Page 5 of Wreck and Ruin
I want him to know that despite his best efforts to double-cross me, I was always a step ahead. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
His hands grip my arms, pulling me back toward the balcony.
He’s gonna throw me off the fucking boat.
Well, that’s one way to go out. There’s certainly fuck all I can do about it. He’s about to be blown to Smithereens, so I think I’ll get the better end of the deal here. A captain always goes down with his ship, after all. I want to smile, but I can’t feel my face. He’s about to be shark shit, too, and I’m the only mother fucker who knows.
None of us, not a single fucking one of us, can be saved. And without someone discovering that chip, those innocent people, the reason I’ve spent the past four years doing this shit with these fucking criminals, won’t ever be found. And unless the microchip is in that fireproof vault, they will all rot. The only consolation is that the people responsible will rot, too. Dropping my arms to the floor with a thud, he opens the balcony doors. They swing open with the force of the wind, slamming hard against the wallpaper.
There’s a storm.
How fitting.
He grabs me again and holds my body upright, my back against the balcony railing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.Please,forgive me,” his voice barely above a whisper, but I catch it in the wind.
He’s not sorry. He’s guilty. There’s a difference. I accepted that I wasn’t ever getting off this ship. I also accepted that he wouldn’t leave the ship either, so I’m not mad at him for this. I’m fucking mad because this was all for nothing.
I failed.
And as my body rolls over the edge of the railing, I don’t bother begging God for forgiveness. He didn’t give a shit when I needed him the most. Instead, I close my eyes and silently cry. Not because I’m about to drownbut because I am just so sorry.
I am so fucking sorry. I failed.
Chapter4
AIRLIE
“Tighten that wet little cunt around my cock one more time, and I’ll snap your fucking neck before switching holes,” Father growls as fire courses through my aching body with each of his deep thrusts. My bare back is flush against his exposed, sweat-soaked chest as his warm, uneven breaths fan the side of my neck, causing my skin to prickle. “I know what you're doing,little whore, and we’ll finish when I fucking say so.”
The thick stench of blood and salt clings to the air, its raw, metallic scent mixing with the smell of frankincense and candles as they flicker and burn, curling and twisting my stomach, making me feel sick. I recoil and bite the inside of my mouth, forcing my eyes shut. I just need to focus on something else—anything but the unholy, acrid stench ofGod. The sharp, stinging sensation beneath his fingernails slicing into my left hip does the trick, as warmth spills from beneath his touch and my blood slowly trickles down my leg. He must notice because he adjusts his grip on me, wrapping his arm around my waist instead, still pinning me against him.
He has always been disgusted by my blood.
But he sure loves to sit by and watch me bleed.
His large, wooden crucifix is hard up against my throat, held there by his free hand with a weight that no longer frightens me. Fear is what he wants. Fear is what keeps him coming back for more. Like a ravenous lion circling a poor helpless lamb, waiting for it to stumble before finally taking it into its mouth and feasting on its bones. He never fully restricts my airflow, always giving me a moment to catch my breath when he sees that I need it, yet the relief he gives me is never enough to stop me from bruising. I see them peppering my skin, scattered across my body whenever I stare into the salty water.
I used to despise these scars.
They were proof of my suffering, after all.
When I look at them now, all I see is art. The way their colors lighten and fade over time, from various shades of black and deep green to navy blue and gray before finally disappearing. Reminds me of seaweed, tangled and swaying in the moonlight beneath the ocean’s surface.
Every scar on my skin sculpts me into something different, something Father can't take away. These scars are mine, and I have to remind myself that I am not his. Even if he says, I am.
“That’s it. Ugh—yes. By grace, your cunt is so—ugh,” he says between pants before he drops the crucifix to the ground, then bends me forward, splaying his hand out on my back, forcing me still as he pounds into me faster. “You’re my filthiest sin,” he confesses. “I want to feel your swollen, dripping flesh between my teeth as I eat you,” he says—promises, I think, his voice hoarse as he shifts his arms to hold my hips with both hands.He speaks like this a lot lately, and as unsettling as it is, I can’t help but wonder if he really thinks I'd taste good.
We each walk a delicate line when it comes to sin. I find myself captivated by it, drawn to it, intrigued by how much pain and torment my body can endure before it finally surrenders and the darkness devours me whole. Beforehedevours me whole.
Father says I have a sickness.
That there’s an evil festering deep within my core that only he can save me from.
It’s why he plays with me.
He forces my head back with a jerk, pulling on my long hair and wrapping it in his fist. The sharp tug sends a jolt of pain from the base of my skull as heat pricks my ears, and I bite down on my tongue, holding back a whimper. I gasp inwardly as his grip continues to tighten, and he drives his hard length into me. His movements grow rigid. His cold, wrinkly skin rails against my bones as he continues to bury himself in my broken body.
