I slam the hammer over his mouth, his teeth shatter. “Did you stop when she asked you to?” I scream. I’m fueled by rage, and a rage like this—it’s not something you can easily stop.
This little devil inside of me demands I keep hitting him, that I make him pay for what he did to her. He struggles, flailing around, but I continue to go at his face, whack after whack, until my muscles are actually too fatigued to raise the weapon one more time. I drop it to the floor and stare at the mess. Blood and bits of mangled flesh are everywhere. The wall, the lampshade, me—even a little splatter on the ceiling. I drag my hand down my face, wiping away some of the blood before I turn and walk to the kitchen. I sit there, drinking water and staring at what is left of Johnny D. Fuck him.
I come out of the lucid memory with a smile.
I never knew a single person could be so brutal to another human—thatIcould be that fucking violent. We all have an evil little beast that lies just below the surface, scratching to get out. That moment, killing a man when I was only sixteen, well, that was like having a blood-stained version of Pandora’s Box opened right in front of me.
My father came home an hour later. He asked only one question: why? I told him. He nodded and we cleaned up the shit, dumping Johnny’s body in the Coosa river. Two weeks later…Frank Donovan broke into my house and took my family as revenge, and now, Frank Donovan’s beloved daughter is locked up in that fucking cellar. Funny how life comes full circle.
Jesus H. Christ, Earl!My pulse bangs frantically in my temples, and I quickly reach for the pack of smokes on the edge of the desk, pull one out, and light it. Taking several puffs, my stare fixates on the family portrait set as Ava’s Facebook profile picture. I push up from the chair and pace the length of my room, smoking the cigarette down to the filter before stabbing it out in a tin ashtray. This is some shit. Some serious fucking shit.
I sling the door open, storming down the steps to the living room. Earl’s asleep in his recliner. There’s a burnt out cigarette dangling from his lips and beer in his hand.
“Earl!” I shout and he snorts, jumping and knocking the can of beer out of his lap.
“The fuck, Max?”
“Frank Donovan…”
He swipes a dirty hand down his face. “Yep,” he groans. “What ’bout him?”
“That girl down there”—I point to the floor above the holding room—“ishisfucking daughter.”
His eyes narrow to mere slits as he scratches the stubble on his face. “Don’t say, huh? So I guess Brandon’s her brother?”
Tossing my hands up, I pace. “I don’t fucking know.”
“Well, he’s the little shit that wanted her killed.”
“Her brother?”
“Yep. Wants the insurance money. Guessin’ he’s gonna kill his folks, take the money. Greedy little bastard.” Earl laughs.
I shake my head and clench my fists. “I don’t care what the fuck he wanted. Her father is Frank-motherfucking-Donovan and when he hunts her down—because he will—the devil would be kinder in dealing out our deaths.”
Earl’s not even phased. He just leans back in the recliner and waves me off. “Ain’t gonna find her. We’ll get here fixed up and sold off to some poor fucker andthatis who should concern himself with Donovan.”
Anger swells inside me and before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve punched a hole through the sheetrock by the doorway to the kitchen. I shake the sting from my hand on my way to the sink. The only thing I can think about is how fucked up all this is. I turn the faucet, and while I watch the blood and debris swirl down the drain, I get a sinking feeling that this is beyond my control. Some things aren’t coincidence. Some things, no matter how you try to intervene, the outcomes are already set in fucking stone.
8
Ava
Ipace across the room. I’ve been pacing for hours—I think, in the silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. It feels like an eternity, but with no windows and little sleep, I have no way to tell. The pipe running across the ceiling keeps leaking water. The constantdrip, drip, dripis driving me mad. I’m weak and disoriented. My body is exhausted.
I halt in my pacing. “Stop!” I shout, staring at the pipe above my head. “Just fucking stop it!” And now I resume walking circles around this fucking room.
I clear my throat to make noise, then stop walking momentarily to scratch my head. I scratch through my filthy, matted hair until it hurts, then I scratch my arms and legs. I itch everywhere. I’ve not had a bath since I’ve been here and I’m still wearing the same clothes—covered in Bronson’s dried blood. I pace a little while longer, and suddenly, I start to cry. Those cries turn into sobs and then, just like someone’s flipped a switch, anger takes over. I yell. I shout. I curse at the bastards holding me here until my throat burns and my voice goes hoarse. And then, well, then I just fall to the floor and sit in the silence, wondering if there actually is a world outside of this room anymore.
Even as exhausted as I am, my body is in a constant state of fight or flight.
