Page 22 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

9

The ice clinkedas I swirled the glass of whiskey. The half-empty bottle stood on the side table, close by for when I needed a top-up. Time pissed by as I stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace. One would think I lit it to ward off the early-autumn chill, but part of me wondered if it might be my subconscious trying to prepare me for an eternity in hell that awaited me.

What did it feel like to burn alive? To have flames engulf you, suffocate you while your skin melted off your bones? I could only imagine how terrifying it had to be to smell the stench of burning flesh, knowing it was yours—that soon you’d be nothing but ash.

Many religions taught us about hell. Hades. The underworld. That burning alive over and over again for eternity was what awaited you once you’d descended into the devil’s realm. More than likely it was where I’d be heading to once my time comes. There was no redemption for a man who lived a life like I did…or for a child who did something so fucking unforgivable.

I swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey, relishing the sting as it went down and settled in my stomach.

I’d see her again in hell, the mother I thought I was rid of forever. But like every other fucking nightmare, she would come back someday, eventually. She was probably down there right now, tied up and getting fucked in the ass by the devil, thinking of the day I’d walk through those flaming gates and loving the thought. There was no escaping her. Even stuck in her grave, she haunted me, refusing to pull her toxic claws from my goddamn soul.

The entire house smelled like cigarettes, piss, and the rotting meatloaf from last week. Occasionally, my mom would attempt to take on this daunting task called motherhood. But it wouldn’t even last a night before she’d fall back into old habits.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Sex.

Ignoring us. Ellie and me.

Ellie, my little sister, would sneak into my room at night, get under my blanket, and snuggle up behind my back. It was the only comfort she had ever known, the comfort of sleeping next to her older brother. Mom never showed us any affection, cared for us when we were sick. Half the time she wouldn’t even feed us, and we’d go to bed with nothing more than a slice of stale bread and half a glass of rancid milk. Eventually, we figured out dipping the bread in sugar water made it taste better and easier to swallow. Most nights, I’d end up sharing my piece with Ellie since her tummy would still be rumbling after she finished her slice. I was a bony little shit.

Some days, I’d wash the neighbors’ cars, sweep their driveways—anything for a dollar or two. But I’d make sure my mom was passed out first so she couldn’t see. If she knew I was hiding money to buy food for me and Ellie, she’d find it, steal it, use it.

Get high.

I had made peace with the fact that our mom would always be a drunk. An addict. I had been disappointed one too many times with her promises of sobering up. Ellie, on the other hand, she would fall for it every time, smiling and laughing the entire day after mom announced that changes would be made. That same night Ellie wouldn’t sneak into my room to snuggle. She would go to Mom, snuggle with her, and fall asleep, only to be woken up by noises coming from downstairs.

I had made the mistake of going downstairs once to see what was going on. Never again. Walking in on your own mother bent over the kitchen table, panties around her ankles with some strange man leaning over her from behind, clutching her hair in his fist, was a sight no ten-year-old boy should see.

The strange men would leave, and I’d find Mom not long after that, naked on the kitchen floor, the needle still dangling from her arm.

It hurt every time. Seeing my mom so helpless, pathetic, and lost. It was like this ever since Dad died. Car crash. Ellie had just turned three, and I remembered how Mom wouldn’t leave her room, forcing me to take care of my little sister. For weeks, Ellie had to eat cereal every day, twice a day, because I didn’t know how to make anything else.

And then one day there was a knock on the door, both Ellie and I surprised and excited to see Mom coming down the stairs. Finally, she had come out of her room, tying her bathrobe around her waist.

But it was since she opened that door that our lives had changed. Inside that brown bag the man handed her was the thing that took her from us. Things were never the same after that day.

The men. The drugs. Our house was like a snake pit.

For too long, Ellie and I had to watch while Mom slipped down the path of destruction, putting everything else above her own children. The hatred soon smothered the love of a son for his mother. Soon she became nothing more than this toxic waste of space, and I hated every breath she took because she used air she didn’t deserve. Ellie was the only reason I didn’t leave. She never gave up on the hope that one day our mom would wake up and be the mom we deserved.

But that day never came, and escaping the hell our mother created was the only way for us to be free.

Unfortunately…Ellie never got the chance.

I refilledmy empty glass and sipped more whiskey. The more I thought of the vile bitch, the more I needed something strong enough to numb the rage, the hatred. But by now I knew the only way to escape the demonic memory of her was with the thrill of taking another’s life. To hear their screams, imagining that they felt the same kind of pain I did.

The same kind of pain Ellie did.

I glanced at the music box on the side table. The delicate floral design set in the burr walnut and palisander lid had faded over its lifetime, the wooden frame carrying its fair share of scrapes and scratches. Memories stirred as I picked it up, turning the windup key before easing it open, revealing the tiny ballerina in her torn tutu twirling to the tune of Edelweiss. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to go back there just for a moment, back to the house where all my demons died. The room where the few good memories I had were born. Memories with her. Ellie. The little sister I couldn’t protect.

I slammed the music box shut and took a breath, steeling myself against the regret. But the voices were still there. It was always there. Apart from seeing blood run dry, there was one other thing that somehow silenced the voices.

The cellist.

But the reprieve I found from her music wouldn’t be at my disposal for much longer.

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