Empire of Lies

by Whitney G.

  I stand still, shocked to my core. First the news of my father, and now this. His way of ensuring I have a new life doesn’t sound like “living” at all.

  “Who burned you this badly?” I say, looking at him. “Who fucked you up to the point where you can walk away from someone who loves you enough to be fucking okay with everything you’ve done?”

  “You don’t know half of the things I’ve done, Meredith…”

  “I’m willing to assume,” I say, stepping close to him as more tears fall down my face. “I feel like there’s a reason for what you’ve done, and you can trust me enough to tell me.” I stare at him, waiting for him to come to his senses. “I’m sorry for whoever or whatever burned you so badly in the past, but mark my words, Michael. I will never forgive you or take you back if you leave me here like this.”

  “I’ll never beg for you to take me back, Meredith,” he says. “We both know that’s not my style. You’re welcome for everything. I wish you the best in your new life.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “If there was more, I would’ve said it.”

  I nod and bite my tongue; he can have the last word.

  He can have the last glimpse of me because I’ll never let him back into my life again.

  Taking a step, I look this man over one last time. I silently scold myself for getting my hopes up, for ever thinking that “we” were ever anything more than a planned game for him. He’s always been the far better player than I am, and this is the ultimate checkmate.

  He looks at his watch, and then he walks to his car and slips into the driver’s side, pulling off without word.

  He disappears into the distance and although I’m struggling to hold back tears, I can feel my heart shattering in my chest.

  I was such a fool for ever trusting you…

  Michael

  Now

  I stare at Meredith in my rearview mirror as I drive forward and leave her in my past. That’s where she’ll remain for the rest of her life.

  She was a mere chapter in my book and this is our final page.

  No happily ever after included.

  I watch as she wipes her eyes, as she moves to the middle of the road and throws up her middle finger.

  I consider throwing it back, but I don’t.

  I just keep driving.

  As I move farther away from her, I feel a familiar pang return to my chest—the same one I felt once before when I almost completed the intended job and killed her.

  I can also hear a voice in my head, begging me to go back and get her—to come up with another alternative, where we can perhaps be together, but my job is done. I’ve done far more than I’m supposed to do for her, and one day she’ll be able to see that.

  Truth is, I’ll never be whole or able to completely care for anyone besides myself until I finish dealing with the people who have brought me years of pain. I need to spend the next few months focusing on trying to put it away once and for all, even if I know that it’s hopeless to dream of a night when it won’t haunt me in my sleep.

  Meredith may be just as broken and lonely as I am, but she’ll never know the same type of pain. She’ll never know what it feels like to cope after being “burned so badly”…

  Michael

  Long Before

  When Someone “Burned Me That Badly…”

  Trevor trembles in the cold, looking at me with tears in his eyes. “Did you win your chess match up there today?”

  I don’t answer.

  We both know that he doesn’t care. He’s just asking a question to pass the time, trying to make me think about something other than the hellish state of our existence.

  “I’ve managed to make a few new friends down here,” he says. “I mean, granted they can’t talk, but it’s been the highlight of my day.”

  I say nothing. I can’t play the ‘let’s pretend this isn’t happening’ game right now. The signs of reality are far too strong, too unforgiving.

  “Michael?” He shakes my shoulder. “Michael, you’re zoning out again…”

  I can’t help it.

  He’s currently chained to the metal pole behind the washing machine, and I’m free to roam about this small, windowless room. For now.

  Five hours from now, I’ll be chained and he’ll be free. It’s a rotating punishment, a twisted, psychological experiment that weighs heavily on my mind every single day.

  “Michael, can you please talk?” He begs. “Say something…Anything.”

  “What did he make you do earlier today?” I ask him a far more important question. “Who was up there when you went?”

  He shakes his head, and he starts to answer, but no words come out. Just cries.

  He’s always been the more emotional one between us, although getting passed around and sexually abused will break down any person. Even me at this point, but I’ve stopped letting it show.

  Tears have never saved me or given me any grace. They’ve never stopped our Uncle Avery from using us like pets, torturing our minds on a daily basis, or offering us up as options for his sick and perverted friends.

  They come every other day like clockwork, dressed in their thousand dollar suits with pictures of their families tucked into their designer leather wallets. They exchange pleasantries over a cup of coffee or tea on the “luxurious” side of the house, and they say things like, “Lovely weather we’re having,” or “How many rounds do you think you’ll go today?” It’s all coded conversation, a way to ask which one of us they want, how rough they plan to be.

  That part of the house is right above us, and we’re only privy to see it when these men stop by. Our uncle always has us ready and waiting for them. Freshly groomed and showered. Left alone naked with packs of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a soundproofed bedroom.

  For most of the men, me and Trevor are just sex. For others, we’re the subjects of the pictures that they store in the hidden folders of their phones. And for the more depraved group, it’s a mix of sex and a side of violence—a session of jaw punching and forcible submission, the kind that lingers in the mind years after and shows up in the middle of morning breakfast.

  There’s nowhere we can go, no one we can tell.

  Occasionally, he lets us upstairs to watch crime shows and cook food. He also allows me to use one of his laptops to play chess whenever one of his dogs chews up one of the real pieces. (“You’re one hell of a chess player, boy…”) From the newspapers that he lets us keep from time to time, I’ve caught sight of the world outside this hell a few times.

  Our lives revolve around his basement, and no matter how many cans of air freshener I spray, it always smells like rotten fish and dried vomit. The scent is trapped under the wallpaper, woven into the threads of the fraying carpet.

  The scent of hopelessness…

  There are a few rats that join us here or there, but they always die after a few weeks, thanks to the boric acid and antifreeze drops that he occasionally sprinkles in the corners. It’s enough to weaken them at first taste, to drain them of their energy should they try to make it up the steps for water, but it’s never enough to kill them at once; he does this to constantly remind us of who is in control.

  The only things he can’t seem to kill—besides us yet, are the spiders that roam freely. They come and go at their will—slipping under the tiny cracks of the wood near the far end of the basement. They avoid the poison and weave their cobwebs under the abandoned furniture—trapping their prey and staying focused solely on themselves.

  They’re the ultimate survivors, the smartest players in the game.

  “She’s going to come back for us…” Trevor finally stops crying, wiping his eyes. “She’ll eventually come back and get us, right?”

  I nod, even though I don’t believe at all.

  I stopped hoping for our mother’s return years ago.

  She was gone, and I never wanted to see her face again. I’d never be able to look her in the eye and give her any form of
forgiveness for dropping us off here and moving on with her life. For never coming back.

  I doubted that I would ever be able to accept that she honestly thought that we’d be “far better off” with Uncle Avery. I wanted to believe that she had no idea how big of a monster he truly was when she dropped us off at his doorstep in the middle of the night, but something told me that she knew.

  Beepppp! Beepppp! Beeppp!

  The timer on the washing machine goes off, the signal for us to switch places. It’s time for Trevor to roam freely and be at my uncle’s beck and call if he needs something upstairs.

  I unlock Trevor’s handcuffs, but I don’t let him lock me in.

  Instead, I slip the key into my pocket. Walking upstairs, I leave the basement door cracked, not sliding the lock it into place like usual.

  “It’s Trevor’s turn to be up here, Michael.” My uncle scoffs as I walk into the living room. He’s still dressed in a suit, poring over this week’s edition of The Wall Street Journal. I notice that he’s stolen a few new pens from his company, where he sits on the board of directors: Goldman Sachs.

  “Do I need to remind you how this system works?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “No, sir,” I say. “He’s throwing up, so—”

  “Ugh.” He cuts me off. “Of course. Sometimes, I wish you were more of a weak bitch like your brother. Go take him a towel and a cup of water when you’re finished cleaning. I still want him to sleep with me tonight. Not you.”

  I grab a towel and start to head downstairs, but he stomps his feet—forcing a plate of china to fall to the floor.

  “Make me a glass rum and cherry coke first,” he says. “Pour it over some ice and make me a sandwich to go along with it.”

  I nod and head to the kitchen.

  Opening the fridge. I start to make his drink, but I realize that I can’t wait anymore. I need to take my chances on escape now.

  I reach into my pocket and grab all of the boric acid as I can, all that I’ve saved over the past several months. I sprinkle it into a glass and make sure to wipe off the rim.

  This won’t be enough and you know it…

  I look over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t watching, and then I reach far back behind his collection of beer—looking for the bottle I filled with antifreeze a few weeks ago.

  I pour it into his glass and add the coke and rum on top, swirling the liquid around with my finger.

  Grabbing the chips, I take it over to him just as he’s standing up from the couch.

  “Took you long enough.” He scoffs, taking the glass from my hands. “Let’s play a new game of chess since reruns are on.”

  It’s not a question. I don’t have a choice.

  Taking my seat at the glass table, I set up the board as he takes a seat across from me.

  “This is really good,” he says, taking a long sip of his drink. “I’ll have to buy more cherry coke this week. If you learn to behave like your brother, I’ll think about getting you a few cases for the basement.”

  I move my pawn first, and he follows suit—talking to me in between moves as if he’s trying to distract me from what will undoubtedly be another win for me.

  He’s honestly far too predictable to make this game interesting, and sometimes I’d rather not play at all than share a board with him.

  By the time we’re sixteen moves in, I’m ready for a damn checkmate, but I hold back and let it drag out by making small pawn moves. He’s finished his drink and he’s sweating profusely, but he doesn’t look unusual.

  “Get me a fucking Sprite.” He snaps, and I oblige—jumping up and quickly returning with a cup.

  “You’ll only have about fifteen minutes to use the shower when we finish,” he says, snatching the glass from my hands. “I’d use them wisely if I were you. We’ll be having a few new visitors next week and you have a lot of—” He suddenly sucks in a loud breath and drops his glass to the floor. The bubbles hiss and fizz as they splatter on the hardwood.

  His eyes go wide and he grabs his neck, as if he can stretch it wide enough to force in fresh air.

  I watch as he gags, as he stumbles forward and falls onto our game, then onto the floor.

  “Call fucking 9-1-1…” His face is paling. “Now.”

  I pick up his cell phone and dial the 9 and the 1, but then I stop.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I step back and erase the numbers, then I set his phone down on the window sill.

  “Michael, Michael…” He’s struggling to breathe, pleading with his eyes. “Please…”

  I don’t move. I just watch as his face shifts from white to blue, as he writhes in painful agony. His gagging and gurgling sounds become more labored as the seconds pass, and then there’s silence.

  Beautiful, freedom signaling silence.

  I walk over and stand over his body, realizing how sad of a human being he is. How even he was scared of something bigger than himself in the end.

  Or, so I thought…

  He suddenly starts coughing again, managing to wheeze and let out another soft, “Help…Please.”

  I’m not sure what comes over me, but I lean over him and grab his neck—gripping it as hard as I can. Using all of my frustration and pain for power, I strangle him until I can feel the last breath leave his body. I keep my fingers on him long after he’s gone, wanting to secure my future, wanting to make sure he never wakes up again.

  “Uncle Avery, can I stay free for—” Trevor gasps as he steps into the kitchen, all the color leaving his face. “What the hell are you doing, Michael?”

  “Getting rid of our problem,” I said. “Help me put his body in the deep freezer. Get some trash bags.”

  “You killed him…” His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “How did you…How did you even—”

  “Now, Trevor.”

  He hesitates for a few seconds, but then he walks over to the drawer and pulls out several black trash bags. He slices them open with a pair of scissors and spreads them onto the floor.

  We take our time wrapping every part of him, and good measure, I stuff a wad of paper towels into his mouth and use duct tape to shut it. In the off chance that he magically wakes up and takes another breath, it’ll be his last.

  We struggle to drag him across the living room floor and down to the basement. He’s at least one hundred eighty pounds, and the sickening sound of his head hitting each step makes Trevor vomit.

  Propping his body against the metal pole, we rest for a while before lifting him up and placing him into the freezer.

  The moment I shut it, I let out pained screams and feel warm tears fall down my face.

  Trevor’s cries are far louder, and for what feels like forever, we sit down next to each other and let out years’ worth of hurt.

  I don’t know it then, but those are some of the last tears I’ll ever cry in my life.

  The adrenaline that’s rushing through my veins is clouding any bit of sympathy. All I can think about right now is the fact that the man who has ruined the past few years of my life is rightfully dead.

  “Now what do we do?” Trevor asks.

  “Now, we live our lives,” I say. “It’s going to take some time to figure out how we do that, though. We haven’t been enrolled in any school since tenth grade…”

  He blinks. “You don’t think any of his friends are going to come looking for him in two weekends? It’ll be the monthly Poker Night.”

  I hold back a sigh and think.

  “We need to bury him first,” I say. “We need to make sure that he’s at least ten feet under.”

  “On all the TV shows they only suggest six.”

  “Exactly.” I sigh. “We need to dig deeper than that, and it’s going to take us a while…”

  For a week and a half, we move out of the house at midnight—laboring under the moonlight. We cover the hole with a tarp during the daylight hours, setting the swings he never let us use back in place.

  We bury h
im without a word about his life, without any remorse whatsoever. Without ever saying the words aloud, we both agree that this incident never happened. That as far as we know, he simply walked out of our lives one day. Just like our mother.

  In between discussing our options (What the do we do now? Who can we call? How the hell do we move on after this?) , we rummage through his things and after looking through his bank statements and emails, we realize that we aren’t the only people he’s hurt. He’s a criminal of the highest degree, and he’s been siphoning millions from his own company.

  Not only that, but although we knew he was the devil, we didn't know he had a second life outside of us. That he was dating a woman named Stella who lived on the other side of town (but he had several other mistresses), was a member of some type of whiskey aficionado club, and was well-revered by all of his peers.

  He'd lived an amazing life while stealing ours...

  “You need to tell them not to come,” Trevor says, sitting across from me as I put down a letter he sent to one of his many mistresses. “That’s the first thing.”

  “I thought the first thing was figuring out how we could possibly get back into school.”

  “No,” he said, holding up a few sheets of paper. “The asshole had us enrolled in school…Apparently we were gifted and we graduated a year and a half ago. We also got into Hudson College and deferred acceptance.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “I think Mr. Choate was a Hudson board member or something…We can figure that out later.” He swallows, shaking his head. “Tell them not to come, Michael.”

  I unlock his cell phone and scroll through the recent contacts. When I reach the end of the list, I notice that there’s a folder titled, “Poker Club.”

  Opening it, I seethe at the sight of his digital black book.

  He has all the names, addresses, and phone numbers of all the people who’ve abused me and Trevor. For some of them, he even has their occupations and their company names.