Page 59 of Beneath the Dirt

I mean, considering how she left me high and fucking dry with my father’s wrath to contend with—alone—I think I’m being more than gracious by giving her a head start. An escape other than the one the drugs provide isn’t an option. Not anymore. Not since the dominoes are beginning to fall in a perfect line, and the inevitable is as inescapable as the gift her and I share.

Swiping my hand at my mouth, I capture the spilled blood she drew with that impressive sucker punch of hers. I don't know what does it for me more, her fear, or her violence. My fingers now coated in more blood, but this time hers. I can’t help but have another taste, so I slip them into my mouth again.

Fuck.What has she done to me? Even through the metallic tang encasing my tastebuds, her scent penetrates it. Making me instantly fiend for more of it.

Entranced as ever from whatever remnants she gives me of herself, I become so distracted that I almost miss the buzz of my phone.

I already miss the taste of her betrayal as I’m forced to pop my fingers out of my mouth to retrieve my phone and read the incoming text.

It’s Frida.

Unlocking my phone, I walk to the closet off to the side of the crawl space entrance. I laugh to myself as I stare at the door that’s shut from Araceli’s doing.

Ever the fool, that one. All she’s doing is creating another obstacle that I will demolish. Yet another barrier I’ll gladly break through to get to her.

Frida: We hear her coming.

Me: That’s because she’s on her way.

Frida: Excellent.

Me: Is my old man still tied up?

Frida: Yes.

Perfect. Just how she left him.

I toss my phone onto the floor. The service isn’t great anyway on the other side of the crawl space. It’ll be useless to me. What I do need, however, is her notebook. Her glorified diary. It’ll make her initiation into Heathen’s Cross go smoother and how it’s intended to be.

As the entrance to the crawl space burns in my periphery, beckoning me to it, I first pick up Araceli’s book, then finish making my way to the closet. There’s something I need to get, to help set the mood and hopefully help jog Araceli’s memory of the details of what it really means to be an attendee at Heathen’s Cross, since they seem to have become fuzzy to her over time.

The musky scent of mothballs overpowers my senses as I sift through the hangers until I settle on the item I’ve been searching for.

An all-black jacket, long with a brimmed hood, stares back at me. Excitement burrowing in my fingertips as I slip it on and lift the hood onto my head.

“Fatum enim eligimus,” I chant. Anticipation flows through my veins. My whole being practically buzzing as I stomp my boots forward to the crawl space.

This passageway that leads to where I gave Araceli a head start has become both a playground and a safe space. But not any longer. That ends tonight.

My knees bend to begin the trek and immediately become dirty from years of neglect. The smell, the air, all of it, is putrid.

But there’s unfinished business to attend to.

A score that was promised and not yet settled.

I wouldn’t let the very real reminder of death that lingers in the crawl space my father used for years as his personal dumping ground, to hide the sins, get in my way.

I’ll do anything to give Araceli what she deserves.

My punishment.

My revenge.

A second chance to do what she promised me years ago, and still hasn’t been able to do… kill for me.

It’s only fair since I’ve killed the person I once was, all so she can look up to her big brother—preferably from her knees—and beam with pride at the monster I’ve become. The perfect archetype of her demented fantasies.

This sacrifice, I and the others, will force her to participate in merely settles the score.

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