Page 507 of Rage

Chapter Three

Clara

Burke’s handsome face, with his salt-and-pepper beard, burns in my mind. My thoughts roam over the help that has been offered, the rare reassurance that I’ve always needed in a situation where I finally have control.

“Clara, baby, you don’t really want to do this.” Ryan’s voice is coated in fake sugar. He always gives me emotional whiplash, and I’m tired of wearing a neck brace to appease him.

As my fingers brush the utensils, I pause at the pizza cutter. It’s not sharp enough to cause deep damage, but it’s adequate for what I need.

“Baby, you know my dad is gonna come back. He’s trying to teach me a lesson.”

I ignore him as I step closer and tighten my grip on his hand. Pressing it against the hard chair rest until his fingers splay open. Letting out a determined breath, I run the blade under his fingernails.

“Fucking cunt, you want to go there with me? Untie me and fight like a real person. You think you’re so fucking tough, but you’re a little wimp.”

Ryan knows the right words to wound me, to make my nervous system snap to survival mode, but I’ve been here so fucking long that there’s nowhere else for me to go.

“Save your breath, my darling. We have a lot of kitchen tools to go through,” I whisper.

He struggles against the belts but can’t seem to break free. I pull away from his right hand and slits of blood drip down from his fingers. I recall the night he bit every single fake nail off my hands because he didn’t want me to be pretty for everyone else.

“Clara, you don’t have the stomach to do this. You can’t handle what you’re going to do. You are too weak of a fucking little girl.”

I grit my jaw, his words echoing my fathers for years.

Oh, sweet Clara can’t do anything right. She can’t handle the pain or do the work.

If only they knew they killed that girl a long time ago, stripped the soul out of her shell, and threw away any pieces that tied her to the woman who needed anyone to help her.

I spin around, throwing the pizza cutter in the sink. Glancing over the counter, I grab the scissors. Approaching Ryan, I cut off his shirt, tearing the pieces off around his strapped limbs, removing his clothing until he’s naked. I want him to experience humiliation, but the alcohol in his system dulls any sensation except for the pain.

“Wanna final round, baby?” he bucks his hips, and I hold back from cutting his dick off right away. It seems like something too easy, and I can’t have him bleeding out on me before the fun begins.

Leaning against the counter, I grab the carrot shaped peeler, and his eyes widen as I bring it toward him. With the sharp edge facing him, I spread my thumb and forefinger on either side of my target, then forcefully run it across his chest. Soonhis nipples slide off, and as I continue, I enjoy the sight of blood flowing from him.

“Fucking bitch.” Ryan spits, and I turn on the burner to heat a butter knife to stop the blood flow from his chest. Once hot enough, I press it to his skin, and the smell of burnt hair fills the area.

Ryan leans his head forward and tries to bite me. I jump back, snatch the frying pan used for preparing the beef stew, and hit him on the side of his skull lightly. The thud lingers in my mind as his head lands on his shoulder again.

Fuck.

I want him to feel everything. I leave the kitchen and walk to our bedroom. Piles of his clothes line the floor, like I’m a personal maid, and I groan, kicking through them, searching for another belt. With no luck, I pull the cord from the television and out of the wall.

Striding back to the kitchen, I take it and wrap it under his nose to the back of the chair, pressing him in place.

“Try to bite me now, fucker.” Running my fingers over his buzz cut, he jerks his gaze up and his venomous hazel stare burns into mine. “So, you were saying I couldn’t handle this, right? That I couldn’t cause you the same pain that you’ve done to me for years?”

“Clara, you don’t want to do this. What happens when you’re done, and my dad kicks you out of here? Where are you going to go? Your own father doesn’t even fucking want you.”

I bite my lip, gripping the cheese grater as I bring it to his face. Shaving off the flesh while he screams proves to be very therapeutic. The blood beads and trickles down his cheek. I tilt my head as I drag the metal against the skin harder, then shift my position to the other side so they match.

Red drips from his jawline, its splatter making a pretty pattern on his upper body.

He can’t move forward, but it doesn’t stop him from wiggling around like a fish out of water. I grab my long charging cable and use it to secure his hips to the chair like a seatbelt.

“What? Don’t you like it? The big tough man you think you are.” I grin, knowing that he’s a little bitch wrapped in a scary package.

“Fuck you, cunt,” he bites out, and I’ve had enough of his words.

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