Legacy

Chapter 10: Blood is Spilled

Michael licks his fingers clean. I gulp and look up at him. His face is so smug.

I feel like my intestines are poking me from the inside. The cramping is so painful; I hope it's not Mother Nature calling.

"Michael," I grunt. He raises his head from his sloppy joe. "How long has it been?"

"Since what," he says.

"You know what." Are there really that many events happening in this man's life?

"Ah, since I took you..." he chuckles. "It's been about two weeks. You're adjusting pretty fast. I'm proud of you." He takes the last bite of his sandwich. After Michael swallows, he checks his watch. "I gotta go." He stands up from his chair and plants a kiss on the side of my head.

If I'm going to get out, I need him to trust me.

I turn my head to kiss Michael on the lips. This catches him off guard; he still kisses me back, though, not forcing his tongue inside, but moving his lips in rhythm with mine. When I finally start to pull away, he grabs my wrist and pushes something into my hand.

I watch him as he leaves. When the door is shut behind him I look down at my hand.

A tampon.

He must've been keeping track of my cycle. Probably wants to know exactly when I'm ovulating.

~~~~~

It feels like Michael is gone longer than usual today. My stomach has been growling more, and that doesn't usually happen until Michael starts fixing supper. I still haven't plucked up the initiative to cook for myself without him yet, even for something as simple as a ham sandwich.

I've read Ender's Game at least twice since he trapped me here. Touching any of my other books doesn't appeal to me as much as it used to. Something about this book just keeps me going. I think it has something to do with the main character's sister reminding me so much of Mason.

How sweet he is, how smart and how he's my rock. Even when my dad would beat the crap out of me, Mason would always be there to help me pick up the pieces.

I'm almost halfway through the book for the third time when I hear a pair of feet coming down the stairs. These steps are very different than the routine rhythm of Michael's shoes.

Two pairs of feet!

I inch off the creaky bed and tip-toe to the door. My hand slowly turns the knob so I don't make more noise than I have to. The care I take doesn't stop the hinges from screaming as the door swings open.

Michael's back stiffens as he turns away from the unconscious man he has shackled to the wall. As he's walking over to me, I don't move my eyes from the man. Helplessly chained up. Just like my dad was that night. A lump forms in the back of my throat.

The door clicks shut and the sound of the lock allows my still breath to finally release.

I go back to my reading. It's not long before the man's screams shoot through the crack under the door. I can only imagine the fresh blood that's being spilled on those white tiles.

I cover my ears tightly, but the screams break through the barrier. My legs shake beneath me as I stumble to the farthest corner and bury my head in the middle of my arms and knees. The tears start coming and I start to scream too; like the victim and I are singing the same sad, pain-filled song. The deafening melody of our screams blend together.

"Sept-September!" Michael's hands lay against my shoulders and squeeze. My screams slowly die away as I raise my head and look up at him. Bright red blood is smeared across his cheek and splattered on his bare chest. Tiny squeaks are still coming from my throat.

"Shh," he attempts to sooth me. His bloody hand slides some hair away from my face. "You need to get used to this." I squirm as Michael's arms curve under my knees and shoulders. "Upsey-daisy," a smile crosses his face as he hoists me up.

I don't even offer to fight him as he carries me out to the place I've now mentally dubbed The Torture Room.

The victim is crying as he looks up at me. Thick green hair falls over young olive skin. The guy can't be more than five years older than me.

I now see where the blood has come from: his hands.

Each of his fingernails have been torn from their cuticles and the skin of three of his fingers is completely peeled back to reveal the bloody bone beneath. His flesh dangles from the bone like a banana peel.

My feet try to propel me back to my room, but Michael's torso acts as a wall keeping me right where I am. I push my shoulder beneath his arm to try to get away, but his hands curl around my arms. As his grip tightens I thrash against his hold.

"Do I need to tie you down so you can watch this, September," he grunts in frustration.

The man's dripping eyes suddenly light up. "You're September Walker!" He pulls against his restraints. "The girl from the news!"

I choke on painful sobs and stop fighting Michael's hold on me.

"Yes," I can hear the smirk in Michael's voice, "this's the same girl from the news." He drags me over to the chair and cuffs me down. "And she's gon' watch you die." His lips press against my temple and I squeeze my eyes shut.

"You sick motherfucker!"

I open my eyes just in time to see Michael backhand the man across the face, causing him to yelp. "Now, is that any kind of language to use in front of an innocent sixteen year old girl?" He crouches down to look the man in the eye. "Then again, she's not that innocent now; isn't that right, sweetheart," he jokes as he turns to wink at me.

My hands shake as I grip the handles of the chair and squeeze my legs tightly together. Michael chuckles as he walks behind me and rests his callused hands on my shoulders.

"Sixteen..." the man sputters. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Blood is now leaking from the corners his mouth.

"Oh, Wes," Michael responds with a click of his tongue, "there are many things wrong with me." His hands slide around my throat, but don't squeeze. "The question you need to ask yourself should concern what I'm gon' do to you." He laughs. "And my September here, has some fun ideas for you."

My stomach twists and I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat.

"What was it you said?" The pride in his voice is too pronounced. "Cut off his fingers?" The man cringes. "Rip out his eyes..." The victim's eyes shut tight as an inhuman squeak escapes his throat. "That is what you threatened me with, isn't it?"

I force my head to nod and succeed in holding back a sob.

"You threatened him?" the victim exclaims, raising both eyebrows. "Wow, you got a serious pair'a balls!"

Wow, this guy's priorities. Normally I'd take that as a compliment, but now is not the time, and this definitely isn't the place for praise. I bow my head and cringe Michael's hands away from my neck.

Michael's lips press against the back of my head as he picks up a round spoon to begin the heinous torture.

I shut my eyes as my ears are assaulted with the pain-filled screams and the tearing of flesh.