Page 50 of Make Me Hunt
“She wasn’t.” Her voice dips lower.
“But he said he’d take me to her so she could explain everything. Said she needed my help with something. I knew it had to be a trick, but I was too afraid he’d hurt her if I ran back inside. So, I went with him.”
Every cell in my body is pulsing now, but I stay still. I have to.
“He drove for a few miles to an abandoned building. The place was a mess—paint falling off the walls, the doors barely held together, and the stench of rot so strong it overpowered all other senses.”
She swallows again.
“I followed him through a few hallways, and while we were walking, I managed to grab the knife from the backpack and hide it in my jacket. I didn’t trust him and had every reason not to. But there was that chance he really knew where Liz was, so I had to take it. I had to follow him.”
She closes her eyes.
“He stopped in front of a door and told me to go inside... to talk with Liz. I fucking knew he was lying, but when I turned to walk away, it was already too late.
“His hands were on my waist, pressing me against the wall. I tried to fight him, but he was too strong.
“He shoved me onto a dirty mattress on the floor that made my stomach turn. Then he climbed on top of me. He was so powerful, rushing to unzip my jeans. Too strong for me to stop him.”
I’m trying to refill my glass, but all I manage to do is shatter it in my hand. That doesn’t stop her though, not this time. It feels like if she stops for even a second, she won’t find the power to pick up where she left. And I don’t blame her. This shit feels impossible to hear, let alone talk about.
“That’s when I grabbed the knife. Took it out of my jacket and stabbed him in the back.
“Two hundred thirteen times.
“And I wouldn’t have stopped, but Liz came into the room when she heard him screaming. I was so glad to see her. I hoped she’d check on me, see if I was okay. Instead, she started crying for him... and called an ambulance.”
Brynn starts to laugh again, the bitter sound echoing in the air.
“She told everyone I was jealous. Told everyone I killed him because I wanted to be with him. People betray your trust so fucking easily.”
Her shoulders shake, but she keeps going on like she has to get this out.
“There was a trial. I was just a few weeks away from turning eighteen, so they wanted to try me as an adult. But considering the two hundred thirteen blows, they ruled it temporary insanity and committed me into a mental illness institution, pending proper treatment and evaluation.”
This time, she pauses on purpose, waiting for me to say something. I hope she’s not waiting for me to be scared because that shit actually turned me on. I knew she was strong, but now she feels like a fucking goddess.
Still, I don’t have an explanation for her scars, so I have to struggle to get through the rest of this story without losing my shit.
I give her a nod, letting her know I’m ready for more. Her being locked up in a mental institution doesn’t affect me in any way—nor the fact that she put two hundred thirteen holes in that loser.
But her being a mess? That gets to me, because I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s coming next. Especially since she should already be devastated by everything that’s happened so far.
So, I’m expecting something far worse.
“You asked about the scars...” she says, her voice distant. “So, this time, I’ll get straight to the point, because I don’t remember much of my stay there, even though I spent over two years in Elmbrook Sanatorium. Most days were a blur. Honestly, I even wanted it that way, to not remember what happened to me.”
She pauses, her expression changing as if speaking physically hurts at this point.
“This wasn’t the kind of place where you sent someone you loved who was struggling. It was where they dumped society’s trash, lowlifes, lost causes. The kind of place no one gives a fuck about, and no one checks up on—not even your family. At least not mine. My foster family wanted nothing to do with me after the trial, and based on the evidence, I can’t blame them.”
ButIdo.Ifucking blame them.
“The problem with Elmbrook was that the staff there were more fucked up than the patients. The director looked the other way as long as he got his cut of whatever the fuck he wanted. Money. Sex. Drugs. All wrung out of the patients. I only found out later what was really happening there. Most of the staff split the patients between them, using them however they wanted. Some for sex. Some for dark web footage while they tested procedures and backroom operations. They even ran fake fundraising campaigns on social media using patients to line their pockets. It was always either about money or some kind of sick pleasure. And I ended up the main obsession of the sickest bastard in that place—Ezekiel.”
My stomach twists again. Another hum tears from my throat like I’m losing my breath. Or my damn fucking mind.
“At first, it was just medicine. He used to make me take so many pills I forgot my own name. Then he’d lead me to my room, and…”
