Page 52 of Don't Say A Word

He sits there staring, the only movement the occasional blink of his eyes until his body convulses one last time and he doesn’t blink again.

Pulling the shower curtain closed, I wash the blood from my hands. It is done.

requestor

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

REQUESTOR

Music is what takes me away from the vapid existence that is my life. It transports me to another world. A world filled with temptation and promise, with desire and torment, passion and pain.

The ivory keys beckon to me as I sit at the grand piano, the sole piece of furniture in the vast expanse of what my mother refers to as the music room. My father’s office is down the hall and, just as I’m about to press my fingers to the keys, he walks past, his phone ringing. The brutish sound of the ringtone infuriates me, so I breathe in and out, calming myself, and close my eyes, bringing the image of my songbird illuminated by the light of the moon to mind.

Darkness descends and the world fades as I press the first key. I am alone with her. Trapped in a halo of moonlight. She lays across my piano, intricate knots of twine holding her in place, a silken blood-red dress spilling around her, ripped and torn to expose her pale body. The scarlet shimmers on the dark ink of the piano. In my vision, a breeze floats over her and ruffles the folds of silk. Her exposed nipples peak. Sweat glistens on her skin. She is bare and open for me, her eyes locked on mine.

There is only one piece to play in this moment. There is no escaping the beauty of the haunting melancholy ofBeethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It flows from me effortlessly, my fingers skimming over the notes of the piano without thought. I play it slower than I’ve been taught, slower than the music would dictate.

I want to stay in this moment with my songbird forever.

But my father’s vacuous voice as he paces back and forth seeps into my awareness, ripping apart my reverie. I attempt to ignore him, but he makes no attempt to lower his voice as he answers call after call.

Breathing deeply, I do my best to block him out and lose myself in the music. And I’m successful for a time. Successful enough to be soothed by the rhythm of the sonata, at least for a while. But then his words reach me and destroy that peace, even though he has moved into his office.

“I’m a busy man, Ryker, you know that better than anyone. Get to the point.”

My fingers move mechanically, knowing the notes by muscle memory as I let thoughts of my sweet songbird slip away and concentrate on the sound of his voice.

“How?” he asks as he closes the door.

I stop playing, lifting myself from the piano and walking to the door of his office, pressing my ear against the wood.

“Spit it out, Ryker.” His voice is laced with frustration. “Tell me everything.”

There’s silence and I test the door, only to find it locked.

“How long will it take for her wounds to heal?”

Wounds? My blood spikes, rage rippling through me. Grabbing the handles of the doors, I shake them violently.

“Father!” I bellow. “Let me in!”

“Wait. I’ll speak to you in a minute,” he yells through the door.

The buzzing of my blood almost deafens me, making it impossible to hear as my father continues to speak to Ryker about my songbird.

My sweet, sweet songbird.

Mine.

Not his.

Not Ryker’s.

Mine.

To be continued . . .

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