Page 15 of Restitution
6
KADE
My trigger finger has a permanent indent. I never really noticed it until now. Strange to think that will always be there. That if I ever escape my position, it’ll be a constant reminder of the people I’ve killed.
The skin is rough and dry. I rub it with the pad of my thumb and study it while Base hums a Taylor Swift song to himself.
There’s a tremor in my fingers too; they shake absentmindedly, but at least Ewan will stop asking me to work with him, since I probably can’t use a screwdriver or a spirit level for shit. I doubt I’ll be able to shoot with any sort of precision now either.
I fist my hand to stop the annoying memento of my torture.
If Stacey ever lets me hold her hand again, will she feel all thedeath I’ve caused?
She’d be disgusted with who I am now. Especially when she sees the scar from the corner of my mouth to the middle of my chest. If she ever asks me how many people I’ve killed, do I lie? Do I admit that I’ve lost count? That I enjoyed most of the killings?
I’ll never have her looking at me the way she did when we were teenagers.
When my mind is blank, it’s her voice I hear. A giggle. Singing. Crying. Screaming. Begging. When my hands are wrapped around someone else’s throat, my psyche likes to fuck with me and show me her face – Stacey struggling beneath me as she clings on to the final breath trapped within her lungs.
I’ll never feel her lips on mine again. Feel her fingers interlacing with my own while we hide our linked hands under the blanket. Kiss her during a game of dares. Laugh with her while she belts out songs fromThe Greatest Showman.
Stacey won’t in a million years give me another chance, no matter how much I beg.
And why would she? I’m a fucking mess. I ruined her too. I treated her like shit and walked away when she needed me. Plus I’m shaking like a junkie looking for their next hit, aching for it with a deep hunger – a need to feel that high to escape reality and lose my fucking mind. It could also be the fact that Iamhaving withdrawals. I haven’t felt this ill in… ever.
Is she even still alive?
Did whoever buy her make it quick for her? Not that I’d grant the fucker the same courtesy – when I find out the person’s name and where they live, not even my mother could stop what I’ll be unleashing.
I screw my eyes shut in the darkness and sit up.
Thinking makes me emotional, and when I’m emotional, I lose focus. I do things wrong. I make mistakes in my work. And when I make mistakes, I end up with a punishment. Or Bernadette takes it out on Base.
He shouldn’t even be here – he should be in America chasing my sister around while she pretends not to be interested. He should be partying, getting drunk, being his usual wild and dickish self and loving his life, not here, with me, forced to do messed-up shit.
Fuck. We’ve even been forced to beat the crap out of each other. Probably Bernadette trying to turn my best friend against me. But no matter what she makes us do, whether that be fighting or… other things, we’ve kept strong. We told each other that we’d both get out of this together. One goes, we both go. We got stronger. We fought for our sanities.
We still do.
He said his family would interfere, but it’s been a year since he promised they’d come for him, for us, yet we haven’t seen or heard from them. Hope is slowly fucking fading away.
I close my eyes and lie down once more in my cell and try to picture my bedroom back home, instead of this shithole. I try to pretend there’s a dip in the mattress at my feet, where my dogs Milo and Hopper are asleep, an arm slung over my waist, with a leg between mine, my fingers buried in thick hair.
I try to think of a time when I had everything. It used to make me feel better, to think of her and what we had together; to think of the feelings that rushed through me when I was falling madly in love with Stacey Rhodes.
It doesn’t have the same effect it used to. It doesn’t give me a sense of comfort. If anything, thinking about her now makes all ofthis worse. It makes me angry. Frustrated. Lost. And worst of all, it makes me want to kill more people.
They were sold. Gone.
Bernadette set up and sold two of the three most important women in my life. I practically begged her to get them back, but it was too late. They were already gone – their buyers decided to escape and burn her manor to the ground three days ago.
Sadly, Bernadette and her husband and daughter got out. Not so sadly, a lot of her guards died. When she showed up here the following day, her face was messed up. Stacey got her – hit her.
My girl.Even when faced with the worst kind of horror, she fucking fought. I didn’t think it was possible to love her more than I already do, but I do.
Archie had ordered that I be tied to a chair, then his fucking asshole guards made me watch the recording of Stacey being raped. Every second of it was replayed and replayed. Me and four of their guys watched her be abused over and over while Archie made comments that resulted in me biting his ear off.
One-eared Archie, the prick.
