Arson’s Captive

by Mason , V. F.

  Well, this place feels more like what we’re used to. Even down to feeding us like dogs.

  But then my eyes spot a boy in a white flannel shirt—or is it a dress? His messy hair is pulled into a bun while he watches us with surprise, like he’s seeing a kid for the first time in a long while.

  By the bruises and dirt he has all over him just like us, it’s not hard to guess life hasn’t been very kind to him either.

  He gets up swiftly but then groans in pain, and my gaze travels back to his ankle where the heavy chain wraps so tightly around it there is blood spilling.

  It explains the red stains.

  “You’ve got company, Callum,” the man announces, walking behind us, and then I hear the door being shut.

  He dishes another order, clearly loving the power he has over us.

  I’ve met enough men in my lifetime to know his kind. They have no actual power or respect in the real world, so the only way they feel significant is when they torture the weaker ones.

  Sometimes I wonder why no one spends time freeing the world from such monsters; after all, what’s the point of them? They bring nothing good and just suck up the oxygen of the planet that could have been given to better people.

  They deserve nothing but painful, agonizing death.

  Ah, I welcome these emotions too sometimes, even smiling at the thought of killing the likes of him. Wouldn’t that be a dream job?

  “Sit on the floor, and you,”—we choose a spot closer to the other boy and sit down, and then he addresses Callum, pointing the gun at us—“wrap those chains around them.”

  All of us follow the command, and shortly, we are in the same position.

  I can physically feel the stare of the kid on us, probably finding our similarities, and maybe he wonders why we are wearing only pants.

  Philip didn’t believe in shirts that would get ruined after raping or beating and considered them a waste of time. I’m not sure the kid wants to hear that though, not very comforting words in the current circumstances, so I say nothing.

  “Play nice with each other.” He laughs, the sound spiking nothing but annoyance in me, and I wonder if it’s possible to make him choke on his gun.

  But killing just one has no point, because we are always outnumbered and will lose.

  That’s the only thing stopping me from succumbing to my instincts and feeding the craving that begs me to kill someone just so they stop torturing us.

  “You two will have a job to do soon. Callum, you are free till tomorrow.” With this, he walks back and leaves us alone while silence settles over the place.

  “Hi,” Callum rasps and wraps his hand around his neck, and only then do I notice the imprint of a belt on it. “My name is Callum.”

  Not sure why he feels the need to introduce himself, considering the guy just did that, but I go along with it.

  Who knows, maybe when you are alone for so long you crave contact? “Artem,” I reply, and his hazel eyes travel behind me.

  “Santiago.” His mouth curves in a grin, and I see Callum blink in shock, but he will get used to it.

  When people usually cry, Santiago laughs. There is no point in expecting a normal reaction from him.

  Silence falls after that again, but it’s an uncomfortable one, since the kid continues to stare, so I ask, “How long have you been here?”

  “Two years.”

  Well, fuck. No wonder he wants to talk! “Do they come after you every day?” I prefer to know the schedule in advance, so such shit won’t surprise me as much.

  Survive until you can beat them.

  A motto I live by now.

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Okay,” I murmur and close my eyes, chanting a Russian poem to myself. It’s the only one I know, but somehow in my deepest sorrow, I always find solace in it.

  “Don’t worry, Callum. We’re here now to share the burden,” Santiago pitches in, resting his hand on his knee in a careless manner.

  Leave it to him to comfort the other boy; that’s probably not what he wanted to hear. Maybe he hoped for some words of reassurance like someone will come and save us. But then does hope really exist in such places?

  I stopped praying and hoping, because evil doesn’t see the light. It thrives in darkness, and as such it means… only darkness can beat them. Three years in hell with no one coming after us is proof enough of my theory.

  “There is no escape from here,” Callum says, and Santiago smirks, nodding.

  “And that’s why we don’t fight. Destiny.”

  Destiny.

  A funny word I never believed in when Santiago spoke about it. What is meant to happen will happen; that’s why he never begged any of the captors.

  Ironically though, destiny had different plans for us that changed our lives forever, because we were never prepared for them.

  * * *

  Arson, 13 years old

  3 years later

  Santiago, Callum, and I walk down the hallway while Jonathan hisses angrily at us, “No one wants to do a job here, right? What am I, a nanny to collect you all from different rooms?” We don’t react to his words—it’s not like he doesn’t play the same song over and over—then continue to stroll to the basement while passing various guards holding guns and saluting Jonathan. “Edward has to raise my pay for this.”

  Not this bullshit again. Everyone here knows there is no bigger coward in this world than Jonathan. He even trembles when Edward so much as raises his voice or orders him to bring new kids. The fucker would sooner lick Edward’s balls than ask for a raise.

  Jonathan, the fucking asshole who brought us here and has been supervising our every move for the last three years, has no idea about the words dignity and respect, so he has no resources to be anything else but Edward’s bitch.

  Of course, Santiago chooses this moment to speak up. I’d probably think he died if he managed to keep his mouth shut. “Then you should definitely raise that in your next meeting.” The blow to his head comes swiftly, but Santiago doesn’t even flinch, just smirks.

  Santiago is a psycho who I no longer question, because there is no explanation for his behavior. Callum got used to it too, even though sometimes he watches him warily.

  But then again, so do I, because what cannot be explained… might be very dangerous. Half the time, I expect him to turn around and start killing everyone, losing his mind, because no way in fuck all this shit doesn’t bother him.

  What did Caspian used to say when we watched TV on the rare occasion?

  Clowns are the saddest people in the world.

  Who knows? Maybe that’s the fucking case here.

  “Shut your mouth, Santiago, if you want to eat today.”

  Before he can say anything else, I elbow him, hinting for him to listen, because his antics might cost us food. We’ve already starved for three days after his last joke on Edward, which ended with punishment and starvation.

  The wounds festering on my back from the knife slashing my skin can attest do that.

  “I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,” Jonathan warns as we come closer to the basement door, his keychain dangling loudly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Soon, you’ll be too big for them to enjoy. Already so fucking tall.” He is so smug with his wide smile, showcasing his yellow teeth. I wonder if it’s worth hitting him in the mouth with a fist.

  Maybe if all his teeth fall out, he wouldn’t fucking talk so much and grate on my nerves. But the rumbling of my stomach stops me, because survival means I need food.

  Besides, who knows what kind of germs he has, and I don’t need any more infections. I’ve had enough from my wounds to last me a lifetime.

  “And then you all will be dead or…” He rubs his chin, and then says, “Or he can sell you to some whorehouse. Depends on his fascination with you, I imagine.”

  Oh fuck.

  Fascination is one word Callum can’t stand.

  This time, my elbow digs into him, steadying him in the present so
he won’t be lost in his painful memories, and he finally nods in acknowledgment.

  Instead, he replies to the fucker, “We will see what fate has in store for us.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrow at his reply, and he stops abruptly, pulling at the chains holding us all together, and we stumble back, hitting each other in the shoulders and wincing, since our skin still has fresh wounds weeping blood.

  “You think since you are his favorite toy, you can talk to me like that?” he shouts and then slaps Callum across the face with the key, scratching his cheek while continuing to scream, “Ungrateful assholes! After everything I’ve done for you.”

  Yeah, fuck him and fuck what he says.

  This time, I make no move to stop anyone, because I’d rather die with dignity than thank him for pimping our asses out and treating us worse than dog shit.

  “Done what? Chained us and sent us to be raped? Yeah, fucking thanks,” Callum tells him, sharing a chuckle with us.

  “You piece of shit.” He raises his hand but freezes with it midair, and his eyes glaze over before he groans, grabbing his heart. “Call someone,” he whispers, leaning on the wall and slowly sliding down it. “Call someone,” he says again, but none of us moves.

  None of us wants to miss this spectacular view.

  His eyes slowly roll back and he exhales his last breath, dropping on his ass while his head hangs to the side, dead.

  “Heart attack,” I conclude, my voice void of any emotion.

  Parker once had a client who was very old but kept on coming back for her every week, and since I hid in the closet during one of his visits, I remember vividly how he had the exact same thing happen to him when he was about to get on the bed with my aunt.

  From the corner of my eye, I see the guys sharing a look before shrugging it off.

  Since whores used to get a lot of wounds from rough clients, all the kids were taught how to take care of them with a medical kit or herbals. So it was a given that I usually tended to our wounds, making sure none of the skin festered for long or else we could have died here.

  And I have no plans of dying in this hellhole, not until I get my payback.

  He will pay for what he has subjected me to.

  I kneel in front of Jonathan and press my fingers to his pulse, forcefully opening his eyes with the other, checking for any sign of life. “Yep, dead.” I look at them over my shoulder and announce, “Who wants to call the guards?”

  Our collective, barely audible laughter fills the space, but then Santiago steps closer, dragging Callum with him, since the chain connects them, and reaches for the keys in Jonathan’s palm.

  He quickly opens our chains, and we rub our wrists. The fuckers wouldn’t let us live here without them. We even have to shower with them on, while Jonathan pulled at them and made us slip on the tiles.

  So yeah, fucker, may you never rest in peace, and burn in hell for eternity. Maybe the devil can sell his ass to the demons too.

  Santiago snatches the knife and gun from the asshole and passes one to Callum.

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  My question exactly.

  “Shoot or stab, I assume.” Santiago’s mouth curves in a smile, and he winks. “We can kill the guards.”

  I sigh in resignation; clearly, I underestimated the level of insanity Santiago reached.

  And why the fuck is he so excited about it anyway? Like we are some army able to take on the entire house of guards?

  He continues to talk, oblivious to our skepticism. “There are five guards inside, and then some in the garden.” Over the years, Edward has allowed us monthly walks under strict supervision. We would go out to the maze-like garden with different designs and the weirdest statues and flowers.

  Just like you do with dogs on a leash, take them out for a breath of fresh air before they are returned home, to know who their owner is.

  Needless to say, I fucking hated all these walks.

  An iron fence surrounds the place with several more guards, and we never see any other kids. Jonathan once got drunk and spilled that other kids are in a different area, handled by some John guy.

  Edward just brings us here, because we are his and his favorite clients’ most beloved toys.

  “You’re talking about running away,” I say and get up, stealing the knife from him and tapping on the tip with my finger.

  Through the years in captivity, knives held my deepest fascination. The silver always glistened in the dark, reflecting my terror in them and brought so much pain… along with fear that sent awareness of despair through me, even the tips of my hair felt it.

  And in those throes of agony, I’ve learned to appreciate the beauty it can provide, the agony it inspires in victims, and how in the right hands… this might be the greatest weapon a monster could possess.

  But I’ve never had the chance to hold one of them, twisting it from side to side, enjoying how heavy it felt in my hands, and the silver blade made out of the finest steel.

  Jonathan liked to brag about this shit, since Edward gifted it to him for bringing us to him, not that he liked us much.

  Santiago and I were reserved for his sick friends who enjoyed torture and destroying our bodies even more than raping us.

  All the memories combined with the pounding in my blood from the weapon I’ve been deprived of for so long sends anger and fury spreading in my veins and alerting my senses to all the sounds around me.

  While only one word chants in my mind.

  Kill. Kill. Kill.

  “We need to kill them before they raise the alarm.” I rub the tip on my chin, careful not to draw any blood, appreciating how sharp it is.

  All the more pain for the victims. “So we need—”

  “The remote,” Callum says, and I nod.

  The guards usually use those to open the gates when they have deliveries.

  “Roccko has a remote.”

  We frown at our memory of the beefy guy who has muscle after muscle on his body and stands next to the gates, because killing him in our condition and without training is impossible. Based on how he swung his sword the last time, he is very skilled, and facing him will be suicide and nothing more.

  Despite all the hell I’ve lived through… hope still burns in my chest to get away and survive, because I don’t want to die here like a victim starved and beaten to death by viciously evil men.

  My destiny can be fucking anything, but not this.

  I’d rather die trying to escape than continue living like this.

  Callum glances between us, an emotion passing in his eyes, but it’s so quickly gone I can’t trace it, and he speaks up with resolve in his voice. “I’ll handle Roccko if you can arrange everything else.”

  My hackles rise at how he words it. “Handling” Roccko means what exactly?

  His death?

  Did they ruin his spirit so much he is willing to sacrifice himself for this mission?

  Santiago must catch it too, because he frowns, opening his mouth. “Well, I don’t think—” He doesn’t have a chance to finish his point though, as the loud, almost deafening siren echoing through the entire house interrupts him.

  Fire alarm.

  Arson

  Rock music echoes all through the house, blasting so loudly the walls are shaking with it, and Ares hides under his pillow, his paws over his ears like he can’t stand the noise.

  Or maybe the fire that surrounds us, blazing with full force and mesmerizing me with its eternal beauty that nothing in this world could break.

  Just like Callista’s.

  My mouth curves when I think about her name and the meaning of it; the literal translation is that she is the most beautiful.

  How fucking fitting for my angel.

  Taking a greedily gulp from the vodka bottle in my hand, I flick the lighter and light up probably the thousandth candle, holding my hand above it and enjoying the burning sensation in my skin that makes me feel alive, if only for a moment.

 
It wipes away the screams ringing in my ear, reminding me over and over again of that fire that forever changed my life and sent me to purgatory with other lost souls.

  And the boy who is responsible for all this mess, who started this fire a long time ago I’m sure of it, is about to build a new building on the exact same spot to recreate his nightmare.

  Caspian might have not been a cold-blooded killer seeking blood all the time, but he is in love with fire all the same, since he devoted his life to it.

  I recognize the insanity when I see it.

  He must have experienced an impossible high twenty years ago, and no amount of destruction he’s brought since has ever added up to the excitement of the six-year-old boy. Felt in the moment as he made all those people fucking die in an act of revenge.

  Nothing else probably satisfied the sadist in him, so he craves to rule the fire again. Problem is that once you kill in masses… you crave more and more.

  And I won't let him kill innocent people so he can feed the serial killer inside him. This kind of madness has to be destroyed. There is no other choice.

  Snatching my hand away, I move toward the last candle, flicking the lighter once again. I look around me, the moonlight streaming through the windows and the countless candles splayed on the floor, counters, tables, stairs. Beyond that, there is nothing but darkness.

  No amount of fire though can soothe the pain slashing through me and demanding I go to Chicago to bring my angel back, as she is the only one who can calm the storm brewing in my veins.

  Her face full of betrayal flashes repeatedly in my mind, and I roar, hitting the nearby mug on the counter and sending it flying to the floor, the broken porcelain scattering in different directions.

  Just like my soul, it has so many cracks it’s a wonder Callista managed to fill all of me to the point I’m now suffocating in my own house without her, a place that once became my sanctuary from the outside world.

  This obsession and insanity over a woman, where everything without her is empty and meaningless, even the payback I’ve planned for decades… is called love?

  How does a person recognize or understand love if he never had it or experienced it?

  Or are those the emotions of a serial killer who’s let go of his most precious possession and mourns his loss?