by Sara Clancy
“Yes, Aleksandr, show some apprehension,” she purred. “Don’t you know how much trouble your father went to give you a good birthday? It took so long to find a girl who would deform herself to such a state. He hunted her for days.”
“Hunted?” The girl’s abrupt laughter took everyone by surprise.
Fury radiated from Olga as she watched her husband smile in bemusement down at the woman in the cage. Still laughing, she craned her neck, so she could look Petya dead in the eyes.
“You’re the kind of guy that throws dynamite into a lake and calls it fishing, aren’t you?” Scoffing over Petya’s reply, she turned to Aleksandr. Every joint of his body locked up at the attention, but she seemed utterly at ease. “He distracted me with a kid and hit me over the head. Truly, it was a battle of wits.”
“You need to watch your mouth,” Olga hissed.
“Or what?” the girl challenged. “You’ll kill me?”
Olga’s pretty features twisted in disgust and murderous anger. The points of her nails pierced Aleksandr’s skin, releasing droplets of blood that trickled down the back of his neck.
“You have no idea what I’ll do to you.” Olga sounded more animal than human and Aleksandr knew better than to move.
The teen didn’t care. She smirked and gestured loosely to the TV set. “I’ve just spent God knows how long watching your home movies. I know exactly what you’re capable of. You’re not all that impressive. Sick, twisted, admittedly creative, sure. But impressive? Nah.”
Olga laughed, low but shrill. Close to the manic laughter Aleksandr had heard in the darkness, but not an exact replica. Shivers worked their way down his spine as she tightened her grip.
“Do you know how many pathetic little girls like you I’ve murdered?”
The girl wiggled her fingers and released a long, droning ‘o’. “Murder. That’s new. No one has ever done something like that before. Should I also be impressed that you can tie your shoes? Brush your hair? Oh, have you managed to color inside the lines, too?”
Aleksandr stood in stunned silence as the girl continued to taunt his mother. Delighted by this sudden change of the routine, Petya didn’t do anything to intervene. Olga, however, snapped under the taunting. Pushing Aleksandr aside, she raced across the room to snatch the cattle prod off of its hook on the wall.
Electricity crackled between the exposed barbs. The little stream glowed even within the stark light that flooded the room. A cruel, gleeful expression settled onto Olga’s expression as she neared the captive teen. A sudden gab through the bars and the prongs found flesh. Bravado or not, the girl screamed as the current pulsed into her skin. Her cry made both of his parents chuckle. Aleksandr lowered his head to ensure that his fringe covered his face and the twist of disgust he knew had crossed it. Olga stabbed at their victim again. And again. The sickening scent of burning hair and meat began to rise in the humidity.
Laughing with delight, Olga plunged forward. Ready for it this time, the girl twisted her torso, pushing up against the far side of the cage. There wasn’t room to avoid the blow but her efforts made her skim the bare skin of her stomach instead of pressing hard against it. The little slip of electricity was still close enough to hurt. Clenching her teeth against the pain, the girl latched onto the long metal shaft of the prod. Instead of pushing it away, the girl pulled. It all happened in an instant.
Caught off guard, Olga stumbled forward. The barbs skipped across the girl’s skin and nestled against her side, drawing Olga’s slender hand between the barbs. The cage rattled as the girl flung herself forward, and with all the strength she could muster within the confided space, slammed her fist against Olga’s trapped hand. The unrelenting bars kept Olga’s forearm in place as the blow forced her hand back and there was a loud, sickening crack.
A feral scream ripped out of Olga’s throat and she yanked back. The prod still buzzed, the contact was still made, but the girl refused to release her grip. She took the pain to keep the opportunity to strike at Olga’s broken wrist again. Petya surged towards the door of the cage. The metal rattled as the woman struggled, the motion making Petya fumble with the lock. One more blow and Olga pulled away. She clutched her wounded hand to her chest, watching with vindictive, righteous glee as Petya wrenched the cage door open.
The girl was ready. Exploiting her smaller size, she drew her legs up to her chest and kicked them out as Petya reached in. With practiced precision, she crunched her left foot into his face, her heel finding his nose. The blow forced his head back and her other foot, following a split second behind, took advantage of that. Twisted into a slight angle, her tiny foot slipped under his now raised chin to hit Petya’s exposed throat. A trained fighter. There was barely time for the thought to pass though his mind. She was quick. And had already tossed herself at Petya before he had time to stagger back.
Her fist slammed down against Petya’s face as she straddled him. Olga lunged forward and kicked at the girl. She rolled out of the way and landed in a crouch. Precision met blind animal instinct as Olga raced forward with a wild scream. The girl laced her fingers together and brought them down onto Olga’s back as she attempted to tackle her to the floor. She was able to keep the serial killer from pinning her down but couldn’t force Olga back completely. Petya peeled himself from the floor, blood gushing from his broken nose and each breath a strangled wheeze. Caught between astonishment at the sudden turn of events, and the satisfaction of seeing his parents suffer, Aleksandr held his ground and watched it unfold.
The girl had an impressive right hook and didn’t shy away from pressing her advantage. Every time it seemed like Olga would regain the upper hand, the girl would latch onto Olga’s broken wrist with her hands or legs and squeeze. It was hard to tell through all the screams and chaos, but Aleksandr thought he heard something crunch during one of those counterattacks. Petya stormed to the wall to grab the tool for his favorite form of mental torture. A revolver. Nothing could shatter someone’s composure as quickly as a game of Russian Roulette. It was pre-loaded with only one bullet, but the girl had no way to know that the odds were, at least statistically, on her side.
It was a brief distraction, but when Aleksandr looked back to the struggling woman, he saw that the girl was on her back and Olga knelt beside her, choking her, bearing down with her bodyweight. Consumed with savage ecstasy and adrenaline, the pain of the broken wrist no longer bothered her. A twisted smile peeled back Olga’s lips and her eyes almost bulged out of her head as she watched the girl twist.
“I’m going to kill you slowly,” Olga promised. “Snap every bone in your body. Grind them into dust! Peel your face off! You’ll be here forever!”
The girl grabbed at Olga’s wrist. Instead of squeezing, she rolled her body. Pulling her knees up in a flawless glide. One knee slipped between Olga’s locked elbows. In the same second and with just as much grace, the girl looped her other leg around Olga’s neck. A pop of hips. A push of powerful thighs. Only a second and the girl rolled up, forcing Olga, head first, into the concrete. The older woman screamed and thrashed, but leverage and strength kept her locked between the girl’s thighs. Flat on her back. Since the girl hadn’t relinquished her hold, Olga’s injured arm was now pulled straight. Every attempt to free herself failed with a simple rise of the girl’s hips. The position didn’t just put pressure on the wrist, but threatened to break the elbow, pop the shoulder from its joint, and she squeezed Olga’s throat between her thighs.
Aleksandr only realized how quick the motion had been when Petya leveled the gun at the girl’s head. Looking up at him meant staring at the blazing fluorescent lights. Squinting, however, didn’t take away the complete rebellion on the woman’s face.
“Let her go,” Petya said slowly, unable to keep the slight smile from his lips.
“No.”
Half laughing, half choking, Olga clawed uselessly at the girl’s leg. “Shoot her, honey. Right between the eyes!”
Petya cocked the gun, the solid, metallic
click was loud even given the competing noises. Taking another bite of his nail, Aleksandr tried not to be too disappointed. It had been fun while it lasted. And, if he nurtured it carefully enough, he might even be able to hold onto the memory of this day. Petya bleeding. Olga smothering sobs of pain. Not a bad day at all.
“Ever played Russian Roulette?” Petya asked as he braced his feet.
The wide, toothy grin that marked his bloodlust slowly spread across Petya’s lips. It made Olga cackle and she released her grip on the woman’s thigh. She didn’t want her freedom anymore. She just wanted to watch.
The girl’s chest was heaving but her voice remained solid and strong, “I know you have to actually pull the trigger.”
“Let her go, or I will.”
Tipping her head, the girl smirked, making it clear that Petya had already played his hand. His parents had already laid it all out. Not just that she was supposed to be Aleksandr’s victim, but also how important it was to them that he was the one to kill her. She was brought here for a purpose, something significant, not to die on the concrete floor from a gunshot. Aleksandr dipped his head lower but kept his eyes locked on the unfolding situation. As he searched the girl’s face, he knew. He saw it because it was something he spotted every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection. She’s willing to die. Staring down the barrel as best she could, she violently wrenched Olga’s arm.
“Oh, just pull the trigger already!”
Surprised by the sudden scream, Petya flinched. His finger tensed. The little metallic click resounded throughout the room. Despite all of her best efforts, the girl’s bravado broke. In that split second, Aleksandr saw a dozen emotions, each passing so quickly that it was hard to catch sight of them all. Amongst them, he spotted terror, regret, and helplessness. Willing to die but not wanting to, Aleksandr reasoned.
The break hadn’t slipped Petya’s attention. Throwing his head back, he released a bout of booming, mocking laughter to the ceiling. Bile burned the back of Aleksandr’s throat and his stomach heaved. The power dynamic had shifted once again, moving back to more familiar ground. Reckless or not, the girl was trapped here, helpless and afraid. None of them was prepared for the sudden crack. Or the blood-curdling scream that followed.
While Petya had been gloating, the girl had thrust her hips up. A strained, high-pitched squeal escaped Olga as her eyes rolled in their sockets. A new bulge moved around her shoulder like there was something living under the skin. Shaking off his shock, Aleksandr realized that it was the end of her arm bone. The girl had popped it from the socket.
Petya rushed forward with a bellow of rage. The girl tried to move, but was too tangled up in Olga. Petya swung his foot down as if he intended to kick the girl’s head clean off of her shoulders. A wave of blood spewed from her mouth as her head snapped to the side. Dazed, she struggled to get up as Olga slithered free of her now lax thighs. The moment she was free, she twisted around and threw herself at the still stunned victim. Petya pulled her back.
“I want her dead!” Olga screamed.
“And she will be,” Petya said. “I promise you that.”
Shoving his wife behind him, Petya reached down, grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair, and yanked hard on the thick mass. Thick clumps of the thick tresses almost tore out of her scalp as Petya forced her up.
“Get the door,” he commanded Olga in a low grunt.
Choking on her rage, Olga moved to the heavy metal door of the cement room. Far taller than the girl, Petya almost had her off of her feet, dangling by her now bloody hair as they crossed the short distance. Putting his whole body into the motion, he managed to toss the small girl into the room. She bounced twice before she smacked into the solid back door.
“Well, you’re going to give our boy a decent fight.” Petya’s bulk filled the doorframe, blocking Aleksandr’s view. “Aren’t you a feisty little Dominican princess?”
“I’m Puerto Rican, you ass!”
She must have charged at him, because a jolt of surprise once again pulsed through Petya’s body. Hurriedly leaping back, he slammed the door shut. Instantly, the girl was beating against the other side of the metal, throwing herself against it, forcing it open a few inches with each assault. After a moment of struggling, Petya managed to keep it closed long enough to push the lock into place. It didn’t end the girl’s attack. The whole time, she ranted and raved in what Aleksandr assumed was Spanish.
Once again, feeling like the undisputed master of the situation, Petya broke into fits of laughter, his whole body shaking with the force and tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.
“That was exciting,” he grinned.
Olga stood next to him, clutching her wounded arm to her side, her chin up in defiance. “I want her dead, Petya.”
He cupped her cheeks and gave her a sweet kiss. “Whatever you want, my darling, but let’s do this right.”
“Right, nothing. Shoot her. Right now! If you love me, you’d do it.”
Again a kiss. “It’s because I love you, that I’m doing what’s best for you. One bullet and it’s all over. Would that really satisfy you? No, my love. Your bloodlust would only be satisfied when you see Alek beat the life out of her. One punch at a time.”
Pain still simmered across her face, but she was smiling again. Too cheerfully. Too bright. “I want to watch.”
“Of course. Now, let’s fix you up first.”
“No.” Now that the heat of the moment had begun to ebb away, Petya did not take the direct refusal well. Olga noticed the shift instantly and pushed her lips out in a playfully sulking pout. “I want to see her bleed, first.”
“You’re in pain,” he chided.
Using her good hand, she toyed with the buttons of his shirt and stepped closer. “Please. It will make me feel better.”
Petya watched her for a long moment before he heaved a sigh. “I can never refuse you.”
The indulgent smile on his face faded into anger the moment he turned his attention to Aleksandr. Reaching out with one hand, he ordered his son to hand over the rifle without using a word. Reluctantly, Aleksandr shuffled forward, subtly putting on the safety before handing it over. The instant the metal left his fingers, the revolver barrel was pressed firmly between his eyes. Aleksandr’s heart hammered against his ribs. Kicking into high gear, his self-preservation instinct begged him to move, to cringe away, to run. Aleksandr locked his knees and forced himself to hold his ground.
“Didn’t it occur to you to help?” Petya asked.
Aleksandr stared straight ahead and took a deep breath. The barrel was too close for him to see if the chamber was loaded. A part of him wished it was. Still, he remained frozen. Kept his silence.
“You have nothing to say?” Petya demanded. “Speak!”
Aleksandr swallowed and said the first thing that came to mind, “No one ordered me to intervene. I thought you didn’t want me to.”
A smile flicked across Petya’s face. Looking at Olga, he shrugged, and lowered the gun. Without warning, Petya snapped his hand back up. The tip of the barrel smacked against Aleksandr’s skull. The trigger clicked. It took a moment for Aleksandr’s mind to understand that the chamber had been empty. He was still alive. A fine tremble shook his head, and his ribs ached from his rapid heartbeat. Thin trails of laughter bubbled from both Petya and Olga. They giggled as Petya once again brought the gun down and shrugged.
“The look on your face,” Petya grinned.
“I really thought that was going to be the end of him,” Olga commented. She sounded slightly disappointed.
Tightening his fist, Aleksandr took a deep, sobering breath as subtly as he could. Blood rushed through his ears, creating a deafening roar. It made it slightly easier to ignore his parents. That was until Petya roughly smacked his arm.
“In you go,” his tone left no room for argument.
Aleksandr took a step towards the door. Before he could touch the handle, Olga tugged his hunting knife free of its sheath. Pushing
up onto her toes, she whispered in Aleksandr’s ear.
“Make sure she hurts.”
Chapter 8
The buzz of fluorescent lights filled the concrete box. The room looked smaller on the inside. Completely bare, there were no shadows or hidden corners. Blood had worked its way deep into the stone, creating a mosaic of rusted red and rotten brown. Evelyn barely needed to turn her head to take in the whole space. No windows. No vents. Nothing to disperse the nauseating stench of bleach.
Holding her hands close to her chest, she backed up to the far wall. The door was the only way in or out. Besides that, there was just one gap in the concrete slabs that made up the walls. A small rectangle, barely wider than her arm, with a single, red dot glowing from the darkness beyond. A camera light, she reasoned. They're filming.
Whatever happened here, she was still going to end up in their video collection. She didn't know how to process that sickening thought.
A heavy clack made her flinch. She focused on the door, watching it open. The family had perfected this maneuver. As small as the room was, there wasn’t enough time for her to charge at the door before it closed again. The lock slammed back into place, but neither she nor the new addition paid it any attention. Evelyn’s focus was on sizing up her opponent. She knew he was doing the same. It was impossible to see his eyes through the limp, black hair that covered half of his face, but she felt his gaze. Direct and piercing. Causing the hairs on her arms stand on end.
The man didn't move from his position by the door. Evelyn had prepared herself for something like his parents. She wasn't ready for silence. He was like the world’s worst statue. It unnerved her, but not enough to waste the opportunity to get a decent look at him.
The first word that popped into her head was 'disgusting’. This man didn’t focus on hygiene. It would take a month to scrub all of the encrusted dirt off of his skin, and the stench of his sweat was stronger than the bleach. The second word, and far more important from a fighter’s perspective, was ‘Frankenstein’. Every part of him just didn’t seem to belong with the others. He was barely taller than Evelyn was, putting him at about five-foot-five at the most, leaving his hands outsized by his frame. The effect was made worse as each of his knuckles were deformed, engorged by untreated breaks and scar tissue.
