To Watch You Bleed

by Jordon Greene

  “Now to the next bucket,” Skull-face informed her.

  “Stop, please stop!” Dalton begged them. He met Lenore's eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

  None of the three blessed him with an answer or even a reaction. The thinnest of the boys twisted at his waist and retrieved the next smallest pot and turned again to dangle it where the first had been just moments ago. Dalton kept his vision of the boy’s crazed countenance in mind as he focused all of his hate on the monster behind the skull-marked mask.

  Again water flowed from the pot, falling through open space and splashing against Lenore’s lips and on the rag holding her mouth open, then down her exposed throat. She choked again and again, gasping for air when the singular deluge lessened for less than a second and then choked again. Her body jerked and jumped, almost threatening to knock Freddie from his painful perch atop her knees.

  Again the water ceased and Skull-face went for the last and largest pot, his excitement peaked. During the transition, Lenore begged for air as she choked on the water in her windpipe, retching and gagging on the liquid. Water spewed from her mouth and around the cloth Bullet still held harshly between her jaws.

  “Here comes the big one,” Skull-face warned her, but the excitement in his voice betrayed the warning. Lenore’s eyes did not widen, instead they rolled in their sockets, bloodshot and scared. Her white blouse was soaked, the black lines of her bra showing suggestively under the thin wet fabric. Her soft brown hair was sodden with the burdensome water that pooled around her upper body.

  She whimpered, begging them to stop between coughs. “Please... St... Stop.”

  “Please just stop,” Dalton begged.

  “Please,” Mara joined him in a chorus of stuttered unheard pleas.

  Unheeded, water began to pour from the silver pot. Dalton watched as the first droplet raced down, pulled by gravity to its destination. Gentle lamplight reflected off the droplet as two, four, ten, twenty, then countless more clear droplets came together in an amorphous free fall before colliding across Lenore’s lips, then sloshed along her tongue and caught in the back of her throat. He watched her gag and retch as the usually innocuous liquid cut off her life-breath.

  What had been a slow trickle amassed into a torrent of rapids peeling over the cleft of Lenore’s soft lips, slaloming down her cheek and ears, over her chin and splashing on her chest. Abruptly her body wrenched up as she began to panic for breath again. She jerked side-to-side uselessly. The pot in Skull-face’s hands followed her as she managed to move just a few inches under Bullet’s tight grip. Water seared over the torn flesh at the edges of her mouth where the rag had rubbed back and forth. Unlike the other pots, the water just kept pouring. Dalton went to get up, but Freddie was quick to remind him of the pistol pointing at Mara. He took his seat again.

  “Please stop,” Dalton begged.

  “If you insist, Dalton,” Bullet rasped and nodded at Skull-face. The boy tipped the pot over and let the remaining content dump over Lenore's face haphazardly. The water ceased, the pot emptied of its contents. He grinned wickedly behind his mask, letting the rag go slack in his hands and slip from Lenore’s mouth. She coughed spasmodically. Her body jerked and water spewed from her throat. Instinctively Lenore tried to escape. Before she could get far, Bullet regained a hand of control on her collar bone. He slammed her back down to the wet floor. “Did I say to get up?”

  She didn't answer. Instead she continued to heave, expelling the water from her lungs. It spilled over her lips and eyes and neck. Finally, she could breathe. The air came in heavy gulps but she wasn't choking anymore. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, from person to person, scared. Finally, Bullet got to his feet. Freddie unmounted Lenore’s legs and stepped to the side.

  “Get up,” he barked.

  Dalton looked at his wife who still laid on the ground shaking. She was in shock. He wanted to go to her, reach out and lift her up gingerly. Pull her to him and envelope her in his arms and hold her gently. He wanted to shield her, to be there for her, to love her. He looked to the ground shamefully just before Skull-face yelled out.

  “Get up, bitch!”

  “She’s in shock, asshole!” Dalton yelled, almost jumping to his feet defiantly. Words were dangerous, but not as dangerous as a misinterpreted action in his situation, so he remained still for a moment. When no one moved, he began to step forward.

  “What did you say?” Skull-face roared as deeply as his shrill voice could manage. It was a delayed reaction. He had not expected the defiance.

  “I said she’s in shock, as…” Dalton began to repeat himself as he stepped forward.

  “Stop!” came Bullet’s raspy tone. He was neither angry nor amused, simply resolute. He reached down and cupped Lenore’s underarm in his palm and wrenched her upwards before Dalton could take another step, “Get up.”

  On her feet with Bullet’s rough assistance, her eyes met Dalton’s. He tried on a sad grin, trying to convey any strength he could muster to her. Abusively, Bullet shoved her to the left and onto the couch. She stumbled onto the soft leather and managed to position herself into a sitting position next to Mara, who reached out and wrapped her arms around her mother, trying to comfort her.

  “How sweet,” Bullet said.

  Silence ruled the expanse of the open living room for what felt like half an hour. It had been a mere three minutes. Positions had been resumed, or assumed.

  Freddie stood behind Mara, hovering over the sofa with the sharp end of his knife against the nape of her neck, his free hand laying on Mara’s neck just over her collar bone. His dark ungloved fingers lingered on her sensitive skin, earning quiet whimpers. Skull-face was planted directly in front of Lenore, a new bounce in his step and his curved blade hovered before her. Dalton let his eyes burn with hate anytime the boy’s masked eyes wandered his way.

  Just feet in front of Dalton stood Bullet. His knife, a near replica of the one in Skull-face’s hands, was angled at Dalton. It seemed the pistol was a less desired tool, pinned behind Bullet’s shirt between pant and skin. His eyes bore into Dalton’s head but Dalton refused to give him the pleasure of his attention. Instead he kept his eyes on Lenore and then Mara, and back again.

  “Why do you care so much about her?” Bullet’s voice questioned with surprising authenticity in his bewilderment.

  “Why?” Dalton repeated the singular word disdainfully. “She’s my wife.”

  His answer was met with a laugh. Not a comical sound, not the laugh of a crazed lunatic. No. It was the laugh of a calculated decision, of knowing, slow and belabored as it escaped between closed lips.

  “Well that’s obvious,” Skull-face jeered, looking momentarily at Dalton who glared at him and then to Freddie who cackled along. They were like a pack of two wild hyenas. Ravenous and crazed.

  “Yeah, I sort of get that,” Bullet nodded. “But that’s not what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.”

  Bullet’s black eyes dug into Dalton as if working to unearth some hidden jewel, or black stone. Dalton stared back, meeting his gaze with all the hatred he could muster, but unable to hold back the confusion that crossed his face.

  “What about that other woman?” Bullet asked pointedly.

  “What other woman?” Dalton asked.

  “You know who I’m talking about, Dalton. Stop playing dumb,” Bullet insisted. “That woman you work with.”

  Jenna. Her face sparked in his mind. How do they know about Jenna? Who are these people?

  For a long moment, Dalton stared back at his masked foe, not wanting to meet his wife’s eyes, not ready to meet the accusation that was sure to be there, not ready for the truth. He gulped, trying to find the words to say. During the hour that had passed, or had it been an hour, or more, his mind had worried only about Lenore and Mara. The need for her had resurfaced, a need to see her safe had surged to the forefront. He shook his head, finally letting his blue eyes meet Lenore’s questioning gaze.

  He frowned and moved his eyes to the fl
oor before fixing them again on those two black abysses behind Bullet’s mask. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Is it her hair? That nice figure?” Bullet prodded. “Or is it just because she’s younger?”

  “Stop,” Dalton bellowed angrily.

  Bullet toggled his attention from Dalton to Lenore and then back again, a smile eking out from the thin slit in the mask. He nodded toward Lenore, “She doesn’t know, does she?”

  Lowering his head, Dalton attempted to gather himself. The fear in his bowel notched up. His stomach churned. His heart twisted in agony not for his own shame, but because he knew how much he had just compounded Lenore’s suffering. He dared raise his head and steal a glance toward her. In her damp sea green eyes, she conveyed a typhoon of emotions. The lancing pain and mental anguish wrought from physical torment, fear in the twitching of her unsteady gaze and the visceral torrent of emotions heightened by the revelation of his disloyalty.

  The thought of the divorce papers in his briefcase made him feel dirty. What had he been thinking? He locked his eyes with Lenore’s, trying to convey his shame.

  “Jenna?” A flicker of realization shot through Lenore’s eyes. “You were...”

  “So her name’s Jenna?” Bullet half-asked, half-stated. “So you were screwing Jenna then?”

  “I never…” Dalton stopped himself. It would not have been a lie exiting his lips, but it was a useless statement, a useless plea. Now was not the time to prove his innocence of a mad man’s claim. Instead, he apologized. “I’m sorry, Lenore. I’m so sorry.”

  “See, he didn’t deny it, Lenore,” Bullet jeered, nearly prancing. Dalton loathed the pleasure the teen seemed to derive from this torment. “He screwed Jenna, over and over again.”

  Dropping his eyes, Dalton muttered a quiet “What?” as a revelation washed over him. It was a simple revelation, nothing profound or unusual, just frightening. These boys knew him, they had chosen his family for this night.

  “What was that, Dalton?” the raspy voice came again.

  “Why?” Dalton whispered, still not looking at the intruders, still talking to himself more than the boy in front of him.

  “I couldn’t make that out, Dalton. What were you saying?” Bullet asked again.

  “Why?” Dalton raised his head and glared at Bullet and asked. “Why us?”

  “Why you?” Bullet asked, cocking his head, looking back at Dalton sideways.

  “This isn’t random,” Dalton stated with confidence. “You chose us. You didn't just randomly come to my home tonight. You planned this. Why?”

  Behind the alpha male, Skull-face fidgeted nervously, the long curved blade of his knife swaying a little lower. Freddie tightened his grip on his weapon and pulled it dangerously close to Mara’s neck.

  The tips of Bullet’s thick lips raised. He swayed confidently, resting his free hand on his hip. “We know a good deal about you, Dalton. But, why? Well, it’s just not time for that yet.”

  “No, what do you want? Why are you here?” Dalton demanded.

  Bullet looked to Freddie and the knife around Mara’s neck threatened to dig deeper. Her taut skin began to contort around the blade. Dalton reached out, “No, no!”

  “To watch you bleed,” the voice came dark and raspy from behind the white mask. The blade lifted as Bullet flicked his fingers dismissively at Freddie.

  “What?” Dalton asked, hiding the fear that had suddenly chilled through his spine. He had heard the cruel words, but he could not believe them.

  “You asked what I wanted,” Bullet reminded him. The raspy nature of his voice thickened as he repeated himself. “I want to watch you all bleed. I want to watch you bleed.”

  The pallid expression that overwhelmed Lenore’s visage was a mirror of how Dalton felt. The chill of those heavy words had immobilized Dalton’s limbs. He could feel his legs and feet beneath him, his arms and phalanges at his side, but he felt powerless to move them. His eyes were locked with the alpha predator’s black holes in an almost hypnotic trance.

  Gradually the wicked grin behind the white mask raised at the corners and the head bobbed with a whispered but guttural chortle. His head twitched to the right but never broke their stare. The others, the sheep, remained at their post, knives bared and ready.

  “Why?” Dalton finally spoke. He immediately wished he could take the word back.

  “How many fucking times are you going to ask that?” Bullet bellowed louder than he yet had. “Did I not just tell you?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry,” Dalton apologized in flurry of words and nods as he drew back into the recliner. Why did this man, this boy, want him to bleed? Deep inside he knew what that meant, though he refused to countenance the word, or the idea. He had to remain strong for Mara and Lenore and that would be impossible if he broached the inevitable conclusion of the boy’s words. He shook the thought away.

  “Let’s take a little break,” Bullet stated, stepping a few feet backward.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t want them too roughed up too soon,” Skull-face giggled darkly as he let the blade drift away from Lenore. He let it sway back and forth between her, Mara and Dalton, then back again. The black kid in the Freddie mask, as evidenced by the ungloving of his hand, relaxed the weight of his blade on Mara’s neck. He stood straight, behind Mara. A reminder of the threat of his presence.

  “Nah, wouldn’t wa—,” Freddie began to repeat his counterpart as a gentle chime echoed in the open space. “What the hell is that?”

  Dalton’s body tensed. It was the driveway bell. The short tone that let them know when someone ventured onto the concrete path leading to their estate.

  “It means someone is coming up the driveway,” Dalton explained. But who? Please don’t be Aiden.

  “Did you call the cops?” Skull-face jumped toward Dalton with the blade sweeping a hair too close to his face.

  “I said no cops, Dalton!” Bullet yelled. He hooked Dalton by the collar and hauled him to his feet, nose-to-nose. His dark black irises became the only thing Dalton could see. “Tell me you didn’t break my rules.”

  “I didn’t,” Dalton almost pled, trying to reason with the boy. “I promise. If I had they would have been here a long time ago. I don’t know who it is. I swear.”

  He refused to admit what he feared aloud, that it might be Aiden driving into a trap. If it’s you, Aiden, please just turn around, he willed his son, wishing he could warn him of what waited for him.

  Bullet cocked his head sideways before releasing his grip on Dalton’s shirt and belting out commands. He refused to say the name of his counterparts to get their attention. Instead, he pointed with his long index finger. First to Freddie and then to Skull-face. Dalton dropped back to his seat and fell backward into the soft leather.

  “You, keep the women down and quiet. You, make sure he doesn’t move or speak,” Bullet barked. He looked in Dalton’s direction, his eyes narrowing as he met Dalton’s gaze. A warning, daring him to break his rules.

  The sound of old brakes screeched as a car came to a stop outside. Bullet half-jogged to the front door and eased the window curtain back just enough to peek outside. He reeled back. His eyes dotted back and forth aimlessly over the living area where the rest of the group stood or sat where he had left them.

  “Who is it?” Skull-face whispered.

  “How the fuck would I know?” Bullet replied quietly.

  There was something new in the boy’s gestures. He fidgeted with the handle of the knife between his fingers. His eyes remained low and sporadic. He was unsure what to do. Dalton tried to draw strength from the boy’s insecurity, from the fact that he was not in complete control.

  Dalton heard the sound of muffled footsteps mounting the porch just as Bullet did. Bullet moved away from the door. He backed up by the bar in the kitchen, knife up and ready again. Seconds later, a faint silhouette materialized along the frosted glass of the entrance door. Then came the knocking on the door frame.

  No one said a word. While
Dalton stared worriedly at the silhouette behind the glass, Bullet, Skull-face and Freddie stood rigid and tense. Silence overtook the open space with the exception of Lenore’s still ragged breathing.

  Again, the person outside knocked on the door post. The silhouette moved like a dark spirit waiting outside in contemplation of whether to break the threshold. It waited. Then it spoke.

  “Lenore,” a familiar voice echoed into the house. No one answered. Bullet's head shifted back and forth like he was trying to make a decision. A few seconds later, the voice came again. “Lenore? It’s me, Tamieka. I’m here to pick up that book.”

  Again no one responded, no one moved. A full half minute passed and no one moved, it felt like no one even breathed. Then Tamieka shifted to the left outside the door.

  “I’m probably too late,” she said more quietly, talking to herself. Her silhouette faded out of view in the frosted glass. She was leaving.

  Bullet visibly relaxed. He loosened his grip on the knife and stepped closer to the door. He looked back to Dalton and shook his head.

  “That was close,” Bullet barely even whispered.

  Unsure whether to be glad or disappointed, Dalton let his eyes drop. What could she have done? Nothing.

  “Give her a little bit to leave, and we can get back to business,” Bullet continued, his voice barely audible across the expanse. He began to walk back down into the living area.

  “Help!” a voice squealed loudly. Dalton’s attention darted toward his daughter. It had come from Mara. He shook his head vigorously.

  “Shut the hell up!” Skull-face warned her as Freddie’s knife dug into her skin, summoning a thin trace of red from her neck. She closed her lips, fear and pain overwhelming the need to get away.

  Bullet froze in place about five paces from Dalton, another eight to the entrance door in the opposite direction. Skull-face waved his knife in front of Mara’s face angrily and then brought his index finger up against her lips. “Shhh.”