Jules was beautiful. Young and vibrant, and beautiful. Not just on the outside; she had this purity that shown from within. An innocence that imbued your soul, made you believe in angels.
That’s what drew them to her.
Evil is like the darkest tar. It adheres and tarnishes. It sticks to your bones and infuses your pores. Like the destructive distillation process that produces the crude material, evil is a pure form of its own, consuming, devouring. Destroying.
Back pressed to the concrete wall, I let the solid
coolness temper my anger. My big palm swallows the tiny heart charm. The feel of it there is a comfort. Like I got a piece of her back…even if it’s just a little piece.
I saw the destruction with my own eyes. Her beautiful face bruised, dried blood staining her skin. She was so swollen, I couldn’t recognize her. Her body defiled and assaulted and mutilated to the point the medical examiner had to look away—the sight too gruesome even for a doctor.
I know what evil is capable of. That tar-like depravity that pervades the purest souls, stripping away the good in this world and leaving behind a raped wasteland of death and carnage.
Some people experience the dark underbelly, and their life is torn apart by a shattering reality of what this world is truly capable of—and they mourn. They become bitter, spiteful. They go to counseling. They witness a man executed. They move on.
Then others—others like me—are demolished by the same destructive force.
They never come back.
We become a ruin. Same body, same temple, but the inside is long dead and hollowed out.
An evil like that changes you. Once you’ve stared into its eyes, toeing the edge of malicious sickness, your soul is carved out. You’re bled dry.
My cries and fervent shouts to the heavens about fairness and justice died the day I watched my little sister lowered into the earth.
That’s the day I crashed to my knees and vowed vengeance.
You can cope, you can try to move forward…but if you’re a ruin, you build a cellar for your demons, instead.
I hang the necklace on a nail, run my thumb over the silver heart, before I grab the sledgehammer. I groan and smash and work out all the aggression with every swing. I work the image of a half-naked Makenna right out of my head.
When I’m a spent pile of loose and worn limbs sprawled along the cellar floor, the tool discarded near my feet, I drag in cold air to fill my burning lungs, wipe the sweat from my face.
She owes me.
That’s the thought that surfaces. The clarity shining through the darkness of this fucked situation.
Makenna Davies is bait on a hook.
I open the cellar door, and the piercing pain of impelled flesh takes out my leg.
I buckle at the knee, a roar ripped from my mouth, as she attacks again. Lower to the ground, my head’s an easy target. I catch a glimpse of her wild and crazed eyes before she delivers a blow to my head.
My vision flashes black.
“I’m going to kill you—” Her shrill threat is more annoying than the physical pain.
She holds the railroad spike above her head, chest heaving, as she goes for the kill shot. I brace a hand on the floor and catch the spike with my other. Our eyes lock.
“Let go.” My voice is a low warning.
She grips the weapon tighter, fingers white against the rusted iron. Her boot finds purchase on my thigh and she pushes off, trying to wrench the weapon away.
That’s it. I stand and give the spike one hard tug. Her tiny body crashes into my side like hitting a brick wall. She rebounds and lands ass-first on the floor.
I make a move toward her, and she scuttles backward.
Dammit. I palm the side of my head, eyes sealed shut against the throbbing ache, and then toss the spike. It slams the concrete with a loud clink. Before my temper pops off, I pace a few steps to work out the flames licking my skull.