Page 1 of Ruin

Prologue

BEFORE

Chains clinking drills into my eardrums, carving away fragments of bone as the drill bit twists its way into my skull.

It is constant.

It is haunting.

It is death.

His movements are slowing now. Muscles likely burning. Bones aching. Tired, after being kept awake for five long days.

Forced sleep deprivation is known to drive its victims insane. Slowly. We have time. We wait. We will not rush in continuing our torment. It is better when it is drawn out. It pleases my father.

The suffering.

The wall at my back, beneath the pressed palms of my hands, curled points of my fingertips, is damp. Cold concrete coated in a fine layer of mildew, moisture seeping into my clothes where I am flush against it. It fills my lungs, the mouldy scent. It is unpleasant, but it is a welcome reprieve above the swirling smell of vomit, shit, and piss permeating the icy air.

Strip bulbs illuminate the black painted corridor, emitting a cool blue hue; it makes the temperature of the space feel even colder. There is no warmth down here, regardless of how close we exist to Hell.

My shoulder blades grate against the rough concrete through my thin cotton t-shirt. I welcome the distraction of it, the snagging of the fabric, it detracts a little from the pain lower down. Bloody lashes over the base of my spine, split skin sticking to the white fabric from my father’s lashings. It felt wrong to clean them up. Knowing that Ican.Unlikehim.

I hear it again,him,the clanking of his chains against the bars of his cage.

I stay pressed against the wall for hours, listening to him.

The rasp of his shallow breath, the clanging of his chains, the whimpers he tries to hide lodging in his shackled throat. And then finally, there is silence and I pray it is his death.

Chapter1

Charlie

Grey-green eyes pierce mine across the expanse of wet tarmac. A curl to one corner of her wicked mouth, a flash of white teeth bright in the dark, beneath the dim orange glow of a street lamp.

I want to break her jaw.

Extract those pretty, little pearls from her perfectly pink gums. Put them in a jar, set it on my shelf, smile at it under the glowing red bulbs in my basement room. Her jar would be the prettiest, beside other glass vials filled with pieces of her. Those eyes, too big for her face, I’d separate those into two containers, set them at different ends of the room, have them watch me wherever I go. She would never be able to get rid of me then. Always watching me as I am her.

My younger brother shifts beside me, making too much noise as he rustles around in one of his many trouser pockets for sweets. Slowly, I roll my eyes onto him, glancing down at his hand, his elbow brushing my jean-clad thigh as he dips forward to reach in further, trying to unearth something in the very bottom. Then I look to his face, tongue pinched between his teeth as he digs around for whatever it is he’s trying to find.

And then he stops. Finding me watching him.

Slowly, bright emerald eyes still on mine, he lifts his hand from his pocket, straightening up as he retracts his hand, shifting until he’s fully upright. Then he slaps his hand over his open mouth, the clinking of hard-shelled sweets rattling his teeth. My eyes narrow on instinct, the noise he’s making makes me grind my teeth in irritation. Eli swallows hard, flashing me a grin and extending his tongue, showing me he’s done. I think about cutting it off, quickly deciding that he will make even more noise if I do. So reluctantly, I unclench my fingers from around the grip of my knife and turn my head away from him.

He huffs a laugh, making my fingers flex at my waistband, a multitude of sharp weaponry at my disposal, but movement catches my eye, pulling my attention to the real threat. My gaze flicks to the trespassing shadow creeping their way across my shipping port.

I glance up from our hiding spot behind a pile of wooden crates, the dock to my left, storage units stacked high on my right, cranes towering high above it all. I slip out into the shadows, the only thing noticeable about me is my white blonde hair, and despite my chest being bare, the dark ink covering my skin works well as a camouflage.

My footsteps are silent, black combat boots laced tightly around my ankles, black skinny jeans tucked inside. I stalk like a predator, following not more than three-feet away, yet the hooded figure feels nothing. Not my presence, not an instinctual desire to turn, check over their shoulder, search the shadows for a threat. They are almost too confident, the way in which I follow them as they stomp through murky puddles, their steps heavy, gait wide. There is nothing about their movements that makes me think they’re trying to hide. It spikes the hair on the back of my neck. My skin prickling with awareness.

I stop as they reach a red shipping container, having followed them through a maze of pathways, they have direction, knew where they were heading. Not their first time here.

Concerning.

I wait until they unlock the padlock looped through a chain on the doors. And then I shift closer. Feelingherclosing in on my back. I don’t look. I stop almost flush with the figure before me, their hands stilling, finally sensing the predator at their back.

I lean in, hands loose, “What are you doing?” I rasp, thick and rough, pressure on my vocal cords even with the whisper.

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