Page 78 of Wicked Deceit
I close my eyes on this nightmare, imagining I’m in another place and time, away from these sadistic fucks. I pray to a God I barely ever pray to, asking him to protect the ones I love. My parents. My siblings. And my boys. They deserve divine intervention and safety after this is said and done.
I hope Chase survived whatever they did to him when they came for me. I pray the twins stayed with their father, making sure he was alright. And when they hear of my death, I pray they don’t blame themselves. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hope Carter is okay. I don’t know if he was called to action and is standing before me in the sea of black robes. An ache forms in my heart with the betraying thought of him standing before me with that cruel smirk I met him with, laughing at my naivete and stupidity. Maybe his fists are tightened at his sides, waiting for the perfect time to spring me from this prison. Fleeting lights of hope spark in my chest at the thought of my savior hiding in plain sight. When I look at the masked faces staring back at me, I can only blink and pray some more that safety is coming soon.
I close my eyes, painting a beautiful picture of my future in my mind. There’s no here and now. Only the brightness of my future calling to me and begging me to focus on what could be or what will be. Moving into CaliState will be fun. I’ll have a roommate in a dorm, where I’ll rarely be. The boys will share a four-room suite and sneak me in after hours. I’ll rotate between their beds, and eventually, Carter will buy us a house my sophomore year. He’ll work from home while the rest of us go to school, and then we’ll graduate together. Visions of our forever home construct before my eyes in vivid color. Green grass with children playing with their fathers. Football games. Cookouts. Family meals. Dreams I didn’t know I wanted before my boys showed up and slammed into my life. It’s all there at the tip of my fingers, slipping through like a fine sand I can’t grasp.
"No!" A loud shriek permeates through the air, jerking me out of my reprieve.
A bucket of cold water falls over me when Francesca's frantic blue eyes search mine, looking me up and down while shaking her head. My fantasy instantly falls away, and reality sets in, bringing me back to the Hell they’ve dragged me into. Our knees brush together, giving us an up close and personal view of the terror we’re about to live—or die—through. Her lips pop open, tears filling her eyes at the sight of my smashed up face. Her brows furrow, and she begins pleading with them to have mercy on us. But, mercy won’t come. Not with the Apocalypse running the show. We’re in their hands now, and nothing else matters.
Her chair moves an inch off the ground as she thrashes in her seat. She pulls and yanks at her roughly bound hands, screeching and howling until a red hood steps forward, slapping the soul from her body.
"Shut up, bitch," he growls. "You brought this on yourself." Grabbing a fistful of her dull red hair, he forces her face forward. Her dead eyes stare straight at me, lips parting in shock. Horror crosses her face. She wants to scream, darting her eyes at the others. But she doesn't. Every limb on her body shakes uncontrollably in her chair.
"This, ladies and gentlemen, is a little game I like to call humanities," the man says again. Trailing his finger across a large metal tray, he runs a finger over shiny tools: a hammer, screwdriver, grapefruit spoon, a small pair of pliers, a large knife, a blow torch attached to propane, and a hot poker–glowing red, ready for use.
What a fucking party.
Dread fills every molecule inside of me. My empty stomach churns violently, thrashing against its walls, begging for me to spew. But I'm frozen—frozen at the sight of the blow torch inching its hot flame toward me. Orange and blue flames dance in front of my face—the heat cascades across my flesh, threatening to bubble under the intensity.
"No!" repeats Francesca. "Leave the child alone! How could you! How could you sit back and do this to an innocent child! You're all sick fucks!" she roars, thrashing in her chair again. "Sick! Sick! Bastards! Do it to me! Leave her alone!" She howls, gaining the attention of the sick bastard with the blowtorch.
I don't even get a word edgewise to stop him from harming her. For the next few minutes, unspeakable tortures fall upon Piper's mom. She screams and shouts, begging them to stop, and they do. They stop everything, giving in to her pleas. But instead of stopping it completely, they walk toward me. She begs again for them to spare me, and they only return to her, repeating the torture. They're manipulating her humanity—her soul. It's either her or me. If one of us isn't in pain, the other is.
Francesca pants as sweat pours from every orifice on her body. Blood pools on the floor beneath her, painting it a dark shade of red. Continually, it drips from her face and arms.
Her skin is burned, poked, prodded, and hammered. Pain pours from her eyes, and the most helpless feeling falls over me. I can't do anything about it. I can't save her unless I take on the pain myself. She refuses to let that happen. Any time I open my mouth to take the brunt of the torture, she directs them back to her.
"Why are you doing this, Vic?" she rasps, words making it out in a whisper. "Why did you do this to me? What did I ever do to you?"
"You know why," one of the red hoods whispers, reaching for a tool on the tray. "You know exactly why you're in this little predicament!" He shouts now, shoving his mask off and throwing it to the floor in rage. His fingers wrap around an ornate knife, shining in the bright spotlight.
Victor Crowe stands ramrod straight, gripping the large knife tight in his fist. Anger surges over his face, tightening his jaw and forming a vicious sneer on his lips.
"Explain it to me," she pleads in a dull voice.
He stalks forward with a grunt, ramming the knife into her thigh. A small, pained cry falls from her dry lips, but that's all she gives him.
"You stole my daughter," he yells, nose to nose with her bleeding face. "You stole my daughter, ran away with her, and changed her name. And then that asshole adopted her. I had to find out years later where you went!" He hisses, pressing his forehead angrily into hers. "And then you dared to get married to that-that fucking reject. YOU. LEFT. ME! YOU WERE MINE!" He shouts in her face, only getting a tiny smile in return.
"You've always had an overactive imagination, Vic," she whispers. "You were obsessed with me. You stalked me. You raped me and forced me to have her. I never wanted you. I never loved you. I took my daughter away to save her from you, and look where that got me. I married Thomas because he loved me and promised us a good life-or..." Crowe cackles at her words falling off.
"Oh yeah, he loved you so much. He left you and your daughter with nothing but the clothes on your back. Well, let's just say he didn't have a choice, Sugar. I'm a compelling man when I need to be. Hurst filed for divorce the moment I knew about Victoria. Very sneaky, too, marrying him. Him adopting my daughter and changing her name, the name I gave her! I bet you didn't think I'd ever find out, did you? Until I caught up to you and forced you into my brother's hands." Another red hood chuckles, throwing his mask onto the floor and revealing the face of Cushing Cunningham.
"She was a very pliant prisoner. Obedient. The bitch cooked me dinner every night. Until she had to be thrown back into the basement and locked up." Cushing laughs, making her wince.
"You left me," Crowe says again in a calmer, more soothing voice. "So I went after everything you held dear or would hold dear." A manic grin splits his face, turning the acid in my gut, sending bile up my throat.
"Looks like you won then, congratulations," she says in a very soft voice, giving all the sarcasm she can muster. If her finger hadn't been crushed beneath the hammer, she'd twirl it for him or flip him the bird.
"I won," he proclaims, spreading his arms out. "We won," he points to the other two red-robed men. "And we'll always win. This is just the beginning of our rule! And it all started with your sister and her bitch of a daughter." Francesca's body slumps, the shock of her injuries stepping forward. She shakes her head, trying to keep the festering shivers at bay.
"I don't have a sister, and you know that," she simply says.
"Ah!" he says, holding a finger up in the air, holding his grin. He spins, so the entire room takes him in. Pointing at the camera still filming, he continues. "But you did have a sister. See, after you ran from me, I caught a whiff of something. Something big. Something like a sister you never knew existed. You see, your mommy was a whore and a home-wrecker."
If Francesca could look shocked under all the blood on her face, she would. Her blue eyes widen, staring straight at Crowe. He does a happy dance for the camera.
"Ahh! See! This is what I wanted!" He chuckles to his brothers in red. They grin, too, stepping closer to Crowe.
