I know exactly what’s going to happen and part of me welcomes it.
The pain, the agony. I welcome it all as I step out of the flannel and let this sick fuck widen my legs, kicking them apart before he walks to the cabinet.
I hear the doors open, can practically feel Wicker smile as he chooses a cane, and even when he comes back over to me and tries to block my view, my eyes never leave Toby.
This is for you.
“I know in my heart I can help you, that God will use me as a vessel and allow me to help rid your soul of the demon that holds it hostage.” Wicker’s hand comes up to my cheek and gently brushes away the lone tear that falls, and I don’t have to look to know he’s licking it from his thumb. “I will rehabilitate you in the name of our Holy Father, Victor, and only then will you be free.”
The only warning I get before the cane cracks against the inside of my left thigh is the distance he puts between us in order to do it. The Monsignor hits me again and again over the welts that had barely begun to heal from before, and when he gets the desired response, when my body reacts to the pain in the way I wish it wouldn’t—the way thedemonforces me to—I see a ghost of a smile play across the bastard’s face.
“I will expel the one that blackens your soul.” Wicker’s hand brushes against the front of my underwear before he hooks his grubby fingers into the top of them and pushes them to the floor. He sets the cane on the desk as he turns me to face it, bending me over the cold wood with one hand as the other tugs on the sleeves of my modified straight jacket—therobe—I’m wearing. “This won’t do, Victor. Not at all. I need you to be submissive to God’s will in order for my methods to work.”
I turn my eyes away from the crucifix as the Monsignor begins unstrapping me, my stare landing on the cane as he pushes my arms toward the back of the desk. And as he widens my legs again, as I hear the rustling of fabric and the sound of his zipper, I know without doubt what I need to do.
This is for you.
The second I feel his hand on my bare ass, I move.
I use my adrenaline, my anger and hate, I use everything coursing through my body and pour it into a blind rage as I reach out and grab the cane faster than the Monsignor can react. I spin on him just as quickly, catching the disgusting pervert off guard milliseconds before I swing the bamboo stick at his head.
“You son of a bitch,” I growl as he stumbles back. “You sick fucking bastard!” I swing again and can’t help the ripple of satisfaction that wracks my body as blood sprays from his temple. “You disgusting”—crack—”despicable”—crack—”sadistic fucking monster!”
I hit Monsignor Wicker over and over, bringing the cane down on his head until it’s an unrecognizable mess on the floor. Even then I have to force myself to stop; have to channel all of my energy into dropping the bamboo stick and backing away toward the desk.
With my chest heaving, blood dripping from my face and hands, I lean against it and try to catch my breath.
Fuck.
Jesus, fuck, I did it.
After years of plotting, of envisioning the many ways I wanted to end this bastard’s life, I finally did it.
But I was too late.
My gaze flicks to Toby as I pull the straight jacket off and toss it on top of Wicker. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as tears spill from my eyes. “All I ever wanted was to protect you.”
That’s all I ever wanted.
My brother has been my entire world since the day he was born, the only good I ever had, and not only did I fail at protecting him from our parents, I failed at protecting Toby from the monster that walked among us here.
But that’s when a thought occurs to me.
A thought that has me smiling despite how fucked up it is.
I’m the monster now.
And that has me moving once again.
I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes, grab my pants and underwear and toss them at the Monsignor’s battered body before throwing the cane on top of him. I rush to the cabinet and take out the extra set of clothes he keeps there, pulling on the t-shirt and sweats as fast as I can before dropping to crouch behind the desk.
Within seconds, I have the files on Toby and I in hand, taking what I want from mine and adding them to his before folding it up and tucking it in the back of my pants. I open the second drawer and pull out Wicker’sholy liquid—the wine he used to loosen me up—two bottles since the asshole just refilled his stash. I uncork both quickly then start pouring the wine all over the Monsignor, all over his busted head and body, before I use what’s left to drench as much of his office as I can.
I move back to the cabinet and grab a book of matches used to light his stupid fucking candles, his letter opener, then tiptoe toward the door.
There’s no sound coming from the other side, no noise at all, and I can only hope that means the two dumbasses that brought me here are doing their rounds in the rest of the building while waiting for Wicker to call them back to get me. And since the only other rooms in this part of the facility are the private rooms of this sick fuck and the nuns, another idea starts to form.
I grab the keys from Wicker’s hip then stand over the bastard, watching as I strike a match and drop it on his liquor-soaked body. The flames shoot toward the ceiling before they quickly start to spread, so I turn, scoop my brother into my arms, then duck into the hall.
