Page 37 of Tainted Serenity

“Listen now and listen carefully,” he states, a voice so cold it could freeze even the warmest things. “You will do exactly as I tell you to. You’re already on very thin ice, and my patience is wearing thin.”

I glare at the camera, knowing he is watching everything through the screen and monitoring my every movement. As if staring at it could make him give up on this fucking bullshit, but I know he doesn’t feel threatened by me, which only infuriates me further. He should be terrified. I’m the monster he fears, his worst fucking nightmare, but he doesn’t know it yet, and I have to play along until I can get Naya and me out of here.

“And if I don’t?” I force the question out, fearing the answer.

“One single misstep or fuck-up, and that knife will be drawn right into Naya’s abdomen. And this time, it will finish the job. The doctor here won’t save her again.”

I can practically hear the spit flying through his teeth as he speaks, and his voice sends a jolt of panic through me. I don’t even know who that doctor is, but I’m grateful for him saving her life. My thoughts become a tangled mess of different possibilities, none of them leading to anything good. He will finish the job if I don’t do exactly what he tells me to do. He will kill my precious girl.

Images flood my mind—ones I desperately wish to erase, but they remain etched on my memory. There’s the memory of Naya kissing me for the last time as we made love—a heavy sense of finality inside me that made it feel like goodbye. Then there’s the memory of her surrounded by the beautifully discarded snow, the fear palpable in her expression, making her freckles pale in comparison to her skin. But the most heartbreaking of those is the image of that knife buried in her stomach as I was forcibly held away by guards. That memory will never fucking leave me. She nearly died right in front of my eyes, and that is something I can’t handle.

As if sensing the turmoil inside my head, the bastard speaks again, this time more amused.

“Good to see we are on the same terms.”

I’m exhausted from the fear of almost losing her to death and then enduring weeks without her; the weight of that near-loss lingers heavily within me. With that anguish, I know I have no other choice.

Giving a curt nod, I stare at the camera once more, letting all of the rage swirl in my irises.

It’s giving in to him,submittingto him, or giving up. And I sure as fuck won’t give up, not when they have my doll in their claw-like grips.

A satisfied hum comes from the speakers before I hear the clicking of the door unlocking. With a deep breath, I brace myself.

“A male in his mid-twenties, on the upper floor with a split lip and burn marks on his cheek. Find him, and end him.”

Something shifts within me; a new determination. I’m already a monster; what more could possibly go wrong in this fucked-up mind of mine?

Just as I am about to walk through the door out of the cell, my body awkward from the beatings I have suffered, I hear Arthur’s voice again.

“Oh, and Grey? The clock’s ticking.”

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THE WHINING SOUND COMINGfrom the person with me is making my head explode from irritation. He refuses to shut up, and his whimpers are grating against my skull like long nails on an old chalkboard. The rage is always there, steadying me in my worst moments and making it impossible to focus on anything else. And right now, the rage has set its eyes on its latest victim, making me into someone I don’t recognize and someone Naya would be ashamed of. But I’m doing this for her.

The broken whimpers from the man continue, his wailing sounding like a child’s after they have hurt themselves.

I lean against the wall as I release him, letting his head hit the floor with a loud thud. If I listen closely, I can almost make out the sound of his skull cracking against the marble floor.

In this desolate corridor, there is no one else but the two of us, and the walls stretch endlessly, devoid of any paintings or anything personal. The lights are affixed up in the ceiling, casting a blinding light that bathes the corridor in a weird glow. The sterile ambiance of this corridor reminds me of all the impersonal corridors at Dankworth Institute.

“P-please, man.”

While lying on the ground, clutching his stomach with both hands as if embracing himself, he has a broken voice, as if he has no energy to speak.

It didn’t take me long to find him. I stormed up the stairs the lights led me to and into the first room I saw on the floor above. There he was, sitting by the fireplace, doing whatever the fuck he was up to. I don’t care. Not at all.

I drag my hands through my face, frustrated that he won’t ever shut up. Emotions well up within me, and among them, the hesitation of doing this stands out. But if I don’t do this, Arthur will follow through with his threat to pull the knife through her.

It smells like too much detergent in here, and all my senses are on high speed, spinning faster than a tornado.

From all the bruises and puncture wounds all over his bare arms, I would assume he takes drugs, living on them to be able to survive the day.

“W-why are you doing this?”

I walk closer to him, not seeing anything but red that runs through my vision, making it blurry. There’s an uncontrollable rage within me that needs an outlet, or else it will destroy me entirely. Before crouching down, I glance down at him with a smile that makes him turn around in fear. It’s a brutal smile, promising him torture and malice without receiving any mercy. I stare at him, like a madman or a beast that has finally lost its shit. As if a switch flips off in my mind, I take out the knife I found outside the cell I was in.

He lies there, clutching his hurting stomach while blood runs down from his cheek, falling onto his lips that his tongue laps up. His lower lip has a wound in it that looks freshly healed, and I find myself driven by a dark impulse. My fist connects with his mouth, savoring the touch of darkness that fills my veins like a drug.

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