Page 35 of Wicked Little Nightmare

There’s no mistaking what I am. What I was turned into. I’ve never pretended to be anything I’m not. I’ve always been exactly who I am, even if that version of me differs from the one from a moment ago. Suppose that’s what made me different though. Most people walk through life under the misconception that they will be loved if they act a certain way. Dressed a certain way. Talked a certain way. It’s all a lie. Everyone will hurt you in the end, it doesn’t matter how pretty you wrap your meat sack, you will never be the person you pretended you were, especially when they peel the mask back to reflect the ugly that lived inside you. Lying about it just buys you time.

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I flipped to the next photo and felt my world tilt. Lydia was splayed out on a surgical table, her belly swollen with pregnancy. Her eyes were wide open, vacant, like she was already gone. Tubes snaked out of her arms, and a mask covered her face. But it was the scalpel poised above her stomach that made my skin crawl.

Turning it over and placing it face down, the next picture showed her skin peeled back, a gaping hole where the upside-down T was cut. Her fucking spine was showing, her organs taken out and laid beside her on the table.

"Fuck," I hissed, my hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped the photo. "She was pregnant, Cam. They... they tried to cut the baby out of her."

Cam leaned in; his breath hot on my neck as he looked. "Sick bastards," he muttered, his voice tight with rage.

I fumbled with the attached note, my eyes scanning the clinical words: "Unsuccessful removal of fetus, both deceased." My stomach lurched, and I tasted copper in my mouth.

"They killed her," I whispered, my voice breaking. "They killed her and her baby."

Memories flooded back – her dreams of becoming a mother someday. Many whispered nights of what we would do once we escaped. She’d come from a broken home, said her dad beat her and her mom fled, leaving her at his mercy. But she never let it dim her smile. She never let it change her like I let it change me. She was sweet. Kind. Look at what fucking good that did her. All of it stolen, ripped away by these monsters. I felt something snap inside me, a dam breaking loose.

"I'm gonna gut every last one of them," I snarled, my vision going red. "Starting with that fucking nun."

Cam's hand tightened on my shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully. "We'll make 'em suffer, Lakes."

I nodded, trying to rein in the bloodlust. He was right, as always. We needed a plan, needed to make sure we didn't miss a single one of these sadistic fucks.

"You think there's more of us?" I asked, gesturing to the envelope with my name on it. One I would open when I was done seeing the extent of the torture they’d inflicted on her.

I was getting some nifty little ideas of how to up my own creativity.

Cam's eyes glittered dangerously. "Only one way to find out, darlin'. You wanna keep going?"

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Oh, I’m gonna keep looking. Think his holy Father would get turned on if I cut off his finger and fucked his ass with it?"

I flipped to the next photo and froze. There, lurking in the background like some goddamn vulture, he stood. His black drapery and his fucking crisp white necktie, splattered in blood. His eyes were cold, detached, like he was watching a fucking nature documentary instead of a girl being butchered.

"That motherfucker," I hissed, my fingers clenching the photo so hard it crumpled. Memories of his "private confessions" flooded back, making my skin crawl.

The next photo made even my iron stomach churn. Sister Anne, that sanctimonious bitch, was cradling Lydia's very clearly premature baby. Her face was twisted in a smile that'd make the devil himself piss his pants.

"Jesus fuck," Cam muttered, his usual cool slipping.

I couldn't tear my eyes away as I put the photo behind the next. The baby, lifeless, shoved back into Lydia's open abdomen like some sick, reverse birth.

"They put it back," I whispered, my voice hollow. "They fucking put it back inside her."

Cam's arm snaked around my waist, steadying me. "We're gonna rain holy hell on these bastards. Make 'em wish they'd never been born."

I leaned into him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"When we find Sister Anne, she's mine. I want to watch the light leave her eyes."

Cam's lips brushed my temple. "Wouldn't have it any other way, sweetheart."

The room started to spin, my vision blurring as tears burned hot tracks down my cheeks. I stumbled, nearly losing my footing as a wave of nausea hit me like a freight train.

"Fuck," I choked out, doubling over. My stomach heaved, and bile swirled at the back of my throat.

I'd seen some sick shit in my time, hell, I'd done some sick shit. But this? This was a whole new level of fucked up. I hadn’t cried since I was a kid, and yet I’d lost my head twice since being down here. The walls closed in around me, forcing me to breath through a pin hole. I was trapped in an iron cage, spikes pressing into me, forcing me to collapse in on myself. The only piece of me still intact was the steel cage I kept my shadow tucked away in. It was the only thing still holding me together. The knowledge that I had the power to fight back. That I was a more than capable killing machine and that with the flick of a switch, I’d never feel a damn thing as I slid my knife underneath the skin and peeled it from their bones.

Cam's hand was on my back, rubbing small circles into my spine, steadying me. I could feel the tension radiating off him, his muscles coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

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