Chained

by Celia Crown

  It could be the angle and the height from where I sit.

  “Look at what I found, a cat finding a mouse! Don’t fight, don’t fight—I want a little red. I want it.”

  The voice ends the humming with a childish laugh. It makes the song that much more unnerving.

  I focus on my hand to try squeezing my fingers into a fist, but they won’t move. No amount of fighting experience can help my body fight off the gas or be immune to it, and there is no way my body can build up a tolerance after the first hit.

  The hooded figure suddenly jerks her head up and look straight at me. My stomach twists uncomfortably, and I know it’s not from fear.

  For a reason unfathomed to me, I am not afraid of her.

  If anything, I want to take that gas mask off her and see who she is. It’s human nature to find out things that we aren’t meant to discover and their beautiful tragedies.

  Her eyes are beautiful under the reflection of the gleaming moonlight and the shaded rings of the gas mask.

  Molten amber gold and icy cerulean blue.

  Heterochromia.

  Chapter Two

  Hera

  It’s funny how powerful people coward at first sight of the danger that they can’t avoid or fight. They pay top-dollars for the best protection they can get with the given parameters of bodyguard types, but they refuse to protect themselves.

  They would rather focus on things that will get them more money to spend on finding the best protection possible.

  All the ladies are down on the ground, with dresses split open inelegantly from the unexpected nerve gas that I filled in this room. Their flawless hair picking up dust and germs on the dirty floor as their wide-eyed expression indicates that they are about to hyperventilate.

  The men on the floor are sprawled out, arms and legs on top of each other as their eyeballs shake from the effect of the gas.

  How sad.

  A grin spreads behind my gas mask. My breathing sounds mechanical as I hum another tune that scares them. It’s a song that I have heard on the radio, and it’s quite fitting to a scenario like this. My victims are helpless and vulnerable on the ground.

  There are so many things that I can do with them, but the only target that I have is the one in a flamboyant suit with crocodile shoes.

  Environmental activists would have a field day with this weak mobster. He’s going to have to answer to their zealous questions of why he had to kill a crocodile for shoes when he has money to make a pair that’s made from artificial skins of animals.

  It’s better than hurting animals.

  I step on a woman’s sternum, forcing a breath of air that is kept in her lungs to burst out. An involuntary noise escapes her red-painted lips, but her chest deflates when I step off.

  Avoiding limbs is troublesome. I can just step on them and get to my destination. It’s not like they need the limbs when they’re immobile; they should worry about the rodents that roam in this building.

  I came across at least a dozen when I was going through the endless halls of the structure, but thank goodness I hear the shouts of people cheering on their fighters.

  That sounds humane, but in reality, they are shouting for their fighters not to lose or there will be consequences.

  There is already one dead body tossed to the side with a bullet wound in the back of his head. Blood seeped into the concrete floor and soak it with red.

  Nobody pays attention to the poor man, but he doesn’t need to worry. I notice him, and I am going to give him a proper burial if I get the time after this thing that I have to do.

  The man’s thigh that I stepped on has a lot of muscle. His form is good and very strong. My grin strengthens as I put both of my feet on his thick thigh. I jump up and down to get a feel of how tense it is, and it’s a very thick piece of muscle.

  He works out, I muse to myself with a giggle.

  Balancing myself as I crouch down, I squeeze his thigh through his black pants and the material doesn’t allow me to get a good grip on him. That doesn’t matter; I felt what I needed, and it’s not the best that I have come across.

  I like it when men are dominant when I try to touch them; the fight in them makes my heart pound, and I love stealing the control that they have. It’s a fun way to pass the time when the next phase of my plan has to marinate a bit for it to work better.

  Sex is fun, but only when men have more stamina to play with me. If I choke them too hard, the weak ones will faint, and it won’t be fun anymore. I like the moment when they take back control and dominate me. It’s so aggressive and ferocious with primitive instincts of survival.

  The next man that I feel has more bones than a skeleton, and it’s definitely not my type.

  My type of men is bulky, stacked with muscles and reeks of power and dominance. The touch of possessiveness sings for the excitement in my blood, but nothing gets me bouncing in anticipation more than two utterly sexy men holding me down and taking pleasure from me.

  It was a fun weekend with a hitman and a war soldier.

  They emitted a sense of visceral masculinity, and the scars on their massive bodies were a beauty that I had too much time exploring.

  They were my type, and so is the man on the second floor.

  He is one of the reasons why I’m here.

  The man is Damon Maverick. Strong and deadly silent, his stare gives me sparks of fire that starts a simmering lust in my belly. His body is a work of art; wide shoulders, broad chest, big hands with thick fingers, and his frame is of a warrior.

  How dare that Callahan man holds him captive in a cage and make him fight for his life?

  He deserves to be let out into the wild and take out every competition that comes his way; he is meant to be the king of the jungles and terrorize society with his beastly demeanor.

  My demon.

  I laugh behind my mask, toppling over a limp couple who is holding hands. I almost fall on my face as my blonde hair slips from my hood; the soft, wavy strands get pushed back inside as I regain my balance.

  Huffing under my breath, I smooth down my tight pants that are close to cutting off my blood circulation in the legs. Extending one leg up, I wiggle my ankle to get my muscles moving again from being crouched down with tight pants.

  It’s such a bad idea to do that. Everyone knows that crouching with jeans is a big no-no. The news reported someone bending down to pick the weeds, and they lost their legs because blood wasn’t getting to the proper places for bodily functions.

  Life is so scary, and it’s why I have dedicated my life to having fun.

  If I worry about what comes next, it takes all the entertainment out of the unknown in my life.

  Planning is the destroyer of fun, but I need it to bring pain to the man that stole everything from me.

  Searching for a knife on the bodies that are close to me, I find one tucked into the boots of one man that is laying on his back with eyes open.

  His pupils are dilated from the nerve gas, but it’s not hurting him. This type of numbing agent isn’t meant to hurt; the only ability it has is to render victims helpless for kidnapping.

  Or other things that I don’t dabble in.

  Consent is a big deal to me.

  Ask, and you shall receive, that’s the motto that I go by with some tweaking here and there. Sometimes, I might not follow the motto given the circumstances, but the baseline is that principle.

  I twirl the knife between my fingers, humming a familiar tune through the mask as it sounds more mechanical in my ears than I want it to. The sharp edges narrowly miss my fingers, and the thrill of knowing that I can slice my own fingers off is scary, but I’m too skilled to have an amateur accident.

  Those are gone with the days in the past. Now it’s time to bring on the new ages of performance. Back in the mob days where sleeping with the fishes was the most popular disposal method of dead bodies, the new generation has new ideas of disposal methods.

  It also has more flashy effects to it, and th
e goal is to bring the ultimate shock to the world. Attention encourages fear, and fear fuels the need for survival; everyone becomes a monster of their reflections, and no one is truly safe with a generation of young adults with nothing to fear.

  They may not be as sophisticated in planning as the older generations, but the recklessness and bloodlust are the drives that give this generation the fame that they are addicted to.

  I don’t want fame, but I do want to hear my victims scream until their voices go hoarse.

  “Tick-tock, time is fleeting. Knock-knock, open the door. It’s me, don’t forget about me—I’m scared, I’m alone, why did you do that?”

  It’s a song with no meaning behind it, but it’s what I feel in ways that I can’t express in words when I see the man with crocodile shoes.

  I hate that man.

  I hate him with every cell in my body, and I won’t be satisfied with the hatred until I have wrung him dry. A knife through his heart would be too easy for him. I envision him begging and crying with so much snot that it’s gross.

  Ah, yes.

  It’s set then. I won’t put this knife through him just yet.

  Abel has fallen on his face, but his face is turned towards me as I cock my head down to make sure his eyes meet mine. The fear in them is clearer than still water and giddiness flares through my warm body as I plop down on a woman’s back. She makes a noise when the air in her lungs get pushed out.

  “Oh!” I gasp while putting the hand with the knife to the gas mask where my mouth is, “Sorry, madam!”

  I finish off with a giggle and turn back to Abel. His fearful eyes dilate even further as I tug his legs closer to me.

  Starting with another tune that I know, my voice comes out as the haunting melody fills the room. I pull the leg of his pants up one ankle, and to his knees; it’s the highest it can go with the non-elastic material of his suit pants.

  I nod in appreciativeness as the fabric glides across my open palm, that is very nice tailor-work, and I bet it’s from a personal tailor that he has on his beck-and-call.

  It’s a shame that I’m about to make his tailor’s job much harder.

  Hooking his sock down, I push the reflection of the gas mask into my eyes as I hold up the knife. The apprehensive fear in his eyes changes to panic as I bring down the sharp blade; it’s a slow process because I want him to feel everything that I’m about to do to him.

  He doesn’t deserve any mercy.

  “Take a step back and remember, oh hey, I know this!” I crackle with the tune in my voice, “Turn a right and scream, oh no, you caught the mice!”

  Sometimes, I scare myself with how crazy I sound, but I can’t help it. Old habits die hard when I formed the necessity to talk to myself when I get too bored.

  It would be bad if I accidentally said something important. What if they use that against me?

  Well, more fun for me when they send in people who they think have a chance of putting me down. Maybe one day they would find someone strong enough to overpower me and smarter to outwit me in a battle.

  Hmm, I sound like a warrior about to go into war.

  Once I do this, I might as well be fighting a war with thousands of mobsters under the command of this cowardly man.

  That’s a problem I can worry about tomorrow.

  I bring the blade down, the sharp glide of the edge rips through the first layer of his skin. I pause for a moment and glance at the man whose eyes are too wide in a panic that he’s hardly breathing normally.

  I shrug my shoulders and make a sawing motion with my hand to cut down to his Achilles’ heel. Blood gushed out, pouring over the blade and soaking his socks and shoes as the floor paints with red.

  His blood doesn’t excite me. It’s almost boring when I watch Abel’s eyes roll into the back of his head. I was hoping he would stay awake long enough to endure the pain and watch me cut his other Achilles’ heel.

  A manic laugh explodes from my lips. This is unbelievable as I saw down his other ankle. How a man like him created a monster like me is beyond my imagination, but it’s what happened and I kind of regret it for not slapping him awake to make him feel the pain of being permanently crippled.

  He was barely there when he slaughtered my family, but the effect of his evil act has carried me this far in life with only one goal in my mind.

  “This is for you, daddy,” I jab the knife into his heel, and I can hear the screams through the shock that jolted his conscience wide awake.

  “Good, good,” I clap my hands with a smile under the mask, “You’re awake. You’re supposed to feel pain, Mister. Fainting counts as cheating, and that is not good.”

  “Now, the gas is going to wear off…” I hum, and his body doesn’t jerk at the familiar tune, but his eyes have intense terror in them.

  I tap my wrist as if I have a real watch on my wrist, “About fifteen minutes, but you must fight it through!”

  I stand from the woman’s back and shoots her an apology through a giggle as I dance through the prone bodies.

  “Time is ticking! Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!”

  My own voice echoes back to me as chirping sounds come from the darkness; a thrill runs through me as I giggle with manic glee in my voice.

  “It’s here. It’s here!” I squeal in the wide arena as I jump over the bodies to the stairs that lead up to the second floor where my very big demon sits with his back to the wall.

  Even gravity and involuntary body movements don’t take away this man’s natural status as a predator.

  “Hello!” I greet him knowing he can’t speak at the moment.

  His glazed black eyes are hallowed with bleakness, and the brazen glare he has is special. My heart actually beats with a hint of fear when I look him in the eyes, and at this moment, I knew he is the special demon that I will spoil.

  He hasn’t spoken to me yet, but I already adore him.

  “You have to promise me that you’ll be good,” I stroke his scruffy cheek with my bloodied hand, and I smear the redness on his skin as it suits him better.

  He is a man that stands in a pool of blood while raising to the throne of victory. I have seen him fight before, and it is the wildness in his eyes that shifts between cold calculation and hot-blood strikes that renders his enemies useless to his advances.

  The scrapes on concrete get clear, and I turn my head over my shoulder to see the first rat run out of the darkness. My eyes glint over with elation as the feasts have begun rather hurriedly, but I can’t let those tiny rodents take a bite out of my demon.

  He’s mine.

  Taking out a vial that is of dense chemical, the cap gets unplugged, and I push the gross scent to Damon’s nose and let him inhale the chemical to counterbalance the gas in his body.

  I know how the drug takes effect on a person’s body, and he doesn’t have the physical strength to hurt me even if he tried; the gas takes away the ability to act quickly.

  That, I am wrong.

  Damon has his hand around my neck before I know it and yank me towards him as I topple to his chest. His muscles are too hard under me and my shoulders collided with his chest while my knees scrape across the floor at his rough ministration.

  This man is just surprising in all aspects, and it makes me wonder how many things he can change just because he wants to. Gravity be damned, my demon can walk on water if he really wants to.

  It’s a bit out of this world, but with the right chemicals poured into the ocean, he can do it with no problem.

  However, the instinct in me strikes his hand away as his nails claw at my skin to leave red welts on its trails. I clasp my hand around his wrist and bring it down to his side while holding my other hand around his thick neck.

  I can’t wrap my fingers around it, but I squeeze his windpipe with a crushing grip. Damon’s black eyes turn deadly when he stares into mine through the gas mask; the sinful intentions that crackle in his eyes like electric lightning becomes apparent when he flexes his thick wrist unde
r my grip.

  He’s going to break through my hold, now or soon.

  I don’t wait to find out.

  Releasing him, I jump back, and I’m running out of the open arena from the second floor. Damon has already had the chemical in his body and given his size, his metabolism of the gas should be quicker since his blood is still pumping from his previous fight.

  The noises from the rats are louder with the ambient sounds canceled out, the chirps and their tiny feet slapping on the ground fills the space.

  I wish I can stay behind and watch the horror on the faces of my victims but knowing that they have encountered hundreds of rats will give me a good night sleep.

  Rats are naturally drawn to blood, and Abel’s useless legs are about to become his biggest nightmare, and the rats are going to be after him first.

  “Ah!”

  There it is, the screams of horror as one follows another with an echo. Shouts for help and the shrills of women take over the calm arena, but I’m more interested in hearing the shrieks of pain when Abel finds his voice.

  How sad, and he’s yelling at his bodyguards for help.

  A grown man should not scream at a high decibel than a woman, but Abel has never been a man so I don’t think it would be fair to loop in other men in the same category as him.

  There is a pair of eyes on the back of my head, but I already know who it is. Only the eyes of a demon can make my fingers curl at my side, and I will see him very soon.

  The game has begun.

  “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.”

  Chapter Three

  Damon

  In the years that I have been working for Abel, I have only seen the former mafia boss two times. He’s elusive as he is there. His name still rings fear into peoples’ minds, and his stance on fairness remains one of the most sought-after principles.

  Conrad Callahan is his name, feared and respected across every spectrum of criminals.

  “I do not step into my children’s business,” he says; his cane smacks down on the ground as the scowl on his face tightens.