Page 70 of His Pretty Little Duet

"Fuck your shit." Jake walks straight at Benji and throws him to the side; the sound of the glass table shattering pulls a cry from me. Jake clutches hold of my elbow and throws me face down on the cushion.

I try to scramble up.

I try to move.

But there is pressure on my back. He's touching me. Keeping me face down. I twist my head to the side, tears sliding down my face, seeping into the cushions, and then I see Benji lying on his back in the glass. His eyes are wide open. His mouth parted, sucking in shallow breaths.

He doesn't look good.

I pan down to see a thick piece of metal impaled through his abdomen, a puddle of blood creeping out from under him. He’s not moving.

He’s dying...

I open my mouth to speak, "Help—" But a guttural groan rips from my throat when someone thrusts into me.

Clay

FUCK!

My fist hits the laptop screen. Broken pixels explode in a kaleidoscope of colours around the shattered glass as it flies backwards off the desk, cracking in half, the monitor and the keyboard separating.

I flip the desk, sending everything to the ground. Small dots of blood from my fist spray with my jarring movements. I don't feel pain. Don't feel anything. Everything is submerged deep in a volcano of fury.

My mind roars.

Drawing my weapon, I point it at the glass panel opposite me and unload round after round after round, releasing all fifteen bullets into the air, needing the noise of exploding glass and gunfire to deafen the rage burning my brain to damn volatile psychosis.

It isn’t enough.

It’ll never be enough. I should have shut the goddamn thing down before I saw it all, before I saw them all take turns while she tried to crawl for safety, but I couldn’t leave her alone inthat room with them for a second time and closing the laptop to savour my rage was an act I would never abide.

I hurl the gun through the panel, breaking off the glass stalactites clinging to the top of the silver frame. My muscles twitch, every mass tight, as my heart pumps molten blood through my veins, frying the ends and my compassion along with it.

Creeping across my vision and into my mind, darkness finds a fixed place within me. A sneer curls my lips as I walk from the office to meet the ashen faces of the soon-to-be-dead boys tied to their chairs, I immediately lock eyes with Jake.

The fucker who stole my deer’s virginity.

Who ripped through her and made her bleed.

Standing very still, I watch him and Landon scream, panic, their mouths hollowing and moving, pleading probably, but I can’t hear a thing within the den of violent fury in my mind. The butcher has taken parts of the carcass and left the room. Vinny is still a shadow blanketing the boys.

Bronson slowly straightens from his chair, tense and wary, staring at me like I'm the damn rapture personified. For a moment, my little brother, the one who will slice a man's face off and have a tea party with my niece all in the space of an hour, appears wary of whatImight do.

He deadpans. "What did they do to that sweet girl?"

I don’t respond. It wasn't a question.

Glaring at the boys, useless sacks of shit, a chilling calm greets me, as is the way with processes like this. "Is that the only copy?"

Vinny answers. "There are two copies, Boss."

"I didn’t ask you," I say, staring at the boys.

"Two! Two," Landon says straight away.

"Destroy them both. She never sees them," I say to Bronson. "Hand me the pliers," I demand of Vinny, thinking about howthis fucker tied to the chair licked her and groaned around her flavours, how he appreciated her taste before another man could. One who might have deserved her, as doubtful as that premise might be.

Gritting my teeth, I circle the boys slowly as Vinny hands me a pair of saw-like pliers, and Bronson gags Jake for the duration before heading towards the office to destroy the SD cards. They will never breathe life into her rape again.

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