Chapter Four
There are a million other places I'd rather be than here. Unfortunately, there's no way I'll be leaving anytime soon. Thomas seems to think it's too dangerous to let me out on my own for too long as if I'm helpless. Sometimes I think by making me off-limits, he's made me even more of a game to some of these men.
That was made clear by tonight. I definitely froze when that guy grabbed me. Thomas has been protecting me so much that I got too comfortable. I need to be more aware, more on edge. Wade stepped in, thankfully, but things could've gone south quickly.
The room is so loud. Sometimes the sound makes my ears ring, a high-pitched wail pierces my eardrums and renders me stunned. I stand there, at the center of attention, yet somehow still in the background. I feel dazed, out of my body. I think it's a coping mechanism. If I distance myself emotionally, I can't be fazed by the madness surrounding me.
There's blood on the floor. Jesus, there's blood pooling on the floor, fanning out across the concrete. It rolls like a sick crimson wave, consuming every inch of space it can access. My vision blurs, and the headache spreads.
Thomas is so caught up in his games. I'm surprised he notices the welt on my arm between fights. As soon as he sees it, he can make out the clear handprint easily. His voice is casual, but I can see his rage. A muscle in his jaw ticks.
I shrink away from him, pressing my arm into the material of my shirt. It's too late. He's already caught a glimpse of the injury. I hope he would overlook it, but it was stupid to ever assume he could.
"What happened?" Thomas asks.
He knows. I don't even have to say it for him to know.
"Some guy," I answer. "It was an accident."
His eyes narrow. "That doesn't look like an accident."
Thomas faces the horde of people, silencing them with his stare. All the laughter dies. The devil has spoken, and he means business. Gone are the minutes of twisted "fun" for Purgatory's demons.
"My baby sister has a mark on her arm, and I know someone here must be responsible," Thomas thunders. "There are cameras rigged all over this place, so don't make me go through the footage to find out who did it. Come forward now, or I will make this slow and painful."
I know what happened the last time someone touched me, and I'm scared out of my mind. There's no chance my brother is going to let this go, and whatever comes next is going to mean someone gets hurt, or worse.
The man who grabbed me comes forward shamefully. "Sir, I'm so sorry. I had no idea she was your sister—"
"What's your name?" Thomas interrupts.
"Frank," he answers.
Thomas quiets him by raising a single finger. "Is this how you treat a woman? Do you think it's okay to grab any woman like this?"
Frank curls in on himself. "No, sir."
"On your knees," Thomas orders, gesturing to the floor. "Now."
I swear Frank is about to piss his pants. Still, he does what he's told. "I made a mistake. It won't happen again."
Thomas's lips quirk into a sinister smirk. "Oh, I know it won't."
Lucifer is judge, jury, and executioner. He is the beginning, middle, and end.
The sentence has been served.
Frank doesn't want to die, but he knows he's going to. I know the bloodlust in Thomas, and I see the fear in Frank. When Thomas pulls his gun out, I tense up, waiting for a bang that never comes. Instead, Thomas clicks the safety off and holds his favorite pistol out to me.
I stare at the weapon for a long time. "Why are you handing this to me?"
"Mia," Thomas says quietly. "These men need to know what a good shot you are. I can't be around all the time, and I want to make it loud and clear that you're not afraid to do what you have to do."
He wants me to kill him. He wants me to kill Frank and I don't think I can do it. I'm not a murderer. I'm not like him.
But he's trying his best to change that.
My brother's mouth presses into a thin line as he starts to lose his patience.
"This isn't an option, baby sister," Thomas continues. "So take the fucking gun."
I do, trying my best to swallow the lump in my throat. I know the weight well. I know exactly where to aim, how to hold it. As Frank looks at me, I feel my heart sink.
This is extreme, a knee-jerk response. Frank might be an asshole, but he doesn't deserve to get killed because of it.
"Please," he whispers. "Mia—"
The devil himself shuts the man up immediately.
"You say nothing!" Thomas shouts. "Be quiet, or it won't be a headshot. I will let you bleed out slowly, understood?"
Frank quiets himself, wincing.
"Hurry up, Mia," Thomas quips. "We're waiting."
I scan the crowd, taking in the mixture of expressions. Some are amused, others are indifferent. Some are terrified, others not. Wade isn't even looking anymore.
I point the pistol and Frank flinches. I think I might be holding my breath. My lungs are filling with lead, growing heavy, choking me.
"I'm sorry," I mouth at him, hoping Lucifer doesn't see it.
And then I pull the trigger.
Frank's head snaps back as blood and brain and flesh spray everywhere. It all hits the floor with a sickly splattering noise, warming my face and coating my skin. His body crumples onto the ground, limp and mangled. The back of his skull is blown apart, but the entry wound on his forehead is pretty small. I can't look without getting nauseous, so I don't.
I can't make a sound.
"Nice work," Thomas says, taking his pistol back. He slips it into his holster and gestures to what's left of Frank. "Someone clean this shit up, for the love of God."
There's no God here, I think to myself.
It takes me only a few seconds to realize I killed someone. I took a life. Thomas does this kind of thing every day, but this was all me. I did this on my own without any help. I murdered Frank for no real reason.
My lip quivers and I bite down hard to try and stop it. I can't cry here, not without showing my weakness. The reason Thomas was so insistent on forcing my hand was to show everyone I'm not to be messed with.
I think I must be out of it for the rest of the night. I watch as more fights happen, as bills fan out in front of Thomas, as my brother does a line of coke right in front of me to test the product. I say nothing, do nothing. I am just background noise until Thomas finally lets me go home.
When I finally see myself in the rearview mirror of my car, I gasp. It seems like a nightmare to look like this. Splashes of red crust over my cheek, marking me. I don't look like the Mia I know anymore. That girl is long gone. She died as soon as her brother inherited the kingdom, and I've been in denial too long to accept it.
I speed back to the house as fast as I can to get in the shower. Even after I'm clean, the sounds remain in my mind. The gunshot is clear as day and Frank's pleas are too.
All of it will never go away. This will be weighing down on my conscience for a long time, and I wonder how all the men in Purgatory can do this day in and day out. What does it feel like to have no remorse? What does it feel like to not feel a damn shred of guilt?
Part of me wonders if Wade ever feels guilty, if he ever feels the shame of what he does. My gut tells me he must, but I've always had a tendency to look at people as I want them to be and not who they really are.
I always sleep with my door locked. Ever since I was a little kid, back when Mom and Dad operated mostly out of our living room, I learned to keep myself far away from the family business. They never let us out of our rooms when they were "working" to keep us away from clients. The funny thing is, as we grew up, they didn't bother hiding anymore. This became our life, just as much as it was theirs.
As Purgatory grew, they moved out of our home and into the warehouse. I never kicked the habit, so I always keep my room bolted shut as if it can somehow be my safe place. Even though Thomas is rarely home, I dread the times he is. I stay here most of the time, buried under my covers, counting the days until I can run like hell.
***
When it comes to school, I'm a loner. It's definitely by choice and, admittedly, it's hard staying isolated. It takes more work to be invisible than one might expect, but I do the best that I can for a reason. When I was younger, I learned that as friendships grew, the people I was close with wanted to know more about my family and me. There was no way I could bring anyone into the dangerous world of Purgatory, so I distanced myself as much as I could.
Every day is the same. I slink down the hallway with my head low, go to class, answer questions from my teachers without drawing too much attention to myself. I like to pretend I'm shy, mostly because it helps me blend in.
Today, I feel as if I'm standing out more than ever. I know it's just paranoia, but I feel like the evidence of what I did to Frank is all over me. No one says anything, but I still feel branded.
Thomas is making a run today, so I have an afternoon to myself. After school is out, I throw my bag into the backseat of my car and head to the one place I can always let out some steam— the shooting range.
I've been going for years now, taking my little .22 along with me for the ride. I never want to be helpless, so I learned to shoot as soon as I could. My dad taught me out in the country when I was ten, and I kept working until I came to be a better shot than him.
I pull into the parking lot, then slide my gun out from under the seat. The weight is comfortable as I slide it into the back of my jeans like I did that night with Wade. The thought of him seeing me kill Frank haunts me. I wonder what he must think of me now.
Most of the guys who come in here are grown, scary-looking men, but they never seem to notice me. I pay my fee, taking a pair of earplugs from the girl working at the front desk. It's a slow afternoon. Since it's a weekday, most of the usual customers are still at work, laboring away at day jobs. I take my favorite stall in the corner, slipping the plugs in.
When I face the target, which is several yards away, I take a sharp breath. I hate that they look like people. It makes this feel all too real.
My gun is loaded, ready to fire. I flick the safety off and aim, relishing in the slowness of the movement. It's too easy to hit a stationary object, but it's all I have to work with. There's something about holding a weapon that comforts you. It's just you and your gun, which is an extension of you and therefore the only thing you can really rely on.
I fire, right down the center, square in the dummy's chest.
I take another shot, which slams a few centimeters left of the first.
For a few minutes, I'm by myself. I empty the magazine quickly, then reach for another I brought with me.
When I do, I see that a man is headed right for the stall next to mine, even though all of the others are open. As he comes closer, I recognize him. I would know those amber eyes anywhere.
It's... Wade?
What's he doing here?
He loads his pistol slowly, taking his time. He's not really watching what he's doing. Instead, he's eyeing me. Knowing better than to look too long, he turns away, and I lose sight of him. I'm surprised when, suddenly, he slips me a small piece of paper. On the back of one of the sheets we're supposed to use to keep score, he's written me a note.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat, unlike what I might expect. He shoots his target as if nothing has happened, but I read it.
Three words.
Are you okay?
I know why he's asking, but I'm shocked that he cares in the first place.
Do I answer honestly? Am I supposed to?
I settle for a lie, keeping my walls up. Wade doesn't need the weight of my problems, not when I can handle it by myself.
I'm fine, I write.
I slip the note into his pocket and launch another bullet.
Headshot.
Wade's reply surprises me beyond belief. I half-expected him to accept my response and let it go, but he doesn't.
Instead, he asks me another question. No, you aren't. Want to get out of here?
My gaze snaps up and I know I can't hide my shock.
"To talk," he mouths.
I tug the plugs out of my ears and set my gun down. "Does your place work?"
"Yes. We'll be careful leaving here. We're dead if Thomas finds us together." His voice is hushed, and he keeps looking around to check if we're alone. Considering he pushed me away the last time I tried to be his friend, I'm waiting for him to tell me he changed his mind, or that he realized this is a bad idea. But he doesn't.
An understanding passes between us. I pack my things carefully as if I'm not sneaking away to somewhere I shouldn't be. Then, I walk away, right out the doors, without looking back.
This is crazy, but I do it anyway. I take the long way to Wade's apartment, and I don't think twice.
***
so some things happened this chapter, let me know what you think!
stuff is getting so intense already and honestly, the whole scene with thomas and frank had me feeling some type of way when i first wrote it.
hit me up with those opinions
signing off,
mads