Page 41 of The Tenth Circle
This time she chose a game of Connect 4.
Contrary to belief, Theory wasn’t as quick to develop like most girls are expected to. She was tiny for seven and played the part well with hints of a toddler-like lisp and mispronunciations.
Even though I was only two years older, I had this fierce instinct to protect her, especially after our cunt mother divorced our father and took off to live in Ibiza. It wasn’t a surprise. She didn’t love us. She told us, well, mostly me, on several occasions. Alongside suggesting our dad just sending us to a boarding school.
Throughout the years, they had a fuck ton of arguments, but the only time I cared was when the shouts were loud enough for Theory to hear.
Games. Music. Her favorite shows.
Impersonating her favorite characters.
I did anything to ensure Theory wouldn’t fall victim to a religious man’s goal to turn a whore into a housewife.
In all attempts to shut out my mother’s hatred, one remark still managed to leave a scar beneath my skin.
Call it a symptom of genetic programming.
It was three A.M. the Sunday before she left, and I was in the kitchen sneaking a candy bar. I heard them in the living room, my father, as usual, trying to appeal to the woman’s humanity about abandoning her children. Talking Bible verses and the glory of God to fix what’s broken between them. Bitch all but told him she’d rather suck some dick than go to Sunday mass.
I was naive at that age, but when I got older, my mother was already so dead to me I didn’t care.
In fact, I didn’t care much about anything after that night.
My mind went numb to both deep and trivial emotions, and as a broken kid I chose to allow it.
In spite of my efforts, Theory took the divorce even harder, and a part of me felt like her maturity hit a standstill when our mom was gone for good. Dad had the same suspicions, which is why she became his favorite by default.
It never bothered me knowing he had a softer spot for his baby girl—because Theory was my baby girl, too, and I made it my job to protect her.
I just never thought it’d end up having to be from me.
Clangingmetal sings for me like forgotten music, along with the steady rhythm of water dripping off the concrete walls around us.
Clang. Plop. Clang. Plop.
A dead man’s melody.
I indulge in the familiar sounds of The Pit, and when my gaze stretches across one of the many rooms of Riverside’s underground tunnel, the vision has me letting out a sigh so deep I can see my breath in the cold air.
Four metal chairs. One table. Seven toys.
All arranged in a perfect line on top of it.
Hammer. Mallet.
Pliers. Wrench.
Hacksaw. Vise.
What was beautiful, sharp, and unsullied for seven months, has turned into a crimson so bright you can see it glistening against the hue of yellow from the lanterns.
The sense of past and present dread thickens the air—large and heavy—making my eyes twitch as I take in the faceless bodies before me. No souls. No identity. No heart beating with life. Just two blurry vessels filled to the brim with blood and my pent up fury.
Seven months is a long time to starve a monster.
So it’ll take a lot more than eight hours to fill him up.
Ravage. Ruin.
