Page 63 of The Seducer
Having anticipated her reaction, I tore my jacket from the wall and stalked to the door, throwing a last comment over my shoulder before I slammed it. “Have fun bonding, you two.”
Athena was right, it was really cold, but my blood was pumping and I started running without any specific direction. My head was exploding with confusing emotions, hopes, and regrets.
Athena was already disappointed with me, and yet she didn’t know half of what I was hiding.
Would the pacifistic priestess be forgiving and loving if she knew I was a murderer?
Picking up my speed, I sprinted until my lungs were hurting and every particle of my body was screaming in protest – just like it had that night, seventeen years ago.
Johnson’s threats about making me his bitch and cutting his initials into my skin had me screaming in panic. Not that anyone would help me, because for all the times he had tortured me in this room, none of the other mentors had ever dared interfere. We students weren’t the only ones scared of the violent psychopath.
I was fighting with everything I had, wriggling my body and squeezing my butthole to avoid his raping me.
“Listen you little shit,” he sneered. “I’ll tie you down or knock you out, but either way I’m fucking you tonight.”
He would do it, and being knocked out by Johnson was no joke. Last time I had ended up with a concussion.
“Stand still and take it, do you hear me?”
I heard him, but this was a matter of more than fear. I had taken his violent abuse for years, but this was different. My pride and self-respect was all I had left, and I would rather die than become his sex toy.
Pinning me down, and cussing at me, he opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out a choker and some rope. “It’s okay, you keep fighting, boy. It only makes it more satisfying when you finally submit to me. Ben used to fight me too, but in the end, I had him trained like a sweet little pup…” I never heard the last of his sentence, because at that moment the door flew open, and Johnson started shouting for whoever had entered to get the fuck out.
Still pinned down, I couldn’t see who was in the room, but when Johnson was jerked away from me, it was like a thousand pounds had lifted. I pushed up from the desk and spun around to see him scream at his attacker. The scene was bizarre with Magni, a boy almost three years my junior, punching Johnson in the face and ribs with pure rage emanating from him.
“I’ll kill you,” Johnson roared at Magni and tried to defend himself, but Magni was no normal twelve-year-old. Already more than six feet tall and a trained fighter, he fought with ruthless determination.
“It’s not what it looks like.” Johnson spit out one of his teeth, and dried away some of the blood with the back of his hand. “Finn likes it. It’s a game we play.” He was trying to pull up his pants with frantic movements.
Magni didn’t say a word; instead he channeled all his physical power into kicking Johnson with such force that the man went flying backward, hitting his head hard on the floor.
Johnson curled up and groaned in pain, and only then did Magni turn to look at me. With his hands curled into fists, his face hardened, and his chest pushed out in his fighter stance, he shouted, “Come on, what are you waiting for?”
The thought that Johnson must have knocked me out and I was dreaming the whole thing occurred to me, since the likelihood of Magni beating up our mentor was too unreal.
Johnson tried to push up from the floor but Magni showed no mercy and kicked him down again. “Don’t you want to get even with this sick fucker?” he encouraged with fire in his eyes.
I did! This time, my brain scrambled into gear, and while closing my pants, I walked over to stand in front of the man I hated most in the world.
Where Magni had kicked him in the stomach I went for his face. Hearing the cracking sound of his nose and his deafening howl of pain was satisfying.
Looking to the door I worried some of the other mentors would react to Johnson’s screams, but Magni read my mind and walked over to lock the door, nodding to me to go on.
With Johnson holding his hands up to protect his face, I directed my second kick at his crotch and took pleasure in his body curling up in excruciating pain.
“You two are dead,” Johnson growled and it made me kick him in his face again, and again, until I was so far gone in my blood rush that I stopped counting. I kicked him for Ben Hur, who he had molested and killed when the boy fought back. I kicked him for Jack, who he had driven to suicide. I kicked him for all the times he had tortured me and all the other children who he was supposed to protect and care for.
I kept kicking full force, unaware of the tears of anger running down my cheeks. In the beginning Johnson groaned and threw threats at us, but for every kick to his body and head, his responses turned from groans into whimpers, and weak whispers of mercy.
The hatred that I had for this man was fueled by the tsunami of memories running through my mind. The days spent in the infirmary in excruciating pain, all the pride that I had to swallow over the years, the countless humiliations, and emotional abuse I had suffered from him. I had no room for sympathy for his pain, and ignored his pleas.
Putting all my bottled-up hatred and fear into it, I kept kicking with screams of anger until Magni pulled me away.
“Stop it, it’s enough now,” he shouted through my haze of violence.
By then, Johnson was in a pool of blood pouring from his nose, mouth, and ears. His awkward position of self-protection did little to hide how messed up his face was, and I didn’t recognize the man on the floor as my tormentor. Unable to let go of my rage, I broke free from Magni’s hold and kicked Johnson again. He didn’t move or blink.
“He’s already dead. You killed him!” Magni shouted at me.
