Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Jim reached out and pulled one of the straps down past her shoulder. “I don’t think it will look strange, lover,” he said. “And besides, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” He tugged the second strap and let it snap back onto her skin.

  Amy kept her head low and slowly removed the other strap with both hands. She paused there for a moment.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Pull it down to your waist.”

  She took a deep breath, her chest expanding, hating that the deep breath made her chest heave, assuredly exciting him further.

  With both hands she gripped the center of her bra and inched it down to her stomach. She could not bring herself to look at her own breasts in this man’s company. She closed her eyes and looked away.

  Jim moaned lightly under his breath. “Oh yeah…” He briefly touched himself. “Nice and firm. I guess you never breastfed those two rug rats in there did you?” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder towards the bedroom door. “You know I read somewhere that if a mother doesn’t breastfeed her kids, she loses that special bond between mother and child during those crucial developmental years. Is that true? Is there a bond lacking between you and Carrie? You and Caleb?”

  Hearing her children’s names made Amy’s heart burn. She’d been desperately trying to put her family out of her mind during this most recent nightmare, and she would have bet anything that Jim knew this; that his speaking Carrie and Caleb’s names as opposed to something like your children or your kids was intentional. It brought her anger back full-steam.

  “I breastfed them,” she said with an instantly regrettable defiance. She could feel the cold on her bare breasts and prayed her nipples were not hard for him. She did not look and see.

  “Really?” Jim said. “Wow. I guess you’ve just got some winning genetics then, yeah?” He reached out with his index finger and circled the perimeter of her left nipple. Then her right.

  Amy tried a swallow and her throat caught, forcing a cough. Her rage was the only thing keeping her from crying.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. It was barely audible.

  Jim stopped his exploratory finger, brought his whole hand to her cheek, stroked it. “You’re welcome,” he said. His began caressing her hair again. Amy kept her profile to him. “Look at me,” he said.

  Amy didn’t move.

  “Turn and look at me.”

  Amy bit harder into her cheek and tasted the coppery hint of blood. She forced herself to turn and lock eyes with him.

  He winked at her, leered, then established a quick, firm grip on the back of her scalp that made her gasp.

  “Much better,” he said. “Now…where were we?”

  The pressure on her scalp was painful. She took her eyes off him immediately and attempted to lower her head back to his groin. He allowed her, but kept a strong hold on her hair.

  Do I try and sell it again? Or are we past that? I need to say something. I need to hear my own voice…

  “I think we were here,” she said. Her voice was a weak, defeated offering—as she’d intended. She was inches from his penis for the second time.

  He gripped her scalp harder. “Well then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

  Amy swallowed dry again. She had no spit whatsoever. If she were with Patrick it would be difficult to do a decent job. But she didn’t need to prolong this act. She didn’t need to be concerned with performance. She would take him in her mouth for as long as necessary. Once the moment presented itself, she would chomp down with everything she had then jerk away violently like a wild animal. Hell, the dry mouth would even give her a better grip wouldn’t it? Fuck yeah. Keep the damn thing from slipping out.

  Amy knew the assault would not stop her attacker, but she was hoping (praying) the intense pain would buy her the precious seconds needed to hop off the bed, snatch the giant lamp on the dresser, and then bring it down onto Jim’s skull, knocking the son of a bitch out. Maybe (hopefully) even killing him.

  After that? After he was incapacitated? She had a plan. A damn good one.

  Amy allowed the tip of his penis to touch her lips, her breathing coming in short, rapid bursts. She opened her mouth and allowed the first inch to enter. She didn’t need to slide too far down onto his shaft. Biting the head off would do just fine.

  She bit.

  And her teeth clacked together, catching nothing. Jim had suddenly pulled out, his member unscathed. Still gripping her scalp, he ripped her face into his, their noses mashing. She saw lunacy in his eyes, smelled his sour breath as he started laughing.

  “You think I’m fucking stupid?” he said. “You think I’m gonna let you bite my fucking dick off?” He gripped her hair harder, causing Amy to cry out. “You’ve got to be the most predictable bitch I’ve dealt with yet.”

  Amy’s panic was electric. There was no plan B. Not even a sliver of one.

  Jim stepped back and yanked Amy off the bed by her hair. She cried out again, moving with him willingly to relieve the pain on her scalp. Jim spun her around and pushed her up against the dresser, stomach impacting along the furniture’s edge. With one hand still gripping her hair, he began to tear at her pants. Amy struggled but his strength overwhelmed her.

  She was bent over now, her hands slamming down onto the dresser’s counter, knocking over a small jewelry box and spilling its contents.

  Jim’s pants were still around his ankles, his manhood still erect and prepared to violate her.

  Amy’s pulse was off the charts, her chest and head pounding, each throb threatening a blackout. And then, as if handed to her by an invisible savior, her frantic hands fell upon a metal nail file that had spilled from the jewelry box.

  She snatched it up and leaned forward, hoping her upper body would shield her find. She needed something else. She needed him to release the grip on her hair so she could spin around. She had no available target from where she was positioned. She needed to face him.

  So she screamed. She screamed until her throat hurt. And it worked. Jim let go of her hair and slapped it over her mouth.

  Amy didn’t hesitate. She thrust her hips backward into his groin, doubling him over and knocking him back a step. She then spun, and with both hands gripping the metal file, drove all six inches of it deep into his scrotum.

  The expression on Jim’s face was that of a man who had jumped into a frigid pool. He froze, his breath gone. What followed was a pitiful groan of both excruciating pain and disbelief. Blood began to seep from the wound, and when Amy let go of her weapon, she saw that it remained stuck and standing to attention in a deliciously ironic similarity to his erection from only moments ago.

  Jim backed up another step and looked down at his wounded groin. His hands shook as he went to touch the file. It looked as though he considered pulling it free, but fear of possibly making matters worse caused him to jerk his hands away.

  Amy used both hands on the heavy lamp’s neck, her adrenaline giving her the strength to lift it overhead with little effort. A forceful grunt that started in her abdomen matured into a ferocious battle cry as she brought the lamp down onto his skull, shattering the whole of its porcelain bulk on impact. Jim hit the floor hard—out cold.

  Amy spit on him a fourth time.

  • • •

  The occupants in the bedroom across the hall heard Amy’s scream. They heard Jim’s low, guttural groan follow. Then another scream. The sound of something breaking.

  It all made Arty smile. He thought his brother’s groan was one of ecstasy. He thought Amy’s screams were those of terror. He thought the sound of something breaking was Jim getting carried away like he usually did.

  Moments later, when he heard his mother’s cry for help coming from downstairs, and he took in the upsetting scene now being broadcast on the television, Arty realized he had it all wrong.

  54

  Amy was a whisper as she exited the bedroom, gently pulling the door shut behind her with the face of someone waiting for a balloon to pop; not a click or a clank c
ould be afforded with Arty holding her family a mere few feet across the hall.

  Her wrists and ankles still tied (there was nothing else in that jewelry box that could cut through her binds; and she certainly wasn’t about to pull the nail file from Jim’s bare balls, lest the pain wake him up), she shuffled softly past the closed door that held her family.

  Upon reaching the stairs, Amy decided to do something she hadn’t done since she was a child: she sat on that first step, then slid and thumped the rest of the way down on her butt. However, unlike a child, who would almost deliberately thump their butt as hard, and loud, as they could on each step, Amy’s butt was fine china.

  Arriving at the bottom, Amy hopped through the den and into the family room where Maria Fannelli lay in her recliner, asleep, the iPod’s headphones still in her ears—still blocking out any and all noise.

  Straight ahead, past the family room, was what Amy was hoping she’d find. It was the kitchen. And in that kitchen would be a knife. A knife she could use to cut her binds, and a knife she could use to make a life-threatening deal.

  55

  When Arty looked at the television and saw Amy holding a kitchen knife up to his mother’s throat, his first thoughts were of his mother’s safety.

  Then of his brother Jim, and why he had allowed Amy to escape.

  Then of a way to regain the upper hand.

  56

  Maria Fannelli’s headphones were ripped from her ears, waking her instantly. She was seated in her recliner with someone standing behind her. Someone with one hand wrapped around her forehead and the other holding the blade of a kitchen knife against her neck.

  To Maria’s great surprise, the stranger was a woman. A woman had broken into her home and put a knife to her throat.

  The stranger’s demands were odd to Maria. The strange woman had first begun to yell at the ceiling for someone named Arthur to come downstairs. Now, the stranger insisted that Maria should be the one to yell—to yell for this Arthur to come and help.

  “Call him,” the stranger said as she pressed the blade hard against Maria’s skin. “Call him and ask for help. Tell him you’re scared and that you need his help.”

  Maria’s voice caught. She coughed once, cleared it, and barely spoke above a whisper. “Help. I need help.”

  “Louder. Tell him you’re scared.”

  Maria swallowed and her throat bounced against the blade. “Help! Help I’m scared!”

  “Louder!” The stranger pressed the knife harder against Maria’s soft skin.

  “Help! Help I’m scared! Please help!”

  Silence followed. The stranger was breathing heavy and seemed to be listening for sounds above them with great intent.

  “Arty, you fuck!” the stranger yelled. “I know you can see me! I’ll cut her throat, I swear to God!”

  Maria wanted eye contact with the stranger behind her. Wanted to read her face, understand what was going on. She tried to turn her head. “Why—”

  “Shut up,” the stranger said, forcing Maria’s head back around. “Shut up and I won’t hurt you.” The stranger paused and listened again. A brief shuffle of footsteps from above. “ARTY, GODDAMNIT! GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE OR SHE’S DEAD!”

  And just as the stranger was about to repeat her threat, a man with dark hair and dark eyes appeared in the doorway, holding a gun to a little boy’s head.

  57

  “Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican stand-off, yeah?” Arty said.

  Amy did not expect this. She envisioned Arty sprinting down the stairs the second he looked at the television. She envisioned him helpless and begging for his mother’s life. Instead it appeared as though he was able to keep his wits about him, present his own ace in the guise of her son.

  “Let my family go and I won’t kill her,” Amy said.

  Arty pressed the gun barrel of the six-shooter into Caleb’s temple and cocked the trigger. “You kill her and I kill him.”

  Amy came close to dropping the knife. The sight of her son with a cocked and loaded gun to his head nearly caused her to lose her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to take Caleb into her arms and somehow whisk him far away from the nightmare.

  “Mommy,” Caleb said. His brown eyes were wide and glassy. Amy absorbed his fear and it all but drained her.

  “Mommy’s here, sweetie.”

  Arty’s free hand released its grip on Caleb’s shoulder. He patted the boy gently on the arm. “There, you see, Caleb? You’ve got nothing to worry about. Mommy’s here. Now go on over to her.” The little boy turned and looked up at Arty. “Go on,” Arty insisted.

  Caleb took a step toward his mother and Arty instantly snatched him back by the arm, causing the boy to stumble and fall at Arty’s feet.

  Arty laughed and pulled Caleb upright.

  Caleb started to cry. Arty made an awww face at Amy, pretended to knuckle away a tear of his own.

  Amy felt close to insanity. She wanted the man in front of her dead. No—she wanted him killed, and she wanted to be the one to do it. No apprehension, no struggle with morality. Dead. Killed. By her.

  “You won’t win,” Amy said through clenched teeth. “I won’t let you win. I swear on my very soul that my family will live through this and that you’ll rot in hell.”

  Arty looked as if he hadn’t heard her. “I saw what you did to Jim,” he said. “It was upsetting. Upsetting, but I have to admit, a little exhilarating too. We’ve never had the game taken to this level before. I think it will be that much sweeter in the end, don’t you?”

  “It’ll be sweet when you’re dead.”

  Arty chuckled. “When I’m dead? What exactly were you planning to do? Kill everyone in the house? I thought you were just trying to make a deal here; trying to save your family.”

  Amy was flustered. It was her move, and she didn’t know how to play it. She could only keep spitting threats and pray Arty would back down first. “Arty, I’m telling you one last time, and I am not fucking kidding, I will cut your mother’s throat from ear to ear unless you let my family go.”

  Arty studied her. He did not appear concerned in the slightest. “Nah,” he eventually said, waving a dismissive hand at her, “you won’t do anything. It’s not in you.”

  “I just stuck a nail file into your brother’s ball sack. I think it’s in me to cut an old lady’s throat.”

  58

  Patrick didn’t know what was going on downstairs. What he did know was that Arty had left the room, taking Caleb with him, and that his brother Jim had not taken his place for a while now. That left him and Carrie alone.

  “Cawee,” Patrick garbled through his gag. “Cawee, helt Danny.”

  Carrie stayed curled into a ball in the corner of the room.

  “Cawee!”

  The little girl twitched and finally looked at her father. She blinked several times before focusing in on his face.

  “Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag.”

  Carrie stood to her feet but remained in the corner.

  “Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag!” He prayed she understood him.

  She walked towards her father and touched his knee. Patrick smiled with his eyes and said, “Honey, helt Danny hake hi gag ott.”

  She reached up to his face and pulled at Patrick’s gag. His daughter’s hand on his cheek brought on an instant stream of tears. Less than an hour ago he was sure he would never experience her touch again.

  “Good, honey, good,” he said the second the gag was pulled down to his neck. “You need to do one more thing though, honey. Do you think you can do that? Can you do one more thing for Daddy?”

  She nodded, her expression still projecting the glazed look of emptiness it previously held. This concerned Patrick, but wasn’t something he could afford to ruminate over now. At least his daughter was acting, and at this point in time, her ability to take action, despite a lifeless demeanor, was most vital.

  “Good, honey. Daddy’s very proud of you so far.” He then spoke slow and concise.
“Now, what I want you to do next, is to take one of the knives out from the wall behind Daddy. Can you do that? Can you take one of the knives out of the wall?”

  She nodded.

  “Good girl. Do it now then, sweetie.”

  Carrie reached past her father’s shoulder and clamped her little hand around the handle on one of the knives sticking out of the dry wall. She tugged once, twice, and then a third before the knife squeaked free causing her to stumble backwards, nearly falling over.

  “That’s my baby girl,” Patrick said. He could feel his stomach swirling with adrenaline, his brow beginning to dampen; he expected Arty or Jim to appear at the door at any moment and pounce on his daughter. The thought terrified him and brought a quick and desperate tone to his voice. “Carrie, you need to cut Daddy free as quickly as possible. Do you see how Daddy’s forearms are tied to the arms of the chair? All I need you to do is cut one of them free. I can do the rest once you cut one of them free. Can you do that? Can you cut one of Daddy’s arms free?”

  59

  “So what are we gonna do here, Amy?” Arty asked. “Are you really prepared to commit murder? Here, in front of your son?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh I’m quite sure you could kill me or Jim…” He pointed at his mother. “But an innocent old woman like this?”

  “If it hurts you I can.”

  “No you can’t—you’re trying to bluff. You had this all worked out in your head already, didn’t you? You thought I’d see my mother with a knife to her throat and break down, give you whatever you wanted, right?” He pressed the gun barrel harder into Caleb’s head, causing the boy to whimper louder. “But I’m not a fucking idiot, Amy. And I don’t think the way you do. That’s what makes me who I am. It’s what has enabled me to survive as long as I have. That and the love of the woman you’ve got a knife pressed to.