“Patrick, please,” he wheezes, attempting to pull in air into his lungs, but it’s no use. There isn’t any for him and Pike doesn’t look like he’s letting up.
“You hurt my girl,” Pike spits out. “You’re a fuck up,” he tells our uncle and I know for sure that he found my letter. All these years, I thought he’d leave me if he knew. That he’d run off and find another girl, one that’s not broken.
“Pike,” I place a hand on his shoulder. It’s tense, the muscles bunched in anger.
“It’s time for my baby girl to get her own back.” He smirks, then pushes Waylon onto the table. The man’s wrinkled hand is close to the needles. Pike shoves each finger under the industrial size metal spike.
“Patrick! What are you doing? Please!” Waylon grunts in agony with blood spurting from his hand. I watch in awe as Pike chuckles.
“I’m not here to save you,” my daddy tells him with venom dripping from every word. Then, those blue eyes peek at me. With a wink, Pike tells me, “your turn baby girl.” He gestures toward Gigi and I know what I have to do to take my strength back.
Stalking closer to Waylon, I smile when I slice his shirt from his body. The blade nicks him and more crimson liquid drips from his pale flesh. My gaze darts around, looking for something that’s simmering just beneath the surface. I can’t help giggling when I see what I need.
“Hold him down, Daddy,” I sing-song while I pick up the object I want. The rusted steel pole is perfect. “Bad, bad, bad, that’s what makes me sad. You will pay, you will die, I want to hear you cry.” My rhyme makes Pike smile and my heart fills with joy. When he helps me shove the dark slacks down from the old man’s hips, I position the pole where I need it.
For years, my mind has been broken. It’s been fractured by the nightmares that haunt me, but I feel like this will cure me. Just in time for our wedding.
“I love you, Daddy,” I grin at Pike as I move my whole body forward needing the momentum to drive the steel into the small hole of Waylon’s ass. An animalistic cry is wretched from deep within his gut.
I should pull it out, but I don’t. With more force, I ground my feet and shove forward even more. Blood drains from the wound through the pole where the once small hole was. Thank fuck there aren’t any people around because the pained cries that fall from Waylon are echoing around us.
“That’s for me,” I tell the old man. “That’s for breaking me,” I spit, twisting the metal until I hear a loud crack of bone.
When I finally step back, I glance at my daddy who’s looking at me proudly. His face carrying an expression of love—so much love that it steals the breath in my lungs.
“You should’ve come to me sooner.” He pulls me into a hug, the man on the table shuddering as he gurgles his last few breaths. Pike leans in to kiss me, his lips molding to mine. His tongue dances along my lips, and I allow him entry. He tastes like coffee and nicotine, and I revel in his flavor.
The monster is dead.
And I wonder if my mind is free.
Shopping Trip
Pike
I squeeze Molly’s hand as we enter the sporting goods store. I always thought the day I got engaged, it would be because I asked for her hand in marriage, not the other way around. It doesn’t matter really since the woman that I know I want to spend the rest of my life with obviously feels the same way about me.
It’s funny, though.
Even if we weren’t getting hitched, it’s not like we would be able to get rid of each other. Blood binds us in more ways than one, but my favorite kind is the one that makes her happiest. The kind that she loves to spill, play in, and share with me because it’s something she wants to do—not has to.
“What are we doing here?” she asks me curiously as she moves her hand from mine and slides it around my waist. I grin down at her, putting an arm around her shoulders and suck my teeth.
“Well, if we’re gonna get married and do this right with family and shit, then I think I need to get a little something to match the theme, you know?” I explain casually as I turn left down the aisle with baseball supplies. Molly shrugs and says nothing further as we walk past the gloves and balls, stopping in front of the bats.
Wood won’t work; those will break too easily. Plastic could be fun, but how many swings of a Wiffle bat will it take to knock someone out?