“Big Bad Wolf”—In This Moment
My palms are slick with sweat. Adrenaline buzzes through me, and my pulse drums in my ears. I glance at the bay windows that don’t open, my heart sinking into the very pit of my stomach. He’s going to kill you.
I jump up from the desk, my chair falling to the floor with a loud bang. I take off down the hall and run into my bedroom. Edwin comes storming from his room just as I slam my door closed and lock it, pressing my back against it as I attempt to catch my breath. The door shakes behind me.
“Miranda…” he says in a low growl. The door handle jiggles.
My eyes lock on the window and I run to it then throw the curtains back. A small gasp leaves my lips when my gaze lands on the lock. I quickly turn it and try to push the old window up, but it doesn’t budge. “Fuck!”
“Miranda.” There’s a loud thud behind the door. “I told you that when you find the person you love, you can’t ever let them slip away, dear.” Another wham against the door. “And—” He grunts with another whack at the door, this time wood splitting. The curved blade of a hatchet smashes through the door just before Edwin’s fist comes slamming through.
I scream, tears pouring down my cheeks as I push against the damn window. “Fucking move. Open, goddammit.”
I use all of my weight and the window barely lifts, the sill creaking as I glance over my shoulder. I watch his fingers grab at the lock and twist it. The door flies open and slams against the wall.
Edwin’s face is splotchy-red, his eyes wide when his broad frame steps over the threshold and into the room.
“Please…” I turn and place my back against the wall as I scoot in the opposite direction of him. “Please, Edwin… I…”
“So you do beg,” he says with a laugh.
He steps toward me and I clamber across the bed, nearly tripping when I jump to the floor. I just make it to the doorway, my fingers gripping the busted frame in an attempt to get into the hallway more quickly, but his hand grips my shoulder, yanking me back into the room. I trip and fall. My knees bang against the hard floor, pain splintering down my shins.
“Please,” I whisper, knowing how cliché and pathetic it sounds, but when you’re at the mercy of another person, it’s the only word you can find.
Edwin fists my hair and violently drags me to my feet with a groan. “I really hate to be like this with you. Really I do.” He shoves me by the back of the head into the hallway. “Walk. Don’t hesitate.”
I’m in full on sobs when we reach the front door, and he places the key in the lock. The latch clicks, and that sound echoes in my mind, my knees threatening to buckle. The door swings open, slamming against the wall as the cold night air wraps around me, making my already tense muscles grow more rigid. Edwin pushes for me to walk down the steps, his fingers digging into my shoulder as he turns me toward that fucking shed.
The wind picks up. The waning moon illuminates the heavy gray storm clouds, making them pop against the black sky. Twigs snap underneath my bare feet. Pebbles and rocks cut into my heels. A low groan of thunder rumbles through the sky just as a few cold drops of rain hit my arms.
“You know, Miranda, I thought you’d have figured this out by now, but sometimes, well, sometimes I guess fate doesn’t slap both people in the face hard enough, huh?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
He comes to an abrupt halt, and his already unbearably hard grip on my hair tightens, my scalp burning as several strands are ripped loose. My knees go weak, and I nearly collapse. Maybe I would have had he not had such a hold on my hair. Edwin tugs my hair and brings my face within centimeters of his. For a few terrifying seconds, all he does is stare at me, into me, through me. Part of me fears that, in this moment, he’s taken a piece of me, that he’s ripped a part of my humanity from me with that look alone.
“You and I, we are one. We belong together. My words should be yours and yours mine. Fate put you here for me.” He inches even closer, his lips now resting against mine. “The sooner you see that…”
His words are lost when he presses his mouth against mine. I attempt to pull my lips in tight, to resist him, but he twists and knots my hair. The second I go to scream, he kisses me harder, slipping his tongue inside my mouth.
Before I can react to that, he’s backed away, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “See?”
And what do you do in a situation such as this? I try to think of a way to escape, but the thing is, I’ve read every one of the man’s books. Every last sick and twisted word. I know how his mind works, and sadly, I know there is no way out. There never is. In every book—there is never an escape.
He keeps one hand tight in my hair as he pushes a key into the padlock hung from the door of the shed. The latch opens, and the lock falls to the ground before he opens the door and shoves me inside the pitch-black shed.
He releases me as I hear a moan from inside. A scream. The door slams. A lock clicks.
I have to cover my nose and mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit from the putrid smell of urine and feces and—I gag again, that awful smell actually coating the back of my throat as I drag in a breath. I bend over my knees, my eyes watering. This smell—this smell—is copper and sewage, rotting cabbage and flesh.
“No use in trying to get out. There’s no one around for miles. I’d catch you before you got far,” Edwin says, and I swear I can hear a smile.
A soft sobbing fills the room. I hear a slow drip, drip, drip. I don’t want to know what that noise is coming from. I don’t. My hairs stand on end, my stomach churning as my legs give out, and I fall to my knees, my head hung to my chest. And after only a second, I drop onto my hands, my palms landing in something cold and wet. I close my eyes. Dear God. I’m afraid to move my hands.
There’s a soft buzzing sound, and an overhead fluorescent flickers on. I keep my eyes trained on the floor for I feel that may be the safest place for them, but nowhere in here is safe. The floor is covered with bloody boot prints. Underneath my hand is a mass of yellowed, congealed fat. That dripping sound that has yet to cease—it’s coming from the blood trickling off the table right in front of me.
I want to scream. I attempt to scream. However, nothing but a rush of air leaves my lungs.
“Stop crying, whore.”
I watch his boots cross the room and stop at the end of the metal table. Her cries grow louder, more desperate and helpless and godawful until they are full-on screams.
“Chastity,” Edwin says with such a sense of calm it makes chill bumps scatter across my skin. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet… Miranda?” A moment of quiet. “Miranda?”
Slowly, I lift my head and stare at him, my jaw trembling from the utter fear pummeling through my veins at this very moment. My eyes land on Edwin, one hand on that table and a soft—dare I say genuine—smile on his face.
“Stand up, dear.”
I do as he requests, although my legs protest as I rise to my feet.
“Come here.” Crooking his pointer finger, he motions me toward him.
It’s not until I’m halfway across the room that I find the origin of the overwhelming stench that hangs like a thick, moist fog in here. Crumpled in the corner of the shed is a body. Decomposing and rotten. A sludgey mess oozes out from underneath the corpse. An axe rests in the middle of the head. The split is deep, the skull exposed, brain matter hanging from the open, disintegrating flap of skin above her ear. Dried blood and goop covers the entire torso, and gnats buzz around the corpse.
My body shakes, and my stomach muscles bunch and tense as my body repeatedly threatens to expel the contents of my stomach. I divert my stare to the floor once again, back to the boot prints and fat and skin.
I can hear the girl on the table breathing. Her breath is hard and labored—staggered and riddled with sobs. Her toes come into my line of vision. Her ankles are cuffed to the table. Dark bruises cover her shins and the top of her feet. I swallow and lift my gaze to Edwin, purposely avoiding the rest of this girl.
“Miranda, this”—he motions toward the table as he arches a single brow—“look…”
My gaze falls to the table, and I stifle a cry. The blonde lies completely nude and bound to that metal table, just like the girl in our book. Her breasts have Xs cut across them. Burn marks cover her stomach. Small crisscross patterns are slashed over her thighs, her lip busted, her eyes purple and swollen. I tell myself this isn’t real—just a bad dream. A story in a book. This is fiction because surely this is not my life right now.
“This is Chastity.” Edwin trails a finger over the shredded skin of her breast, flicking the loose flesh.
She cries. I shudder. He grins.
“I’ve been saving her for years. I wasn’t quite sure what for, but when I realized what you and I were meant to be, I knew why she was put into my life. Fate.” He steps away from the table. “Fate, Miranda Cross. Just as you were meant for me, she was meant for us.” He holds his hand out as though he expects I’ll take it, but all I do is stare at him. A slight smirk plays on his lips. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I—”
He reaches behind him and pulls out a chair. “Have a seat.” I shake my head, and within seconds, his bruising grip has latched onto my arms. “I said—have a”—he slings me down into the chair, and it tips back onto the hind legs before falling forward—“seat. You see, Miranda, details. It’s all in the details, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Edwin, I—”
He’s grabbed rope from a rack beside the table. All it takes are three short strides for him to be right behind me, the rope wrapping around my waist and chest as he binds me tightly to the chair. He scoots the chair next to the table Chastity is laid out on before pulling his Macbook from a drawer built into the table.
“As I was saying…” He plops the laptop over a puddle of blood in front of me. The splat sound makes that pit in my stomach feel like a lead weight. “Details. I’ve always prided myself on vivid descriptions. The accurate descriptions of death and dying. No matter how good of an imagination you have”—he chuckles—“nothing short of experience can justly recreate it.”
This man is mad. Insane. And I’m locked in this shed, tied to this chair with him and her and that poor dead woman in the corner. Rain pummels over the roof of the shed. The muffled sound of thunder barely rattles the walls, and from the way the ground just shook beneath my feet, that noise should have been much louder. Screaming will do me no good—just as his victims in the books are told. Screaming will do no good. There's no one for miles.
“Edwin.” I swallow, fighting the urge to allow my gaze to fall to Chastity. “Please, don’t do this.”
He cups my jaw, his thumb rubbing over my cheek. “It’s what must be done. You’ll see how beautiful this will be. How perfect we will be together. How wonderful our words are. And when they read them…” A pleased smile interrupts his speech. “They will read our words. Our words. They will read our words.”
Edwin checks my restraints before he boots up the laptop. While he waits, he drags a satchel from beside the table and lays out tools: a knife, an ice pick, a hammer, a lighter, and… a hacksaw. He runs his fingers over the jagged teeth, his eyes locking with mine.
Shaking my head, I glance at the computer screen. He jabs over the keys. The writing program opens, and he scrolls to the end of the document then shoves the computer back in front of me. “Write.”
“Write?” I stare at the keys. “Write what?”
“My every move. Every cry and sound she makes.” He picks up the knife and holds it over her face, his attention now directed at her. “As much as I enjoyed that mouth of yours on me…”
He places the blade inside the corner of her mouth, slowly slicing from it to the middle of her cheek. Her legs pull against the restraints. She screams—fuck, does she scream—her back bowing from the metal table only to slam back down.
He leans over her, his face inches from hers. “Shhh.” He takes the knife and tears through the other side of her mouth and cheek, his eyes glued to hers. “I don’t hear you writing…”
“I… I…” I shake my head as I stare at the keys, my heart banging against my ribs with such force I fear it may stop at any moment.
When Edwin slams his fist on the table, the handle of the knife clanging against the surface, I jump and Chastity wails. “Fucking write.”
The knife rips through her fair skin, ruby blood weeping from the cut and mixing with her tears…
Edwin peers over my shoulder and nods. He points a bloody finger at the words on the screen. “Worthless. Say ‘her worthless tears.’”
I type in the word, and he pats me on the back, making me cringe.
One thousand thirty-four words later, Chastity is barely able to keep her eyes open. They flit and flutter. She moans. Every once in a while, her fingers twitch. And I’m in tears, sobbing as my fingers shake over the keyboard.
Edwin uses the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat beaded on his brow, blood smearing across his forehead in the process. “I want us to do this last bit together. We’ll write it together once we’re finished.” He reaches for me, and I jerk away. “Come now, Miranda.”
He picks up the blood-stained knife, slips it underneath the rope, and quickly cuts it loose. Just as I go to stand, he grabs me by the throat, his fingers digging in so hard I can’t manage to drag in a decent breath. He lifts me, my jaw pressing hard against his hand. I can’t help the desperate gurgle that comes from my throat nor the way I’m clawing at his hands.
“Don’t make me kill you.” He releases me, takes the hacksaw from where he left it in her thigh, and hands it to me. “Take it.”
I back away with a small step.
“Take it.” He shakes it at me, a piece of mangled flesh falling to the floor.
Another quick, short step backward.
“Where do you think you’re going to go, huh?” His eyes narrow, his gaze flicking to the locked door. “There’s no way out.”
And there goes my heart. Racing. Jumping. Skipping beat after beat as a dizzy heat washes over me. Edwin grabs my arm and drags me back to the table. He squeezes my wrist. His jaw tightens as he pries my fist, finger by finger, open. He takes my hand and wraps my grip around the slick handle of the hacksaw, covering my tiny hand with his huge one. I fight him when he attempts to move the saw over her throat, but after a few shakes and jerks, his other arm wraps around my throat in a chokehold. Eventually the blade is right above her throat.
“I’ll help you,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against the crook of my neck. “Don’t worry. The bone makes a damn terrible noise, and the spine”—he kisses right below my ear—“it’s a bitch to sever sometimes, but we’ll do it together.”
I go limp, and the second that blade touches her skin, the first sensation I get—those vibrations of the saw tearing into her flesh and bone—I scream and shout and cry out to a god I never believed in.
What hell have I been delivered to? My eyes veer to the screen of the computer, to those wicked little words I’ve typed, and I know it’s too late. My soul has been taken, and there is no way back from this.