Key to Hell (Hell Night 4)

A door upstairs clicks open, and I’m on my feet within seconds. Trouble’s worried gaze meets mine as he descends the stairs. His eyes flicker down to my hand that’s fisting the key once again, a steady flow of blood dripping on the floor. My body is rigid, and my jaw muscles hurt from clenching my teeth so hard.

Rationally, I understand his reasoning in wanting to talk to Rella first, but it still pisses me off that he’s kept me from seeing her.

“She wants to see you,” he rumbles thickly.

He’s just as affected by today’s revelation as I am. He’s always loved his sister fiercely and felt the pain of not being able to protect her, of not being able to save her. His guilt is different from mine, but it’s still there and it’s still just as crippling.

He jerks his chin to my hand and then to the bathroom a few feet away. “Come.”

I want to snarl “fuck you” and sprint up the stairs to Rella, but I follow him instead. As impatient as I am to see her, I don’t want to walk in the room with blood pouring from my hand and frighten her.

He already has the first aid kit out when I step in the bathroom. Walking to the sink, I turn it on and stick my hand under the flow of water. It immediately turns a pinkish color as the blood is washed away. There are scabs from older wounds, along with the new ones and the scars of the past.

I grab a rag from the side of the sink and begin scrubbing.

“Give me the key,” he demands, his palm up and open, while the other hand holds a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Fuck you,” I grunt. He knows better than to ask me to give him the key. That piece of silver hasn’t left my possession in years, and it never will.

“Then put it in your pocket and leave it the fuck there. She doesn’t need to see that shit.”

I ignore the indignation in his tone and stuff the bloody key in my pocket. I already had plans to put it away anyway.

“Has she told you anything?” I ask gruffly.

The hand that’s reaching out for my injured one pauses. He continues and flips it over. I’m a grown man who can take care of his own wounds, but most of the time I don’t give a shit about them enough to do so.

He pours the alcohol over the open gashes. The sting feels like fire licking along my skin, but I soak up the pain like a junkie enjoys the effects of heroine. When he puts the bottle down on the sink, I grab it and pour on more. His brows slant down, but he doesn’t stop me. He knows my need of pain is what helps keep the demons at bay. At least for a while.

“No,” he answers my question belatedly. “But something’s not right with her.”

I jerk my head up and glare at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. She won’t let me get near her.”

I scowl and yank the antibiotic ointment from him, slather some on my palm, and toss the tub back in the kit. I personally don’t give a shit if my hand rots off, but Judge’s daughter, Maisy, made me promise to take better care of my wounds. As much as I’ve fought it, that innocent little girl does my insides in.

“I should have listened to you that night,” he remarks quietly, pain lacing his tone.

“You didn’t know. There was no way for any of us to know she was still alive. There was a fuckin’ funeral, for fuck’s sake.”

He nods, but I still see the guilt eat at him.

I stand there impatiently as he wraps my hand in gauze, then takes care of the small prick on my forearm. Once he’s finished, I push down the sleeves of my shirt and turn to leave the bathroom. He grabs my arm, stopping me.

“I know this is hard on you, Emo. I can’t even imagine what’s going through your head right now. Just… watch your actions around her. We don’t know anything about where she’s been or what she’s been through.”

My lips form a tight line, and I jerk my chin up. In other words, don’t mutilate my body in front of her.

Got it.

Leaving him to clean up the mess in the bathroom, I go back out to the stairs. JW’s no longer there, but I spot him in the kitchen, chugging on a beer. I stop at the bottom, looking up until I see the door that hides the most shameful part of my past. I don’t scare easily. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I was scared, but I’m fucking terrified right now. She says she wants to see me, but what if it’s only to spit in my face and scream at me for all the stuff I did all those years ago? What if she looks at me with fright in her eyes? I wouldn’t blame her, I loathe myself for what happened, but it’ll still gut me beyond repair. I’d give anything to go back in time and somehow stop Father, to kill him the first time he made me hurt her, to take away every painful thing done to her.

My hand fists, and I wish I had the key in my grip. The small piece of silver burns against my thigh. Reaching in my pocket, I run my finger along the grooves. It soothes me just enough for me to take the first step. I pull in a deep breath and take two more. Three more steps has my breaths coming in short pants. I grit my teeth and take the remaining.

Once I’m standing in front of the door, the hand I have shoved in my pocket is gripping the key. I relax my hand, pulling it out and looking at my palm. There’re no punctures, only red indents.

I twist my neck from side to side to relieve some of the tension. Gearing myself for fuck knows what, I rap my knuckles against the door.