Page 17 of Cut Me Down

Then I move to the headlights, the taillights, back windshield, and truck bed. The truck falls to be my victim and I’m grateful for its sacrifice as I continue to ruin and maim the it. Serena demolishes the inside and slashes the tires, stabbing the fabric of the seats with a knife as if she’s suddenly a psychopath. She didn’t find her treasure, but I don’t think she minded once she took a crowbar to the radio.

The very last thing I want to do, I only hesitate before Serena retreats out of the cabin of the truck. I climb on to the hood, and use three hard thrusts of my leg to kick the windshield in. Luckily, my hands catch the top of the truck before I fall inside with the large glass pane, and I’m left to revel in my achievement.

“Whoo! Hell yeah girl! Look at your strong ass legs!” I look over to her as she throws her crowbar and glasses into the truck bed. So, I take the hint, hop down, and do the same. We’re both extremely sweaty and tired, but I can tell how much more relieved we both are. As if every worry or stressful thought is slowly seeping out of skin with every drop of sweat. “Damn, that’s a good workout.” She says as she wipes her forehead.

“Oh yeah, we’ll be sore as hell tomorrow, but it’s going to be so worth it.” We laugh as we start walking back through the maze of cars to the fence. “Thank you, so much, Ser. I really needed that. You’re amazing.” She steps closer to me before wrapping her arm around my shoulder.

“You know I got you, bitch. I know I work a lot too, but I'm always here for you.” Her words strike a pang of sadness into my chest, and suddenly it makes me feel guilty. She does work a lot, she’s a trauma nurse for fucks sake, yet she does always make time for me. I need to be a better friend and ‘sister’. I don’t call or see her like I should. I've been such a selfish bitch, so caught up in feelings I should already be over. She deserves better from me, and I make it a point to actively push myself to do more.

“I know, and I'm very grateful for it.” I say as I wrap my arm around her torso and pull her on for a big hug. She squeezes me tightly, and then plants a quick kiss to my sweaty cheek before we keep walking.

Chapter seven

Damien

Seven Days Later

It’s been two weeks since I first laid eyes on her, and I’ve found out a lot about her since then. Last week, I finally calmed down enough, after a couple of hours of torturing the Dust bunnies, to tell Alex to bring me another laptop, and I searched through her files again. I became even more intrigued with her every second I looked through those files, and I wasn’t sure that was possible. Her strength amazes me, and now her shielded demeanor and quirks make more sense to me. She’s never looked more ravishing than how I see her right now.

Her past is not quite what I expected at first, I'll admit. Her parents were wide open drug addicts. They openly abused and neglected her, but the system failed her. There was a report on finding Ashia at seven years old sleeping on rocks next to the lake. Her parents passed out, high off crack in a tent next to her. Somehow, the Department of Child and Family Services didn’t even remove her for the first time until she was twelve, and handed her over to the Andersons three times, but each time forced her to return to her parents. Each instance spouted some bullshit about how they were actively trying to stay clean and polish their parenting.

There are many incident reports in the DCFS files that I can’t recover fully. Many of the entries being blacked out or even partially deleted. I can only imagine what other dark and vile things she had to endure before they finally overdosed one month apart when she was seventeen, thankfully after she had gotten herself emancipated at sixteen. Even still, she attended and paid for both of their burials. She’s a much better person than I am. I would’ve left their bodies to rot in the morgue, or better yet, somewhere hidden where I could have revisited to watch their bodies decay.

Her ex-boyfriend, Cooper, abused her. Almost killed her, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. When I hacked back into the city police files, I forced myself to look at the countless domestic abuse calls made by neighbors. Six were responded too, and the seventh one ended in his arrest and paramedics called. The file showed the mangled mess he put her in. Every cut, bruise, handprint, and tear. It makes me fucking sick again with rage just thinking about it.

Her beaten face, torn clothes, and mangled right arm are burnt into my brain, along with the amount of blood from the crime scene photos. With the amount on the floor and walls that was shown, it looked like there was enough to be a blood bath. I can picture the fight and violence it must have taken to spread that much blood around. Her own recollection of events was recorded after she had woken up from her life-saving surgery, and the tale is horrifying.

Though that’s not what has me seething with hatred. It’s the look in her eyes in the photos attached to her file. Her broken, defeated eyes. Darkened by the horrors she endured, not near the bright ember eyes I witnessed myself. No wonder she waits and dances in solitude and away from lingering eyes, or why she cowers either behind the barber shop doors or her apartment. Afraid to allow anyone close enough to see that raw side of herself, knowing they would just tear it down to see the scars that lie beneath.

It says that even after her testimony, and six witnesses between her best friend, a cop, and four neighbors, he got to his last trial before a ‘technicality’ was discovered, and he was let go. Set free. On domestic violence, rape, and attempted murder charges. From the looks of the court records, between the technicality and his high-profile defense team his mommy and daddy paid for, she was lucky to get a restraining order.

That piece of shit.

I suppose it’s luck that he was released, because if he was in prison, I wouldn’t get to handle him myself. And now, I'll get to see that he receives his punishment. One fitting for a vile, disgusting, scum of the earth like he is. I’ll string him up, meat hooks piercing every limb. Then I'll use cranes to jerk him around like a puppet on strings, and when I give her the controls, I’ll look upon her with pride as she enjoys every fucking second of it.

I'll be her angel of death. He’ll feel what he did to her, and he’ll suffer greatly for it. She has a light I’ve never witnessed before, and that piece of shit tried to put her out. I’ll see to it that she never has to conceal herself again. She’ll never have to cower into her own being and shrivel away from any ounce of normalcy in fear. One day, she’ll stand tall next to me with dignity, and I'll help her get there. All in due time.

I already sent one of my men to Seattle to find him earlier this evening. No one, and I mean no one, will touch my fucking girl. Anyone who touched her before me will pay a price, but this price, Cooper Siezly will pay with his life.

I will have her.

I decided that evening two weeks ago. In that moment, I just knew that I would do whatever it took to keep her safe and protected. Not only from others, but from herself. She sees herself as broken, unable to be desired by anyone who isn’t out to use her. Her own thoughts scare her just as much as men do. Any man tries to touch her again and I’ll show her just how protected she is with me. She won’t have anything to be afraid of with me.

The only man I won't kill for touching her is her tattoo artist. She sees him every month or so. Always on Tuesdays to avoid the Domestic Violence Support Group she still attends. From what I can gather, she doesn’t go much anymore. The tattoo sessions are her therapy now, and I know exactly how that feels. Not that I need therapy. I’ve had a much better life than her.

My parents were well off, and treated me and my sister great, until my sister died of cancer when I was twelve. But even after that, my parents and home life were great. What any other kid would want, and what I’m sure Ashia begged for her whole life.

I do what I do because it’s what I feel is right. What I feel will best help the world. There’s no dark reason behind it. I kill people to better the world, and I fucking love it. My tattoos do help me process what I’ve done. It’s not that I feel guilty, or wrong in my ways, but there’s just something about the tattoo needle that helps you think things through. It’s as if the needle plucks the right place and it communicates with what dark thought it’s going to heal, leaving ink in its wake.

When I saw her artist touch her the day after I saw her for the first time, it almost sent me into a blind rage, but I was contained later that night when I witnessed her pain from the alleyway below. The mixed emotions of depression, fear, and shame showed on her face. But seeing how she took the physical pain, like it wasn’t even happening, then embraced her emotional pain, is how I know she’ll be perfect for me.

The only person who will bring her pain from this day forward is me. Only she’ll be begging me to do it while I heal her internal anguish silently. I’ll hold her as she screams up to whatever God exists for putting her through those events, just so she knows that she doesn’t have to be ashamed of her pain. I’ll be gentle with her at first, careful not to break her into a traumatic state, but once she feels safe with me? That’s when we’ll play.

I look across, like I have since I bought this building, and see her normal routine. I need to buy her black-out curtains once I have her. I can see everything in that apartment, and I'll be damned if anyone stalks her but me. I'm just glad this building doesn’t have the shit security system the hospital has. It was way too easy to hack in and watch her dance around. I avoided looking at Serena like the plague, but her? Fuck I watched every single moment.

I was surprised by how fast she and her friend actually are. They’re both in good physical condition, but their small size contributes to their speed. After losing them for a moment, I scrambled through the alleyways to cut them off, but I finally found them walking through the field of grass.

I almost laughed after having a small panic attack when they climbed the fence, but when I got a closer look at what they were doing and saw that Serena had set the evening up for her, I was relieved. How funny would it be if my girl was a criminal? Well, thankfully she isn’t, and the gesture from her friend made me think that perhaps she isn’t as bad as I thought she was.

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