by Vi Carter
“Anyone else agree with Mike?” I ask.
I take a slow, drawn-out look at the men. Not one of them moves, not even poor Eddie who looks gray. The royal blue shirt he’s wearing sports sweat patches.
“Looks like you’re on your own, Mike.”
“These are my men.” His growl pisses me off.
I keep my temper in check. I’m proud that I don’t extract my gun and make him eat bullets.
I step away from Mike. “Ten G’s to whoever shoots this clown.”
Mike’s face grows white, and he spins, ready to run. Three rounds are fired in quick succession. One drills a hole into the back of his head. It’s all over in a second as he hits the floor, blood pooling around his head like a halo. I turn and note the three men who had withdrawn their guns. The young boy with the baseball cap and white runners lowers his gun. “Never liked him.” He’s a cocky little fucker, but he’s like a starving dog. Throw him a bone, and he will become loyal.
“The three of you will get your blood money,” I announce to the group before approaching the boy.
“You will apprentice under Eddie.”
He puts his gun away, and his eyes sparkle as his ego grows.
“What’s your name?”
“George.” He nods several times as he speaks.
“Well, George, here is your chance to shine.”
“I won’t let you down, boss.” George bites his bottom lip like he’s trying to contain his excitement. Like he can’t wait to tell all his little friends that he's a boss.
“No, you won’t, George. Because if you do….” I don’t finish that sentence, and he swallows, looking unsure for the first time.
I’ve had my fun with these donkeys.
“All yours, Eddie.”
Eddie’s shirt is worse for wear with his growing sweat marks. Where did Darragh get these men?
“Change your shirt.” I bark, and he starts peeling it off as I leave them to squabble.
Taking off my suit jacket, I get into my car and drive away from the warehouse. I don’t get far before my phone starts to ring, it’s Shane. “Yes, Shane.”
“Killing the staff isn’t wise.” His growl vibrates down the phone.
I unbutton the top of my shirt. “I didn’t raise a finger. My gun is cold.”
“Your father won’t be happy, Richard.”
I grit my teeth as I join the traffic on the roundabout before veering off for Monalty. I want to say I don’t give a fuck what my father thinks. “I’ll take it up with him, then.”
“Jack would never behave like this. You need to follow your brother's example.”
I laugh as I merge onto the road. Jack is responsible for his son’s death. I wonder if he knew the truth, would he still sing his fucking praises.
“I’m going to give you some advice.” Traffic zooms behind Shane’s words. He must be walking outside.
My laughter dies down as I wait for his words of wisdom.
“I didn’t survive this long in this game by being foolish.”
“I was making a point.” I state.
“No, you were showing your power.”
Same difference.
“Let me give you some advice, Shane.” I’m getting sick of tip-toeing around my uncles like they are gods. They are old and worn out. “The reason you survive this game isn't because you are careful. It’s because my father wants you alive. Otherwise, you would be dead.” There it is, the truth of all this.
We don’t die from some street gang or jobs gone wrong. We die because of my father. Either he wants you to die, or you get caught in his crossfire of dirty deeds, but ultimately it all comes back to him.
Shane is silent, and I listen to the zoom of traffic down the phone as I approach my home.
“You are right. Your father favors me. He always has. That is something you should remember.” With his final words, he hangs up like it’s some threat.
The only threat here is my father. And what do you do with threats? You eliminate them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLAIRE
Time no longer exists. The thoughts of witnessing the day fade into night or the rebirth of a new day seems unimaginable. Days morph into weeks. I think it’s weeks. Maybe it’s longer, and maybe it’s shorter. The lighting never alters, so differentiating from night and day is impossible. I can only rely on my body clock. My mind buzzes, and I have that frayed feeling I had when my parents died. Any small thing would set me off. I’m teetering on that line; waltzing with madness is how I’ve always pictured it. I bite hard on my cracked lip, and the skin splits easily. It contorts the smile that I don’t want painted on my face. It’s not a happy smile or a sad smile. It’s one that shows how broken I am.
The black colored pencil is down to a stub as I run it across the white wooden flooring. An image manifests in front of me. I’ve been drawing without paying attention. My stomach twists as I’m dragged into the vortex of his dark eyes. Why did I draw him? My mind, even when I’m not focused, is fixated on my captor.
My palm turns black as I try to rub away the image with a ferocity that burns my skin. Everything inside me twists painfully, and I’m afraid. Afraid that I have been locked up in this box for so long that it has turned me inside out, and I’m losing my mind again.
And again.
And again.
“Shut up,” I mumble under my breath as the picture on the floor blurs. I blink back the tears. I sit back slightly, and I’m stuck on the figure.
He materializes at the end of the box. I haven’t seen him since those first few days. He’s here, and he’s observing me. My heart jumps into my throat. It’s his eyes, no, his height; no, his build; it’s all of him that terrifies me. I drop my head.
The picture of his eyes glares at me with judgment. He’s moving in my peripheral vision along the side of the box. I don't want him to see what I have drawn. Gripping the bottom of my white dress, I use the material as a scrubbing brush until the image is distorted enough to resemble a black blob. Yet, as I stare down, I swear he’s staring back.
I’m breathing heavily and stay kneeling with hunched shoulders. If the glass didn’t separate us, it would only take a few steps, and I would be able to touch him.
“You’ve stopped eating.” His words have my shoulders drawing closer together. My fingernails bend under the pressure as I dig them into the flooring, into the picture of his distorted eyes.
“Why am I here?” I turn my head and watch him through a curtain of disheveled blonde hair. When I slowly lift my head, my strength buckles under the weight of his stare.
A red stain on his white shirt draws my attention. The blood is fresh along the side.
“What have I done so wrong?” My words grow louder, and I wonder if he can even hear me. Is this Karma, Is this God, or is this just a man’s wrath?
He bends his large frame until he’s sitting on the ground. The position looks odd on such a powerful man. He drags his legs half up and rests his arms on them, his hands dangling across his knees. He has blood on his hands.
“I used to go to this priest, Father Flynn. He was a giant of a man. Seven-foot tall. I often questioned how he fit into the confessional box as a kid.”
My captor stares at his bloody hands, and all I can think is he killed the priest. A man of God. “You killed him.” The words tumble fast and hard out of my mouth.
“Some might say my confession didn’t fare well on him.” His lip twitches like he’s fighting a smile. But it falls flat, and all I see is anger. “No, he died of cancer.”
I’m sorry for your loss is on the tip of my tongue.
My captor returns to staring at his bloody hands, and I return to trying to stay calm and breathe. He’s too close to me. I know he can’t get through the glass, but my skin tightens across my bones. I feel like I’m up close to a lion, or an ocean of water is leaning against the glass. One small crack, and I’d be dead.
“He listened to me every Saturday night. I would tell
him my week and everything I did during that time.”
I somehow doubted that what he did included cooking Sunday dinners or drinks with friends.
“Three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and all my sins were forgiven.” He looks up at me. “Do you believe in God, Claire?”
I could easily answer yes or no. “What do you think? I’m stuck in a glass box.” I rise as the unfairness of this situation roars to life inside me. “I’m stuck in here listening to you.”
He stays on the floor, and I dare to take one step closer. My temperature soars. “Talking about your priest, and your life, while you took mine. Why am I here? What did I do?” My body trembles as my voice hits a peak of hysteria. I need to shut up, but I need to know more.
“What do you want?!” My roar has him rising, and I stumble back.
“The same as you, Claire. I want what was taken from me. I can’t get time back. But I can take time.”
My feet falter and trip as I race to the glass, terrified that he might leave now that he has started to talk. “That’s what you are doing. Taking my time?” I’m confused, and he moves and hisses. The red stain bleeds deeper into the fabric of his shirt. He won’t answer. My fists hit the glass. “Tell me.” My words end in a whimper.
“You will eat your food.” His dark gaze grows darker, and he starts to walk away from me.
“I won’t. I’ll starve.” I’m following him, clinging to the glass screaming. I can’t be left in here again. I can’t accept this. “I’ll die my way!”
He pauses, and when he turns, his lip rises slightly. “The only person who is taking your life, Claire, is me.” Once again, his smirk doesn’t form completely before it dies.
“No!” I’m walking away.
“No?” he repeats, his question follows me.
“No!” I’m giddy as I race to my bed.
“Claire!” The warning in his voice pushes me quickly to the bed that I leap upon. My hand frantically feels around under the pillow. The cold steel has me half laughing as I pull the knife out. I spin on the bed and face my captor. “I said no.”
“Put the knife down.” His warning is low, and he’s rooted to the spot.
“No.” My voice is calm. I’ve spent so much time sharpening it along the inside of the plughole of the tub. It has whittled down the steel, and I have tested the blade on a few dresses.
I raise the knife to my wrist, and when I look at my captor, his eyes look panicked.
“How does it feel to have all the power taken from you?” I ask and press the knife to my wrist. Blood pools fast along the small nick. My blood roars in my veins, and I don’t know if I have the guts to continue. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to wait until he kills me. Is this the lesser of two evils?
“I’ll tell you.” His words are quiet. His hands curled into fists. “Put the knife down, and I’ll tell you why you are here.”
He’s lying. He has to be.
“Claire.” His voice rises, his gaze is pinned to my wrist that’s bleeding heavier. Without thought, I had pushed the knife deeper.
With shaky hands, I drop the knife on the bedspread and watch the blood flow from my wrist.
My vision wavers, and I blink. He’s gone. Now I wonder if he ever was truly there. I’ve officially lost my mind.
It’s the click.
The click of the door has me scrambling to stay alert. I raise my head, and he’s in the box. He’s walking toward me. His large steps eliminate the space between us. I turn as terror rips through me. My weakened body isn’t strong enough to get off the bed in time. I remember his smell. It’s here again. Strong hands touch me, and I’m screaming with the last ounce of strength I have. It’s useless as he spins me around, forcing me onto my back and pressing me into the mattress. I lash out at him, and blood drips from my wound back down on top of my chest.
“You’re making it worse.” His angry words have no effect on me. Not while his hands are on me.
“No! Get away from me!” I’m screaming and feeling for the knife. I can’t let my life end like this. My fingers touch the steel metal, and for a moment, my vision clears. He’s above me, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. Dark hair falls into his eyes as he glares down at me.
Darkness dances along my vision; it’s a warning that I heed. I wrap my fingers around the knife’s handle, and my scream propels the blade towards him. He swats the knife away like it’s an annoying fly. The knife bounces off the floor, and it’s the sound of doom.
“That wasn’t very smart, Claire.” I can’t look at him. A fresh wave of fear devours me. I buck and scream under his weight that grows heavier, and I cry as my lungs refuse to work and my sight fails me. I roll my head to the side, squeezing my eyes closed, darkness envelopes me, and the last word I hear is his curse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLAIRE
The pillows behind my head are soft. I move my head to the left. My eyelids feel heavy, and I don’t open them straight away. My mind is muddled, and I’m waiting for it to clear. It’s the smell that has me cracking my eyes open. My body sinks further into the pillows like I might get away from him.
“You lost a lot of blood.” His tongue flicks out, and he licks his bottom lip like he’s tasting something.
My heart trips, slows down before going into a full gallop at his closeness.
“I knew you had the knife. I thought you would try to use it on me when I decided to give you the opportunity, that is.” His lip quivers, or maybe I imagine it.
I hear his words, but I can’t focus. He has changed his clothing. His black shirt sharpens his dark features. Features that when he’s angry become more defined, more ferocious. I can’t imagine what could possibly soften the sharp edges.
“Using it on yourself….” He trails off and steps even closer to the bed. “I didn’t see that coming. You caught me off guard.” He sounds almost proud of me.
He’s sick.
He’s twisted.
And he’s standing at the end of my bed. He’s way too close.
My heart thrashes painfully against my chest, and I want to reach up to keep it in my body, but I don’t dare move.
“It won’t happen again, Claire. A lapse in judgment on my part.” He turns away from me and glances around the space. “It’s not nice being on this side of the glass. Three years I spent behind a wall of glass.” He pivots back to me. “I didn’t have this kind of room. A single bed, a locker, and a toilet.”
Did he want me to think I was in luxury? No matter what size the box is, I am like a caged animal.
The silence drags out, and his sharp laughter twists my stomach. “I thought you would have lots of questions now that you have my attention. That is why you hurt yourself, isn’t it? To get my attention.” His words are more of an accusation.
“I don’t want your attention.”
He raises a dark brow, and I swear I see amusement in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t you, Claire?” His voice drops a few octaves.
A shiver races along my neck and brushes my arms. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
“It depends.” He spins on his heel and walks over to the drawing on the floor that I had smudged out. “What were you drawing here that you tried so hard to cover up?”
“I don’t know. Scribbles.”
His smile is all teeth and no humor. He waggles his finger at me like I’m telling lies and really shouldn’t.
“You,” I say quickly.
The light catches his gaze, and his eyes dance brightly, and for a moment, it lightens his eyes, and they appear brown. He blinks, and I see the soulless creature who has taken me.
He stares back at the ground and tilts his head, trying to make the distorted image out.
“I’ve never had anyone draw me before. Maybe you will do it again so I can see.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. His gaze transfixed on the floor.
He rolls his shoulders before glancing back at me. My wrist becomes his focus. It’s on
ly now that I notice it's been bandaged.
I reach across and touch the bandage lightly. My fingers dance across the white material.
“It’s going to leave a scar.” His words confuse me. He sounds like he cares. But that can’t be true.
“It won’t be the first.” I find myself saying.
He turns fully, and my senses rise too quickly, making me dizzy. The feeling settles when he doesn’t advance any closer.
“The scar on your knee. I’d like you to tell me the story behind it.”
“I will,” I swallow a pool of saliva that keeps refilling in my mouth, “If you tell me why I’m here.”
He’s watching. He’s thinking. He’s moving towards me again, and I’m pushing myself up to try to increase the separation. No amount of distance from him would settle my racing heart.
He doesn’t speak. So I try again. “Are the puzzles a clue?”
“No.” His jaw clenches, the muscle working quickly like I’ve angered him. His gaze fixates on my wrist again.
“Now tell me about your scar.” He repeats.
I want to say no, that he has told me nothing, but under his heavy stare, I find myself giving in. “barbed wire when I was twelve.”
Silence. He’s waiting.
“My brother made a swing on one of the old oak trees that grew close to our house.” The memory rushes back, and I touch the bandage on my wrist and push a finger down. The pain burns my arm but forces the memory away so I can just speak without emotion. “He insisted I went first, so I did. When I was swinging, he hit me with barbed wire. It caught in my knee and held me in the air. It felt like an eternity.” I press down heavier on the bandage. “Until the skin snapped, and I was released.”
A flash of anger across his face has dread making me curl into the pillow.
“You’re bleeding.” The words are barely audible as he speaks through clenched teeth. He’s moving towards me again, and all I want to do is get away from him. He’s quick and takes my forearm; my skin reacts to his touch like flames on my flesh. I try to drag my arm back, but his grip is iron.
