Page 164 of Unwrapping Deviance

They do not want to protect me. They’re not going to make sure I eat and get sleep. They are definitely not going to care if I have a nightmare or if I’m home alone at night. These two only want one thing from me and they do not care how they get it, even if they break me in the process.

“Don’t do this,” I try, voice begging. “Please.”

A large part of my brain is screaming for me to get off the chair, to not sit here like a fucking idiot where they can get me, but where the hell am I supposed to run? The entire room consists of a bunk bed in one corner, a tiny kitchen in the other and a doorway leading into a bathroom that has no door; what kind of bathroom has no door?

There is nowhere to go, unless I run outside and hopefully die in one of their traps.

“I get her first,” Dirk announces, eyes burning into me. “Lucy said.”

“No!” the other one barks back. “You break them too quickly. I never get to have fun.”

That doesn’t seem to bother Dirk when he shrugs a beefy shoulder. “I’m older. You get my hand-me-downs.”

“Come on, Dirk. Let me go first this one time. Please? I’ll do your dishes for a week.”

Dirk seems to really consider this offer while he begins the process of emptying his pockets onto the table. Loose coins scatter across the wood. A phone is dropped down next to them.

Tufty hurriedly follows suit, dumping a pack of crushed cigarettes, a crumpled wad of bills, a fistful of keys, and another phone next to the pile.

“Come on, Dirk,” he continues to plead.

“But you don’t make them scream right.”

“I will. I promise I will. Just like you do. Promise.” Tufty puts both hands up in a weird cross between scout’s honor and theVulcan salute.

Can I even make it to the door? I can’t go straight forward and if I make a wide arc, they’ll catch me.

Door is out of the question. There are two windows, one over the bunk, the other over the sink, but there’s no way I’ll get through them without getting caught.

“Okay, you can go first this time,” Dirk grumbles.

Tufty squeaks like a child being told they’d have ice cream before supper. He rounds on me, and I feel the cold rush of terror surge through me.

“What’s your names?” I blurt, going for kindness over yelling and threatening. “You never told me. I’m Mira.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dirk snaps. “We’re not stupid. We know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work.” He faces his brother. “Go on. Get on with it, Boyd.”

My limbs find their purpose and I leap off the chair. There isn’t far to go before he’s charging at me, beefy frame moving much too fast. My scream is ignored with the hard clamp of his fingers around my injured arm. The searing pain nearly sends me to my knees. I fight the black fingers of darkness creeping around the edges of my vision, knowing if I pass out, I will not want to wake up ever again.

“Don’t struggle,” Tufty — Boyd — says giving me a shake that sends my stomach crawling up into my throat. The very air drowns me in a muggy heat that stinks of bad odor and mold. “It just makes things harder for everyone.”

I kick out with my foot, aiming for his crotch and getting his calf. It barely seems to register to him when he shoves me with one arm down on the mildewy mattress.

Sharp, jagged coils gouge into my back and dig into my side upon impact. I bounce once before he’s staggering towards me, hands at his pants. My mouth opens. I think I’m thinking of screaming or begging. Not sure what I’m supposed to be doing because lying here isn’t it when the bottle registers.

The beer.

It’s still in my hand. How the hell is it still in my hand? My fingers seem to have a death grip on the neck, and I do the only thing that comes to mind.

I swing.

I put my whole weight behind it and shut my eyes as it collides with the side of his head with a resounding and gut churning crack. The explosion showers me in warm, sticky beer and shards of glass. It rains over my face and soaks my shirt. The splintered top remains in my white knuckled grip, a serrated weapon I grip tighter.

Boyd bellows, but he’s still upright. Only now he’s pissed.

Heart hammering, I thrust upwards. I drive with all my strength straight under his chin. Into his jugular.

The liquid that gushes out isn’t pale gold, but scarlet red and scalding hot. It explodes with a ferocity I don’t expect. It arcs into the air even as Boyd chokes and wheezes, and stumbles back clutching at his throat.

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