Page 1 of Haven Bound
Prologue - Austin
“Screaming isn’t going tochange your fate,” I declare, stepping back to examine my handiwork. My victim’s wrists are tied together, his arms stretched above his head as he hangs from the ceiling. He’s spewing nonsense, saying anything that he thinks will persuade me to let him go. Little does he know that his fate was sealed long before I brought him to this warehouse.
“I have a family! M-my son!” he cries. His words are practically incoherent thanks to his pathetic waterworks show. His resilience is surprising, but it won’t save him. Neither will anything he says. This man, OfficerfuckingReed, was tasked with protecting civilians and abiding by the law.
A task he failed to do.
“Did you honestly think you’d get away with it?” I ask, turning around and leaning back against the stainless-steel workbench, twirling the knife in my hand. Most of my victims have fallen silent by this point, sinking into the pain from the various cuts and lashes across their skin. Not this fucker, though. He’s still trying to fight.
“I-I didn’t do anything!”
His screaming is starting to give me a migraine. I reach up to rub my index and middle finger against my temple for a moment. “You’reright,” I smirk, allowing him a moment to hope that I’ll let him go. After a minute of his sobs and heaving breaths filling the space, I push off of the workbench and stalk towards him once more, knife in hand.
“You didn’tdoanything.How many people have suffered because you didn’tfucking do anything?” His shoulders cave in, his head hanging low as he cries. I can see the moment when he finally realizes that he’s not going to live to see another day.
If you had told me seven years ago that this is how I would be spending a Friday night, I probably would’ve laughed in your face. Now I can’t imagine doing anything else besides ridding the world of yet another person who has abused their position of power.
It’s always the most god-awful people who seem to know all of the right strings to pull and have all of the right connections to never be convicted of their crimes. And in this case, Officer Sean Reed was the connection to have if you wanted certain police reports to disappear from the system.
But that’s where I come in.
Reveling in the silence that comes from his halted cries, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, taking in a deep breath as the tension in my skull eases a fraction. I hate getting my hands dirty with this shit. I much prefer to take my targets out from a distance, but this man doesn’t deserve a quick death. He deserves to suffer, to endure even a fraction of the pain he’s indirectly brought to others.
His breath catches as I press the tip of my blade just beneath his collarbone. I watch crimson droplets rise to the surface before I drag the blade slowly down his chest to create yet another gash. Blood has already begun to pool on the ground beneath his dangling feet, seeping from thevarious lacerations that decorate his flesh. There was a time when a sight like this would’ve turned my stomach sour. Now, all it does is fuel the inferno raging inside of me. Thank fuck the cleanup crew will erase any trace of us having been here.
The vibration from my phone ringing in my pocket has me pausing the blade’s trail. I keep the tip of it pressed into his chest as I swipe across the screen to answer.
“I’m working,” I snap as I bring the phone to my ear.
My father’s steady voice comes through the line, “Finish it. You have a new assignment.” The line goes quiet as he awaits my reply.
“Where?” I ask, my eyes locked on the tip of my blade as it digs deeper into the victim’s skin.
“Haven Beach,” he pauses, taking my reticence as encouragement to continue. “It’s time to come home, Austin.” There’s a click on the other end and the line goes silent, signaling that our conversation is over.
Fuck.
“You have friends in high places,” I tell this pathetic excuse of a man hanging before me. Before my victim can say anything else, I remove the blade from his chest and bring it to his throat instead. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t answer to a higher power.” I drag the blade across his throat and step back, watching in silence as his body goes completely limp.
1
Chelsea
There must be somepart of me that secretly enjoys being tortured. And not just any torture, but self-inflicted torture. That has to be why every other week I willingly participate in these sessions.
Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing therapist, but I’m thankful that I only have to deal with these appointments twice a month. The funny thing is, I decided to start therapy because I felt like my anxiety was spinning out of control, and yet sitting here on this oddly comfortable couch does nothing aside from make me anxious.
The room is decorated in a minimalist style with varying neutral tones. A few small plants are scattered on dark wooden shelves along the wall, and there’s some soft meditative music filling the otherwise quiet room. The small couch meant for patients is decorated with a few plush pillows and a soft throw blanket draped over the back. All of these things are designed to encourage a feeling of relaxation, but that’s not one of the emotions currently coursing through my body.
Living in a city like Haven Beach, it can be hard to find a therapist that you vibe with. Especially when you ask around for recommendations and everyone that you talk to seems to have a different opinion on who is "the best". When I first considered the idea of seeking help from aprofessional, I thought about finding someone who would offer telephone appointments.
Unfortunately, I’m the type of person who needs to be held accountable. Having a therapist that I only speak to on the phone would make it all too easy for me to cancel appointments at the last minute.
For the record, I hate it when people cancel plans at the last minute or show up late. But there are times when I’m really not in any mood to discuss all of my childhood trauma or the issues it has caused in my life.
Like today, I’d much rather be at work diving into a new recipe—the one that I have for salted caramel chocolate chip cookies has been calling my name lately. Instead, I’m sitting here, alternating between picking at my fingernails and drumming my fingers against my thighs while Dr. Harper sits calmly with her notepad balanced in her lap.
“During our last session, we discussed the possibility of you confronting your mother about the things that happened when you were a child. Have you given it any more thought?" she asks, jumping right in.
