Page 1 of Masked Mayhem

Prologue

summer of last year

Whitney (age 24)

Face Down: The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

Myhearthammersagainstmy ribs as I slowly ascend the creaking stairs to our third-floor apartment. A wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me, but I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to quell the rising panic. Clutching the glossy paper, I practice slow, controlled breaths, the throbbing in my left eye a sharp distraction to the calming exercise. The bruise, a spreading tapestry of purple and black, throbs with a dull, agonizing ache. Hesitating at the door, I wrestle with the urge to flee, to escape the consequences of the news I carry.

It isn't entirely my fault, but Dustin will blame me, and the repercussions will be devastating. Before I can turn back, the door swings open, revealing an angry Dustin, shirtless, a beer clutched in his hand, his face a mask of furious resentment. His bloodshot eyes burn into mine, his expression one of utter disgust. He seizes my wrist, yanking me violently inside and slamming the door, securing all four locks with brutal efficiency.

"Where the hell have you been?" he snarls, the venom in his voice making my muscles tense, my heart leaping into my throat.

"I was at the doctor's. I told you, Dustin," I retort, instantly regretting my sharp tone.

He spins me around, pinning me against the door, his forearm a vise against my throat. I fight hard to maintain my composure, to hide the terror clawing at me, especially when I notice his friend—a fellow Blood Gang member—Synn sitting in the living room watching the entire ordeal unfold without getting up to help get Dustin off of me.

"Why do you always have to fucking talk back, Whit? If you'd just keep your damn mouth shut, we wouldn't be in these fucking messes," he spits, his face inches from mine.

Silence is my only defense, and I invoke it immediately, glancing over at Synn for help, a pleading look in my eyes that does absolutely nothing to him; he's just as fucking cold and ruthless as Dustin, so I don't know what I was even expecting. I cling to the paper, praying he won't notice. But he does, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he rips it from my grasp, his fingers nearly crushing mine.

"What the fuck is this?" he demands, unfolding the paper.

My stomach plummets as I see his face harden. His grip on my throat tightens, bringing tears to my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Anytime we're arguing, he seems almost aroused by my distress.

"You're fucking pregnant? Whose baby is it, Whitney?" He growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"It's yours, Dustin," I whisper, the words barely audible.

"Bullshit. Tell me the fucking truth," he threatens, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity.

"It's yours, Dustin," I repeat, forcing a smile, trying to appease him. "It's our baby."

But my attempt fails.

The next moments are a blur of blows to my head and face, my instincts driving me to shield my stomach. He sees my intention, his assault escalating in ferocity. I'm thrown to the floor, a relentless barrage of kicks and punches raining down on my head, chest, ribs, and stomach. I fight back, desperately protecting my belly, but he overpowers me, pinning my arms above my head as he continues his brutal attack, mainly focused on my stomach. Tears stream down my face, unnoticed, unheeded. The beating seems endless, only to be surpassed by the horror that follows. He hauls me up by my hair and throat, dragging me to the door.

"Dustin, please," I choke out, my voice a broken whisper.

He flings open the door and drags me to the top of the stairs, a sadistic grin twisting his lips. He looks down at me, shaking, bleeding, and broken, and then, with one final, malevolent glance, he hurls me down the three flights of wooden stairs. I hear the sickening thud of my body hitting each step, the sounds echoing in my ears as consciousness fades.

As darkness begins to claim me, I hear his voice, calm and falsely panicked, on the phone with 911, his fabricated story of his pregnant girlfriend falling down the stairs, a cruel parody of concern masking the brutal truth. Surrendering to the impending darkness, I close my eyes, leaving my fate to the mercy of a world that had just shown its darkest side.

The world explodes in a kaleidoscope of pain and darkness. My ears ring with a deafening roar, a counterpoint to the sickening crunch of bone and the ragged rasp of my own breath. The air leaves my lungs in a strangled gasp, replaced by the burning fire in my chest and the icy grip of fear that constricts my throat. I can feel the sticky warmth of blood spreading across my face, mingling with the tears that still trace paths down my cheeks. The impact reverberates through my body, a brutal symphony of shattered bones and torn flesh. My stomach clenches, a searing pain that eclipses all others, a primal scream trapped within my broken body.

A hazy awareness flickers—the cold, hard wood of the stairs against my cheek, the distant, distorted sound of sirens wailing, growing closer. Dustin's voice, a chillingly calm symphony to the chaos, echoes in the periphery of my consciousness. His words, a carefully constructed lie—a grotesque mockery of remorse—are a final insult, a cruel punctuation mark to the violence he inflicted. He’s already begun to rewrite the narrative, to paint himself as the victim, the distraught boyfriend finding his pregnant girlfriend injured at the bottom of the stairs. The irony is a bitter fucking pill, swallowed with the metallic tang of blood.

Then, oblivion. A merciful darkness that swallows the pain, the fear, the betrayal. It's a welcome respite, a temporary escape from the brutal reality of my situation. But even in the depths of unconsciousness, a sliver of awareness remains, a persistent whisper of dread.

Will I survive? Will my baby survive?

The questions hang unanswered, suspended in the void between life and death, a chilling testament to the violence that has stolen my innocence, my safety, and, perhaps, my future. The darkness closes in, and I’m left adrift—a broken vessel tossed upon the unforgiving waves of fate.

one

The Dance

1 year later…

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