Page 19 of His Reluctant Savior

“You’re such a good boy for me,” he says, licking up the tears from the side of my face. “Such tasty tears. You’re so beautiful, Sid.”

I know he’s close when he lifts my ass in the air and pounds into me. There’s no enjoyment—only humiliation and pain and hatred.

All I can do is wish him dead because I’m helpless to do anything about it. I’m alone in my anger and vulnerability. No one can help me. Thereare no cries for help. No one else lives with us. All I have are threats of death if I tell the truth. And if I run, he’ll send the family after me with promises of pain.

It doesn’t take him long to finish when he pulls out. But he’s not done with me when he rolls me onto my back and kisses me as if we’re fucking lovers. He’s demented.

I told myself Dalton was my first boy kiss. My uncle doesn’t count because I don’t kiss him back, even if I could move.

“I wish you would appreciate my love for you,” he whispers his manipulations in my ear while he cups my junk. “I could give you such a good time.”

No words escape me as I try to scream no, that I hated him. The only one I want is Dalton.

When my uncle finally climbs off me, leaves, and closes the door behind him, reality sets in. Dalton will never want me. It doesn’t matter if I change for him, whatever that means. I could never turn into a Boy Scout like him. He’s pure. I’m not sure I can ever let a man touch me like that, either. Kisses are one thing, but sex? No. My uncle didn’t just ruin me. He took away any chance at hope. It had only been a flicker, but Uncle Duane snuffed it out.

As I lay in bed, slowly regaining my body movements, I’m left with my rage. For the first time, someone saw me. The real me. Someone noticed that I’ve been suffering. Dalton recognized my pain. How? In the end, does it really matter? I’m ruined. My body, mind, and soul have been slowly blackened and destroyed over the years.

Tears continue to spill, but they’re tears of anger instead of my usual despair.

It takes about anhour to regain full control of my body. I sit up, and I’m still wobbly, but I can stand on my own two feet without falling over.

After sliding on my underwear, I head to the bathroom with a sudden need to vomit. The drugs always make me sick. When I finish, I can’t look at myself in the mirror as I wash out my mouth in the sink.

My stomach still has sharp pains, but I can’t throw up anymore, and my body shakes violently. I walk down the stairs and head to the kitchen, dying of thirst. I pour myself a large glass of water and chug it down. That’s when my eyes glance at the knives in the butcher’s block whispering my name.

They’ve always sat there on the counter, but I never dared contemplate using them from fear until now.

While my uncle keeps the guns locked up and away from me, there are other ways to hurt a person.

With no hope left, I’m also no longer afraid to die. The last remaining light in me died tonight. My uncle couldn’t threaten me anymore because there was nothing left to threaten. I grab the largest knife, slowly pull it out of its wooden sheath, and head upstairs, straight to my uncle’s bedroom.

With my free hand, I grab the knob to his bedroom and carefully open his door, making sure nothing squeaks, and he doesn’t hear me come in.

The room has a quiet hum from the ceiling fan, and his snores are light. I take tentative steps toward his sleeping form, feelingstrangely calm. When I reach his bed, I hover over him. There’s no fear anymore—only determination. Killing him will be my only salvation. If I die for this, so be it. As long as he’s dead, nothing else matters.

I raise my hand, holding the knife over his chest, and watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, not the grotesque monster I always view him as. He has no idea I’m there and has no idea his life will soon be over.

Instead of plunging the blade into his heart, I use the sharp edge and drag it deep over his exposed jugular.

My uncle is instantly awake and lunges for me, but I take a jump back, falling on my ass because I’m still not stable from the drug. He drops to his knees, bleeding fucking everywhere, holding his throat as he growls at me and attacks. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.

He snarls and lunges at me again and manages to punch my face several times. I nearly black out before he falls on top of me, hot blood leaking all over me. The stench of copper makes me want to throw up again.

His heavy body sags on me as blackness takes over both of us.

Dalton rubs his face with his hands and growls. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sid! I knew something was wrong… But this? Never in a million years. I amsosorry.”

“How could you know? Hell, killing him had been my therapy. There was no remorse. No horror that I’d taken a life. But I probably would’ve let it continue had you not given me that flicker of hope. Granted, my uncle snuffed it out, but it had been bright enough for a moment to choose a different path.”

Dalton’s eyes were red-rimmed as he shook his head—always the empathetic Boy Scout. “I’m not your savior, Sid. I was just a kid.”

“I didn’t say you were. But how you interacted with me that night andsawme like no one else had before gave me the courage to fight back.”

Dalton stood, poured himself another drink, and tossed it back like a shot. He coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand before he poured another.

“What drug did he use?” he asked. “You can’t use paralytic drugs like that without some respiratory assistance. He could’ve killed you. Some can be used, but the dosage has to be precise, like when using the ancient drug curare, for example.”

“That’s exactly what he used. The crime family I was a part of used it frequently in their… extortions. The person feels everything, but they can’t move. You need to use the right dosage, and some have definitely overdosed. My uncle was very good at what he did. He was in charge of extracting information from our enemies. He knew exactly how to subdue me.”

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