Page 39 of Taunting Tarran
‘Fucked, Sal…’
He nods and swallows, ‘The last lady Ifuckedwas like a bucking bronco.’
‘That’s new…’
‘We were, erm…doing it doggy style, I think you call it, and I accidently yelled out another woman’s name. She went ape-shit, and I was hanging on like … a bucking bronco. That was tenyears ago. Women are a dangerous sport.’
I smile.
‘Boss? Did you just smile?’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘Shame, because it suits you.’
My mum told me to smile more, it makes people comfortable. It also makes it easier for me to fit in, pretending I’m not a monster. She knew who I was, even then. Tarran will know me too. I don’t want to blend in with her.
If Tarran were to die, the world would be left in ruins, a desolate wasteland echoing with the screams of my shattered sanity. I would unleash hell upon this earth, a relentless storm of fury and vengeance, leaving nothing but destruction in my wake. Fury, I’m all too familiar with that emotion, it’s part of the little humanity I still have. I hate that it’s there, living alongside the memory of my mother, and I don’t know why.
But fury is what keeps me sane. It keeps me grounded. Without it, I’m no different than your average serial killer, operating without emotional boundaries. For me, it’s about channelling my fury, ensuring my actions are cold, calculated but devoid of reckless anger that would lead to my downfall.
‘Just don’t get caught, and if you’re going to take justice into your own hands then gather irrefutable proof.’
It’s ironic really, the words of my father. He’d put a bullet in someone for speaking out of turn. But that kind of recklessness earned him enemies and a life spent looking over his shoulder. It’s probably what got him killed. I suppose, he preferred me tohave a successful hunt rather than end up in a prison cell. Who would look after his empire, after all?
Indeed, Tarran’s presence seems to shroud any semblance of clear thinking. She’s like a fog that distorts reality, and makes it difficult to manage my dark urges. She reminds me of my monstrous nature lurking within, a nature, that as long as I have her, is kept in check.
CHAPTER 20
THE BUTCHERBIRD
Ever since I was a girl, the woods have been my sanctuary – that was until that fateful day.
It was a place where the air is sharp and pure, untouched by the staleness of human hands. No wonder Grandpa loved it so much. Trees and their whispers carried in the wind, birds weaving songs through the canopies, and flowers stretching towards the sun. Grandpa called the woods a gift – a glimpse of the world as it should be. But even gifts carry shadows. For every patch of sunlight, there’s a corner cloaked in darkness – the opposites of life. The woods are no different; they hold secrets, the kind that test courage and quicken your breath.
That’s why we trained. Day after day. Hour after hour.He taught me how to survive – how to disappear into the shadows, because the forest doesn’t owe us its mercy. I guess he knew this day would come. Maybe that’s why he was relentless, pushing me harder with every passing year. It seems the past doesn’t stay buried, after all, no matter how many tracks I cover. Eventually, it finds me, and when it did, I’m left with two choices: keep running or fight.
I’m startled awake, disorientated, as I’m hurled into a cold, dark cell. The impact sends a sharp ache through my body, but I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright.
‘If you knock me out again, I swear I’ll cut off your fucking hands,’ I growl, my voice low and venomous as Paul slams the door shut and walks away. He doesn’t even flinch, just smirks.
A cool breeze blows through the corridor into my cell, brushing against my skin as a cruel reminder of how exposed I am. I press my back against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, and let my mind claw through the haze of the past few hours. They’d sent a team – trained, relentless – to bring me in. And no matter how much my grandfather had taught me, no amount of drills or discipline had prepared me for this.
I push off the wall and sit on the edge of the narrow bed, the metal frame creaking under my weight. My gaze drifts to the iron bars, and beyond them, looking out to the corridor stretching endlessly. Cells line both sides, some empty, others filled with the shadows of girls – some no older than five, their small, fragile forms huddling in corners, with wide eyes.
I push my head through the bars, straining as far as I can toglimpse the source of the faint light down the corridor, light flickering on stone steps that descend into our suffocating darkness.
I’m underground.
The light flickers, as I see a large, shadowy figure emerging. The sound of a branch scraping against metal bars echoing down the corridor. The haunting noise sending a shiver down my spine, my heart pounding so violently it feels it might burst. Every drag of the branch makes me flinch, the sound itself carving into my nerves.
With a sudden hum, a single yellow bulb flickers to life. But the woman who steps into view isn’t here to help.
‘Let’s get you all cleaned up,’ she announces.
She passes cells, handing out bowls and clothing, the steam from the kettle swirling lazily in the air as she pours hot water into each one. My dread deepens with every step she takes, a slow, creeping weight settling as she finally stops at my cell. From here, I can see four other cells, the soft light casting shadows across the faces of the other girls as they wring out their cloths.
‘Oh, dear. I’ll have to get some concealer for that,’ she says, her eyes locking onto my swollen face, a smile curling at her lips in a way that makes my skin crawl.
