Page 61 of Princes of Sin
“I think you mean the one who molested a teenager,” Lachlan growls, stepping forward as he glares at the man.
I can’t even remember his name–it’s been eight years since I’ve seen him.
But I remember the dread.
The heavy weight of guilt, thinking it was my fault.
The reluctance to be alone, because he would inevitably find me.
I didn’t realize foryearsthat what he did was wrong.
I was young, naive, and had lived a privileged life. It took me several years to figure out that everyone would take advantage of that, and when I went to University, I kept to myself. I hardly made any friends. I was too scared to tell them anything about my life, so I isolated myself from everyone and everything. I had no one to guide me, no one totell methat it was wrong.
“I didn’t know–she said she was eighteen,” the man cries out, panicking. “I’ve gone to therapy for it now. My wife–it’s an addiction, and I haven’ttouchedanyone in years–”
Lachlan takes another step forward so that he’s standing next to me.
“You think that qualifies you for redemption? You think that if youapologizeandgo to therapythat it erases everything you’ve done?”
“I didn’t know she was underage. I didn’t realize–”
“But you still touched her without her permission,” Lachlan growls.
“I’d never do it today. I’m a different person–”
Lachlan lurches forward and clocks him in the nose–hard.The man screams as blood streams down both nostrils, yet he can’t wipe it away because his hands are tied up.
“I knew a lot of men like you in prison. You say you’ve changed, but only a deranged and tainted soul would touch a child. You say you didn’t know, but you must’ve suspected. You never confirmed it. So you may excuse your behavior, but I won’t.” He’s breathing heavily as he looks back at me, and he shakes his hand out. “Make it hurt,” he tells me with a furious growl.
Our eyes stay locked for several heartbeats, and when he finally steps back and looks down at the ground, something inside of my chest begins to ache.
He may act surly and distant, but he cares.
He’strying.
The thought gives me the courage to hold the knife tighter and take a step forward. The man is still whimpering, and when he sees me coming closer, he wobbles in his chair trying to get away.
“No, no, please, I’m sorry–”
I don’t think. My mind goes blank with rage, and I channel every negative feeling into the force driving my hand into the man’s chest. There’s more resistance than I expect, and as he screams, I pull the knife out again and try again–and again, and again. His garbled screams start to sound wet, and I continue–mindless and thoughtless with rage. Itconsumesme–like a fire that rolls through every cell of my body.
I think of how he used to knock on my door, as if he was showing me courtesy by asking to come in.
I think of the times I pretended to be asleep, how I wouldn’t be able to meet his eye the next day.
I think of how I’d scrub my body every morning in the shower–he never touched me below the pants, but I still felt like a whore.
I think of how his nightly visits would make me so anxious that I didn’t have a period for over a year.
With each driving force of my hand, a half-cry, half-scream claws up my throat, and it isn’t until Lachlan is pulling me away that I realize the man is dead already.
Slumped over and completely still with lifeless blue eyes.
There’s blood–everywhere–
I look down at my arms. They’re covered in blood, and the smell–
The smell–
