by Vi Carter
Her blue eyes fill with panic. They shoot up to my lips. Horror reflects in her voice as she speaks. “You have blood on your lips.”
My tongue flicks out, and I lick the blood off.
“My blood.” She speaks again while staring at my lips, and I want to kiss her. I want her to taste what I taste.
I don’t have to rise to meet her lips. All I have to do is lean in. My fingers are still wrapped around her wrist. Her pulse pounds ferociously.
I want to capture her face in my hands, I want to touch her hair, I want her trust.
I want her.
Claire’s lips part as I inch closer. With her blood in my mouth, I pause; her chest rises and falls rapidly. She hasn’t pulled away from me even through her clouded fear.
I smile at that internally.
I move back, like the spell that her beauty casts over me is broken. Her lips tug down, and I wonder if she is about to cry. I’m almost tempted to wait until she sheds more pain. I just might taste her tears too. It’s the fear that tightens her jaw and gives her a wild look that has me knowing I need to hold off. I don’t release her wrist but loosen my grip and break eye contact. I pick up the damp towel and clean her wrist softly, trying not to put pressure on it. I don’t want to be tempted by more blood. Once I have her wound clean, I re-bandage her wrist. My cock doesn’t ease down, it painfully throbs in my trousers, and I rush through the rest of the job as the want for her increases. Once I’m done, I march from the box, lock the door and make my way upstairs. I need space. The distance does nothing to help my raging hard on.
Marcus stands in the hallway and opens his mouth to speak. I hold up a finger in warning, and his mouth snaps shut as I go upstairs to my bedroom.
The door bangs as I slam it. Anger at how she makes me feel has me marching to the bathroom and turning the shower on cold. That should cool down all the hot blood that pulses through me. I loosen the belt on my trousers and shove them down along with my boxers. My cock is almost painful to touch as I stroke it, picturing her, imagining her mouth around it. A groan is ripped from me as I pump harder. Licking my lips, I taste her blood again. I want so much more of her. I let my cock go as I take off my clothes and step into the shower, turning the temperature up. I don’t step under the stream but lean against the tiles and resume pumping my shaft. I picture her in her white panties, on her knees, sucking my cock. Her small tongue flicking out and licking my balls.
“Fuck.” I pump faster with the image of her in my head. Three final jerks, and it’s all over as my seed flows across my hand. Opening my eyes, I step into the spray and wash it all off. I’m only coming down from such a high, but I still keep an eye out. I’m still wary in a shower. That’s where they nearly beat me to death; where they took too much blood from me. My hands run down my torso that’s coated in scars.
I will have my blood debt paid back in full. With a renewed determination, I wash and get ready to make another one of them pay.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RICHARD
I’ve built this moment up too high, and I can’t seem to reach for the door handle and open the fucking car door. The building looms over me, and the fear of being trapped inside the asylum again has my feet stuck to the floorboard.
To the world, I’m my father, unbreakable, indestructible, a King. My father placing me in the asylum made me realize I’m just a man.
A man he broke and destroyed.
A man who can’t wear a crown.
My fists smash into the steering wheel repeatedly, the pain radiates up my arms, and I drink agony in like it’s the fucking cure to the madness in my head. I don’t stop until blood drips down the steering column and the air decreases in my lungs. I raise my head and glare at the building that holds all my demons and Lenny.
He deserves to die. I glance at the brown envelope on the passenger seat. I will torture him first with these images. Grabbing the envelope, my blood starts to soak into the paper, but I do nothing to clean my wounds. Climbing out of my car, I lock it and walk with my head held high like a man who isn’t weighed down with his own thoughts. Instead of the memory of what they did to me, I focus on what I’m going to inflict on them.
Lenny will meet his maker soon, just like Bob had. They will suffer by my hand. I jog up the steps and push the front door to the madhouse open.
I’m weary. I hide it well, but I’m weary as I enter. It’s like reliving what happened the first time. How naïve I was when my father brought me in here. I hadn’t expected to be attacked from behind. Now all my senses are on high alert.
The red-headed receptionist picks up a phone when she sees me, her gaze bouncing to my bleeding hands. She speaks quickly into the phone as I reach the glass shield that protects her. I rap the shield with a bloody knuckle, leaving smears of blood behind.
“I am here to see Leonard O’Reilly.”
“Mr. O’Reagan. Leonard won’t be having visitors today.” Her voice shakes.
I don’t remember her. I hadn’t exactly had time to take in the front desk before I was attacked.
A silent red light comes on, and seconds later, a door to my left opens. Two security men step out into the reception area.
“Is there a problem?”
Cam is the name I read on his name tag. What kind of fucking name is that? He chews gum, and the smell of his cologne is overbearing. This is his life. He’s one of those types of people who thinks they own the place.
“Yes, there is. I want to see Leonard O’Reilly now.”
“You're bleeding on the floor.” Cam stares at the drops of blood before smiling at me and then resumes chewing. I take a step towards him. He drags up his trousers by the belt that holds a baton. That’s what I will do. Beat him with his own baton. These people need to learn who they fucked with.
“That’s enough. Let him through.” The voice sounds over the speakers, and I know who it is—the director. I spot the cameras parked in all four corners.
Cam shrugs his shoulders like being told to stand down is no big deal. It’s clear that it is, as he chews his gum a little harder and slower. I don’t step away from him, forcing him to back away from me. Cam opens the door for me, and I pause before entering.
“That’s a good boy,” I say as I pass him.
***
“Is that really necessary?” I ask, not giving two fucks that Leonard is chained to a table. He’s an animal, and that’s all he deserves. For now, I will keep playing the friend for the next twenty seconds.
“Leonard isn’t up to visitors. Honestly, I’m surprised they let you in.” The nurse speaks under his breath.
“What, is Leonard unstable?” I ask loudly and grin.
The nurse’s thin jaw tightens. “You have fifteen minutes.”
He leaves, and I turn to Leonard. “I tried to get the cuffs off.” I hold up my hands as I speak.
“They’re a bunch of fucking muppets...” He’s still ranting, and I pick up the chair and let the legs drag along the floor, making his words grow silent. I sit down and tap the desk with the envelope.
“How are you doing, Lenny?” I ask.
“Can you get me out of here?” His serious question, I ignore.
Opening the envelope, I stare at the image of Claire inside the glass box. Each one is her doing something different, sitting on the edge of the bed, eating her dinner, sleeping. As I continue to flick the images, they get more personal. Claire bathing; she looks petrified. Another picture of her crying and they go on to the final image of her cutting herself. My gut tightens, but I know this one will have a huge impact on Lenny.
“Did you hear me, Richie, can you get me out of here?”
I look up at him. “Can I get you out of here?” I repeat his questions.
His brows drag down like he thinks I’m thick.
“I’m going to be really honest with you, Lenny.” I lean in, and so does he. His eyes lit up. “I could call the nurse into the room, get him to remove your cuffs, and we could walk out the do
or together.”
His smile splits his face. “Let's go, brother.” He tugs at the chains, and I don’t move back.
“No.”
“What the fuck is with you, man? Did all the fresh air go to your head?” He finally looks down at the photos in my hand. “What are they?” His leg starts to shake under the table. I feel the vibration along the table.
I slide the pictures across to him, and I drink it all in as he flicks from one photo to the next.
“What the fuck is this? Someone has my sister?”
“Yes,” I answer.
He returns to flicking through the images again. He tilts the pictures. “Is she in a box?” His confusion and upset continue to grow.
“Yes,” I answer again.
Leonard releases the photos and tugs on his chains. The force lifts the table before it slams back down. “What do they want?” His roar bellows from him.
“You,” I say.
He tugs his chains again, coming out of his seat, but they are keeping him restricted. His gaze darts to the photos. “I’m here. Tell the fucking cowards I’m here if they want me.”
I stand abruptly and lean in, gripping the back of his neck pulling his face close to mine. “I know you are here, and you're going to die in this place. I think your sister likes me. It’s such a pity I’ll have to kill her. I might fuck her first. Real hard.”
Lenny’s chains rattle as he tries to reach for me, but I scoop up the images and stand back. His roar has him launching himself towards me, dragging the table with him. I take another step away and put the photos into the envelope.
“You're going to die here, Lenny.” I remind him as the buzz of the door has me stepping towards the exit. He’s roaring and dragging the table towards the door to get at me. Three nurses step around me, and I turn and grin at Leonard.
He is still screaming as they take him to the ground and drag down his trousers. A syringe is emptied into his ass, and I leave the building, knowing what I did will kill him. His sister was his highlight each week as he waited for her to visit. He had a twisted obsession with Claire, and I knew taking her from him would be the ultimate revenge for what he had done to me.
His roars follow me all the way down the hall long after he has stopped. I re-enter the reception area. No one is here. I glance up at the cameras. The director might be still watching. I grin as I push open the front door. Each step to my car has me breathing a bit easier. I would make sure Leonard died there, and if he didn’t soon, I would finish the job myself.
Killing Claire was my plan all along. As I climb into my car, I allow myself to fully accept that won’t be happening. Killing her isn’t an option anymore.
***
“Patrick.” I stand outside his door.
He’s not very fucking welcoming. He sticks his head out past me and looks left and right. He’s paranoid as fuck.
“Richie.” That name will die with them all.
“I was in the area and wanted to see how you were doing.”
He focuses on me now. “Yeah, fine.”
“Can I come in?” If he didn’t allow me in, I would force my way in.
He steps back and wears a look that suggests he wants nothing more than for me to leave.
“Nice place,” I say as I step into the small hall. It’s a shit hole; the walls stained yellow from cigarette smoke. A line of hooks holds too many coats that reek of the offending substance.
Patrick closes the door behind me. He’s thinner than I remember, easier to break. He steps around and enters a small living space. Everything is old and frumpy. An elderly man in a gray vest sits in a recliner. He’s drinking a can of beer. His attention rests on me for a second before he returns to watching the TV.
“Another debt collector?” He asks.
“No, a friend,” I respond.
“From the asylum.” Patrick fills in and sits on the couch that has seen better days. He tugs a cushion to his chest.
The elderly man half laughs. “You look like you are going to a funeral.”
“I just wanted to drop in on Patrick first.” I sit down beside Patrick, who shuffles away.
The elderly man takes a long drink from his can before belching loudly.
“What do you want, Richie?” Patrick speaks up, his voice weak, and now I wonder if he knows why I’m here.
“Richard. You can call me Richard. I always hated that name.”
“Fine, Richard. What is it you want?”
The elderly man laughs again. “You’re a pig in knickers, Patrick. Make the man a cup of tea.”
Patrick’s face darkens. “He’s my uncle.” Patrick rumbles as he gets off the couch to make me a cup of tea. I wait until he’s up before moving to the edge of the couch.
“Patrick here wasn’t always so quiet.” I speak to his uncle.
He grunts like he doesn’t give a shit. His finger moves to the remote to turn up the volume.
“He beat me nearly to death,” I say.
That gets the uncle's attention.
“It wasn’t just Patrick. There were two others.”
I glance at Patrick, who appears paler than he had seconds ago. I grin. “Well, there are only two now. Bob drowned in a coffin,” I say.
The uncle laughs again. “You need to go back to the asylum. Drowning in a coffin? Now I’ve heard it all.” He’s still laughing.
“I’m sorry.” Patrick’s words are quiet, but I hear them.
“It’s too late for that. Bob said it was your idea before I killed him.”
“I … I … I’m sorry.”
“I’m struggling to believe my lad would do that.” The uncle mutes the TV, takes a drink from his can before placing it on the ground beside him. “So I think it’s time you got on your way. Don’t want to be late for your funeral.”
I stand up.
“Richie…” Patrick starts before correcting himself. “Richard, don't hurt him.”
I remove my suit jacket and fold it before placing the jacket on the couch.
“I’ve waited three years for this. So...” I grin at Patrick as I roll up my sleeves. “It’s going to be slow.”
The uncle tries to stand. I move fast. My foot connects with his gut driving him back into the seat. “And painful,” I state as he gasps for air. I glance at Patrick, who doesn’t move an inch.
“I’m sorry.”
His words roll off my back. “So you keep saying, Patrick.”
He wasn’t sorry when he drove his foot into my face repeatedly. At the end, I think all three danced on my head.
“I don’t have to ask why,” I say as the uncle gasps for air and tries to get out of the chair. I walk away, not stopping him from his feeble attempts to protect his nephew.
Patrick seems frozen to the spot like his feet are cement blocks. His head moves as I walk past him and open his kitchen drawer. The knives rattle. “You all wanted to prove that you were men.” I hold up a knife that’s blunt and drop it back into the drawer.
I look at Patrick. “No, I think it was boredom. After they locked you up like animals, you just wanted to release all that rage.” I grin as I take out two knives. The uncle has managed to get to his feet.
“This is how it’s going to work. First, I kill your uncle and then you.” I pass the cooker that has a pot on it with yesterday’s spuds caked to the bottom. Picking it up, I reach the uncle and smash the pot into his face. He falls back into the seat sideways.
I twist his limp body around, so he’s sitting correctly in the seat. Moving around, so I’m facing him, I take a look at Patrick. “Sit down on the couch.”
He shakes his head.
I drive a knife into his uncle’s leg. He’s awake now. His screams are high-pitched. Patrick moves quickly and sits on the couch.
“Enjoy the show,” I say as I slowly start to kill his uncle.
I make him watch each stab, hear each scream, and also let the knowledge sink in that he is next.
Patrick doesn’t scream as lou
dly, but he cries a lot. I make his death last longer, and when he draws his final breath, I drop the knives on top of his dead body. The room has blood splattered on every surface. Even the TV that still flickers with life has a stream of blood across it. The uncle’s sliced throat trickles blood. I had to cut off his screams at the end.
My shirt is covered in blood, along with my hands.
I make my way to the small sink that’s tucked away in the corner. The sound of the water seems loud after the silence that followed their deaths. I wash my hands. There is no soap. Opening the cabinet under the sink, I find a bottle of dish soap. Filling my hands with the liquid, I wash them and turn off the tap. I shake my hands out. The towel looks like it would leave my hands dirtier. I pick up my jacket and put it on before taking my phone out of my pocket. I dial Davy’s number.
“I need a clean-up.”
“How many?” Davy asks.
“Two. I’ll send you the address.” I hang up.
I leave the apartment, telling myself I have two more people to kill. But really, it’s only one. Killing Claire isn’t an option.
I’ve decided I’m going to keep her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLAIRE
The memory of him licking my wrist, licking my blood, seems more unrealistic as time passes. Had I imagined it? Yet, his lips had been stained with my blood. The image drilled into my mind. The sick part of me had felt divine. The idea of him tasting my blood is so wrong, but somehow it felt right. I’m disturbed by my own thoughts. It’s been days, I tell myself, and I need to move past this.
I refocus on the drawing at my feet, I just started to draw, not thinking, and it’s the oddest thing that‘s formed under the pencil. My kitchen table and chairs from my childhood are sketched on the floor.
I pause, my hand hovers above the floor, and I tilt my head, aware of his presence. My heart starts hammering. How does he do that? He’s standing along the side of the box, watching me. I hadn’t even heard him enter the basement. Maybe the sound is off again.
