Page 29 of Cast Stones
For Mom.
For me.
For Cain.
For Madi.
For all the Marys I turned a blind eye to because it was easier that way.
I carve the obligatory twelve in the part of his chest still remaining and wipe the blood on my jeans. It’s sloppy. I’m disappointed in myself, but I didn’t leave much area to work with. It’ll have to do.
Twelve for Twelve. I’ve completed the work she started.
I look down at his eyes again. I should concede to consistency and take them with me, but it sickens me to look at them, much less hold them in my hand. No, this rule I’ll break and leave them here, along with the two other parting gifts.
Standing, I turn my back and walk away from one of the only two remaining parts of my past. Now I can focus on the second.
Seeing her will be much more pleasant.
* * *
Six Weeks Later
She’s sinking deeper into the red-stained waters of our past. Eventually, she’ll drown if I don’t throw her a life vest. However, I’m a wanted man, so once again, I’m regulated to the shadows. The night is my playground, and the moon, my sun.
It’s always been where I’ve found the most comfort anyway.
I’ve watched Madi for six weeks. I’ve seen the toll my trial has taken on her—enough for her to seek out professional help. I know, I found the pill bottles scattered across her room.
Not only is she sinking, but she’s slipping under.
At first, it didn’t make sense. Madi lived through being kidnapped at sixteen. She endured two years of captivity and survived the horrors of her eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t piece together how one trial broke her apart.
It took four weeks to find out itdidn’t.
Opening the door to the small shed, I’m greeted with the strong scent of piss and shit.
Good.
Muffled sounds come from the center of the room, but I don’t acknowledge them. Instead, I hum a familiar hymn as I calmly close the door behind me. The frantic noise grows louder, and it’s like music to my ears.
Fear.This is my favorite part.
I walk across the room to a folding table set up in the far corner. Still humming, I fold back my favorite woolen blanket to reveal my toys.
Showtime.
“You know what these are?” I ask my guest. He doesn’t answer, but then again, I don’t expect him to. That’s part of the game, and besides, he’s a little tied up at the moment. “These are all handcrafted tools designed to mimic those used in the good old medieval days. I’m somewhat of a collector. A connoisseur some might say.” I glance over my shoulder at him and smirk. “Of course, you already know that, don’t you?”
Ignoring his garbled pleas, I return my focus to the table. It’s a tough decision, but I decide on my long Cutlass sword and a smaller but no less effective Damascus Sgian Dubh knife. Holding one in each hand, I turn around and assess my handiwork.
Jackson King is stripped naked and hanging in the corner where I left him four hours earlier. Only now, he’s hovering over a puddle and pile of his own excrement—an unfortunate byproduct of the Judas Cradle he’s currently attached to.
Another one of my favorite medieval acquisitions.
A horseshoe-shaped harness is strapped around his waist and secured with ropes that are tied to four metal bolts in the wall—two on one wall for one arm and two on the opposite wall for the other. A third rope is bound around his feet, and I added two ankle weights just to be a sadistic motherfucker. He almost looks like he’s floating on his back, but instead of bobbing in water, he’s suspended in mid-air.
But that’s not the main attraction.
