around, no one is smiling.

  Instead, their eyes focus on me, almost drilling me with them as if trying to get information from me I’ll never give them.