by Belle Brooks
He kicks my left foot. How I don’t tense is a miracle. I somehow manage to remain limp. "Oh, don't tell me the game is already over?" There’s disappointment in his tone.
This just makes me blood-boilingly angry. How can a person be this cruel?
"I'd say it was a nice shot from a car, wouldn't you?" he taunts me. A kick follows to my upper thigh, and it has my lips parting wide, yet no sound exits. "How I love a moving target." He laughs. It’s a laugh belonging to the devil himself. Only pure evil could laugh like this. "Red, oh Red," he sings.
The eeriness of this keeps me in my frozen state, lifeless against the rough rocks. If I could stop my chest from rising and falling, I would. It’s an impossible task, and I inhale a big breath.
"Ladies and gentleman, there we go—she lives!" he announces, just as one would when addressing a packed stadium of fans. This announcement destroys me, along with his merciless laughter, which travels with the blood pumping through my veins.
“Just kill me already,” I whisper.
"Well, that wouldn't be fun now, would it? The game has only just begun. I'd hate for it to end so soon.” He speaks with such calmness, it makes me want to lash out at him with everything I have. But sadly, I’ve nothing left in my tank; there isn’t even a reserve to tap into. I have no fight. No strength. I'm done.
"That was pretty clever, Morgan. I must say, I've never had any of my women choose the route you did before. Maybe you’re smarter than I’d initially given you credit for … bravo,” he congratulates me. The sound of his hands clapping echoes around us.
I hate this obnoxious man.
He clears his throat. “The only problem, Morgan, is you forgot I was watching you. I’ve always been watching you.”
My face is still flush to the ground as he kneels beside me. A distinctive odour––his foul body, mixed with cheap musty cologne—rushes through my senses. If I could spit in his face, I would, but this act would require me to move my head, and the thought of trying to accomplish such a task is too much to bear.
“What am I going to do with you, Red?” he mutters, as his breath coats my sensitive skin, only intensifying my pain. He tuts over and over. “I think you were the best choice for number thirteen. I selected well. Yes, I will savour every bit of this.”
My breath snags in my throat and threatens to stay trapped in limbo for all eternity. I wish it would, so I could suffocate on the very thing that began my life.
“How should you be punished? Hmmm …”
I don’t know why, but I can’t hold myself back from provoking him, and as the words form on my tongue and croak from my mouth, my mind screams BIG MISTAKE. “You should know the answer, you pig.” I clear my throat. “After all, it’s your”— I clear my throat once more — “messed up game.” I’m becoming dizzy, or is it woozy? “Unprepared, are we?”
Why Morgan? Why say such a thing?
A stinging sensation rips through my arse and scorches through the nerve endings attached to my spine. He’s crushing my chest … he’s fucking crushing my chest. Pressure is being applied forcefully between my shoulder blades. It feels as if his knee is pressing harder into me as every second ticks over.
“Say that to me now, you bitch,” he jeers.
But I can’t, because I can’t inhale even one breath.
“Cat got your tongue, Red?” he says.
I struggle to draw air as I open my mouth wide. I’m suffocating. My face is boiling hot as it pools with blood, blood he’s restricting from visiting the vital organs dependant on its supply. My heart is working overtime trying to pump, but failing miserably. Pressure builds behind my eyeballs and it’s a hellish burn that accompanies it. This is it. I’m going to die.
“Fuck you,” I mouth.
Reid
Why? It’s a word constantly plaguing me. Why is this happening? Why am I here in this station instead of out there looking for Morgan? Why are these fuckwits wasting their time asking me so many bloody pointless fucking questions?
“You do realise you’re wasting valuable time in finding Morgan, don’t you?” I hiss, as my anger transforms into fury. “Why am I here? Why are you here with me instead of out there doing your jobs, hey?” I yell with full force, standing from the chair and pacing back and forward. “I didn’t kill my wife,” I proclaim, before I even realise I’ve said it out loud. Good job, Reid. Now they will think you’re guilty, you dick!
West stands, and with a tone as smooth as butter, he distracts me from my thoughts. “Reid, sit down. Nobody said you did anything.” A sparkle appears momentarily in his eye.
Did he want me to say that? Is this a test?
“This is all normal procedure. Officers are out looking for Morgan as we speak, and we promise you they are searching, but we need to start somewhere. You were the last person we know to have spoken to her, so the sooner we get through this, the better it will be. How about you sit down, okay?”
“I’ll stand if it’s okay with you?”
West shrugs. “Reid, what happened next?”
“Well, I showered, and when I got out I thought Morgan had come home, but it was Brax getting a drink. I watched the clock tick over, and I knew then something was really wrong. I called triple zero.” Exhaustion begins to slow my speech.
“Right. So you have not spoken with your wife since around seven p.m?”
“No.” I’m deflated.
“Is there a reason you waited before trying to contact her?”
I shake my head as this one question repeats on a loop through my mind. Because I’m a terrible husband who’s selfish, is what I want to tell him, but I say nothing and drop my head into my hands. Tears build, threatening to spill. I try with all my might to rein them back, but I can’t, and without my permission they start to fall. With a tear-soaked face, I whisper, “I love my wife. I love her. I would never hurt Morgan. Please, you need to find her. Please.”
Morgan
He bellows a ferocious laugh. I detest the sound. It sends my body into distress at the thought it will be the last thing I hear before I die. I try to close my eyes, but they won’t co-operate due to the pressure increasing behind them as they attempt to pop from their sockets. His knee rises and the overwhelming compression lifts as a result, but my heart pains. My head becomes lighter and my sight hazy.
I’m dying.
His laughter stops as my fuzzy head considers its impending shutdown.
“Morgan,” his tone eerily calm, “if you pass out, I’ll slit your throat.”
Hot stagnant air rushes down my ear canal from his breathy threat, his body pressed firmly against mine.
Trepidation crawls like spiders throughout my veins. These antagonising words activate the needed hammering of my heart.
“There we go … Welcome back.” He chuckles, as I gasp with full dramatics and then cough and splutter uncontrollably.
When he rolls me over onto my back, my chest rises and falls in slow motion as my raw and whipped skin is forcefully pushed into the ground. The bones sheltering my heart feel as if they’re crushed, and every breath hurts, causing me to wince from the pain. My blurry sight is clearing and when my eyes begin to focus I realise the face of the man who has captured me is yet to reveal itself because it’s covered by a black ski mask. All I can see are azure blue eyes and lips sculpted by the devil himself. How can someone with such beautiful eyes be so God damn evil?
His hand runs upwards from my knee, travelling along my inner thigh before diverting through the split in my skirt that the previous fall created.
The breath I not long claimed, launches in my throat as he moves higher and higher up my leg. Squeezing my thighs tightly together in protection, a moan of terror escapes my quivering lips. “Please don’t …Please, no.”
His haunting laugh only terrifies me further as his hand continues to skim along my skin.
“Please no. Don’t do this. Not this.” I beg, closing my eyes momentarily.
He groans, and when my lashes f
licker open, I’m greeted by a look of lust. His tongue slides slowly along his lower lip, and I tremble.
“Please, please don’t.” My final plea seems to fall on deaf ears, and it’s too much to continue witnessing.
He begins to laugh. “Open your eyes, Morgan.”
“I don’t want to,” I reply with a trembling voice.
“Now, Morgan,” he demands, his hand stopping against my groin. Five fingers dig into my skin with painful pressure. I can’t watch him while he violates me in the most physical of ways, but I’m forced to obey him, and I open my horror-filled eyes just as he bends his head in close to mine.
“Don’t worry, Red. I’m not interested in you like that.” Spittle resides on my cheek. “I just thoroughly enjoy watching you squirm. It’s payback for what you’ve done.”
What did I do?
His hand runs down my leg stopping exactly where he started, above my knee. “Your skin is very soft … It’s truly beautiful. I will enjoy slicing it from your flesh when you lose my game.”
I gasp at his psychotic statement and my flesh ripples in fear. He’s quick to stand upright, while my body lies there shaking on the ground from the prodigious amount of fright I feel.
“Get up, Red,” he snarls.
I try to peel my back from the ground, but it won’t budge. My eyes grow wide as panic increases. Get the fuck up, body! It won’t comply and continues to lie heaped and useless on the ground.
“Morgan, I will only say this once more. Get off the fucking ground,” he yells, before producing a large polished hunting knife in front of my eyes.
The knife does exactly what I need it to do. My brain registers the urgency of the situation and sends the crucial messages to start my limbs moving. Slowly, the broken vessel carrying my soul rises from the ground. The heels of my stilettos are no more when two cracking sounds alert me to their breakage, and I stumble, before I fling each foot in desperation to remove the hanging pegs. It takes no time to send them flying and slanted covers meet the earth in their place.
His dead-cold glare inspects my maltreated body. A finger is placed below my chin, and with gentle care he tilts my head back and his eyes meet my engorged lips.
“I can’t see why anyone would want to kiss your lying mouth. If you promise love, you should keep your promise.” Spit follows, landing on my nose. My head is left to drop by the sudden absence of his hold, and his five fingers spring open, then swing backward before flying toward me, connecting with my cheek with an angered force. I hear ringing and then a scorching sting when the slap fills my senses. I cry out loud, cradling my cheek in my skinned palms.
“Look at me, Morgan.”
I do, through narrowed eyes.
He lunges forward and whispers, “Boo! Run now, if you want to live to see tomorrow,” before he throws the backpack at my chest.
Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I shift on the spot, turning and stumbling towards bushland. I’ve no idea how my body is completing such a task, but it is, and I’m getting away from him. A cackle of laughter comes from behind me, and I sense each footstep as he takes chase.
He’s behind you! Run faster!
I whimper as stabbing pains course throughout my limbs, and my breathing becomes rapid as my crushed chest expands, regardless of the agony it creates. The footsteps hitting rough terrain behind me suddenly stop and are soon replaced with a drawn-out whistle. Peeking over my shoulder, I catch his retreat and see only the back of him moving farther and farther away from me.
I don’t stop running. Instead, I secure an awkwardly shaped overhanging branch to aim for in my sights and run even faster. Stretching my shuddering hand, I take a hold of the awkward branch I made my mission to touch, and shiver as I shift my eyes in the direction of what is awaiting me. The combination of high and low tones coming from within the haunting bushland are chilling, and for a split second I try to convince myself to turn around and give the track back out of here another go. Only problem with this is the arsehole’s silhouette is still visible in the distance. He will make sure I do as I’m told this time, I’ve no doubt.
“Okay, Morgan, you can do this,” I mutter, over and over and over through clenched teeth. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s possible to survive, I remain still, staring into the unknown.
My breathing is fierce, and my calf muscles burn. “I can’t do this,” I whimper as my teeth start chattering to a crazed beat. I’m not cold, anymore, in fact, more like overheated, but every part of my body moves uncontrollably now.
Tears begin to fall as I try to scream, “GO!” to myself. I’m not sure if it’s because I make no noise, or if it’s the paralysing fear taking control, but I don’t move my feet at all.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three loud gunshots ring out into the night sky, and within seconds I’m no longer grasping onto the awkwardly shaped branch. Instead, I stumble and sob my way through the beginning of a game with no rules.
Muddy earth pulls my legs down. My head bobs and twists as it tries to gauge which way to go. The storm achieved one goal tonight—drenching a bone-dry environment. For the last week, Queensland has endured a scorching heatwave, and although right now the wind carries a slight chill, come morning I know I’m going to be facing a roasting sun and unbearable humidity … well, that’s if I even see the morning. Shifting to the right, has sticks scratching at my arms and the more I pull away from them the deeper they burrow into my flesh. With no real lighting, I fight. I have to fight.
The backpack slung over my shoulder falls to my front, and without thought I fumble until I’ve caught it with the very tip to my fingers.
Why can’t I stop shaking?
The zip is difficult to jerk open, but I persevere and it complies.
Where is the torch?
My touch is the only sense I can use to locate it. I know the torch is in here, yet I can’t find it. “Come on,” I groan, unable to move freely.
Finally, with a loud grumble travelling the length of my throat, I grasp the torch securely with a curled fist and swiftly press the button in its end. A weak stream of light offers an opening to a trail as I continue struggling against whatever the hell I’ve managed to get caught up in. Pushing my body forwards, I twinge from a sharp object poking into my side. “What the fuck is this?” Throwing the bag to the ground, I place the torch between my teeth and clamp down. Using each hand, I violently rip away the foliage and with every muffled growl I find myself releasing through my teeth, I grow more desperate. Please, let go of me. Another jab below my armpit has my temper escalating, “Aaaarrrrrrhhhh.” Is it thorns or spikes? One roar bursts my mouth wide, and a forceful throw of my limbs has me stumbling and falling onto my knees. I’m freed!
I puff widely, yet cry hysterically. How did I manage to get caught up in this? My hands begin sinking, and before long mud folds in on itself, wrapping and then compacting around my arms. The sensation of being trapped again has me springing in a single leap skyward.
“I want to go home,” I yell.
Where is the torch?
Left, right, left again I move, before circling frantically. I catch a thin slither of light out of the corner of my eye and halt on the spot, only to jump from a pin prink to my bare foot. My slanted coverings completely removed. “Help! Help Me!” I’m not sure why I wail this so loudly, but I do.
The sound of a branch snapping has me pedalling backwards away from the torch I planned to take back into my possession. What was that? I move quickly, and although I know I’m leaving the bag with my only supplies, fear shoots my legs forward at breakneck speed.
It’s not a gentle shove launching me back to the ground. It’s a punch aimed between my shoulder blades.
Rolling my head followed by my body has me coughing and then spitting. I can’t see. Madly, I stroke my hands up and down my face, trying to remove mud.
“Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” It’s whispered in song. “Red. Is.” A chuckle dances around me, and then
there’s whistling. His eerie whistle.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I choke out. “Why?”
“Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” he repeats in song. “Morgan Banks is.”
I cry.
His laugh haunts me. He’s a pitiless man. He’s my worst nightmare. He’s my one fear.
Reid
Back and forth … they ask the same question, I give the same answer. We dance this tango over and over, and with every passing minute, my heart dies a little bit more. I’ve no idea what time it is. I’ve no idea where Morgan is. I’ve no idea what happens from here. All I know is I’m stuck in a room with these two dickheads who I wish to strangle so I can get the fuck out of here. I’m barely keeping control of the anger bubbling like lava in the pit of my stomach, threatening to explode from a pissed-off spout at any given moment. Hold your tongue, Reid.
“Reid. Let’s go over this one more time,” West says, before Gleaton finally spreads his pressed lips and repeats the same words, “Reid, let’s go over this again, one more time.”
“Really? You’ve something to say now?” I spit at Gleaton before thumping my fist hard on the table. Neither of them flinch. “What are we doing here? Please, help me find my wife. Just help me find my wife.” Dropping my head to the table, I moan––it’s a helpless sound as I will somebody to hear my pleas.
“Reid. I understand your worry …” Gleaton starts, his voice controlled and pitched with authority.
One breath, two breaths rattle my airway as I attempt to bury my pain. Breathing exercises don’t work. Less than a second later, I’m on my feet with my hands placed flat to the table, and my body bent over it. “You understand shit. Has your wife gone missing? Well, has she?”
“No.” Gleaton throws his head back as his eyes widen.
“Don’t even pretend to understand this. Don’t even try to tell me how I feel. Just do me a fucking favour and get me the hell out of this room so I can search for her. Can you just do this for me?” The grinding of my teeth alerts me to my tensed jaw. Pushing myself off the table, I roll my fingers beside my ear, trying to remove the pressure. “Come on!” I yell before kicking at the bolted in chair.
