No, my wig.
I yelp, following the motion just so he doesn’t rip it off and expose me. My back slams against a hard chest and then the club is at my throat.
Literally.
He’s placed the length of the golf club against my trachea. He’s not pushing, but the threat that he can do so and choke me to death is there.
His grip on my hair is also merciless so my back is glued to the hardness of his chest. I’m not really short, but he’s tall and wide and possesses the presence of a titan.
And he smells of leather and bergamot. Or maybe part of that smell is his gloves.
Through the mask, his breathing comes out raw and controlled but a little creepy, too, like in those older horror films.
My sensitive ears fill with the sound until I can no longer breathe.
“You’re nothing but a fragile little thing that I could and would smash with a snap of my fingers. You know that, I know that, and your few functioning brain cells should know that, too, if they don’t convince you to start telling me how the fuck you got here.”
My lips tremble and purse.
I expect the familiar wave to hit me out of nowhere. I wait for the paralyzing fear, the silent tears, and the general mess that happens in situations like these.
I wait and wait.
But the only thing that shoots through my bones is shaking and more shaking.
And the need to run.
No, not only to run.
There’s something a lot more nefarious beneath the surface.
Something like a craving for that fear from earlier.
A need for it.
An urge to satisfy it.
The length of his club presses harder against my neck, still letting me breathe but restricting it further. “Do you prefer to be crushed instead of answering my question?”
I shake my head, for the first time tilting it back so that I’m staring straight at his eyes.
That’s my second mistake for today—the first is being here.
Orange Mask’s eyes are a darker manifestation of his thirst for violence. They’re as dark gray as the clouds and just as cold.
You never know if there will be a downpour or a disastrous storm with these types of somber clouds.
Though one thing’s for certain. It’s going to be dangerous. Better take shelter and hide until they pass.
But how does one hide from eyes such as these? Eyes so dark they’re almost black.
Eyes so lifeless, one would think they’re dead.
Or maybe whoever is staring at them is supposed to be dead.
My fingers wrap around the club on the bloodied end, and I pull it further against my neck.
If I try to shove it away, he’ll likely take it as a challenge and do the exact opposite.
Surely, he won’t kill me, so my best option is to have him lose interest and let go.
He thinks I’m not competent enough to be in the Heathens’ initiation, and by asking him to do as he threatened, I just proved that I’m unhinged enough to be considered for the position.
No feelings flash through his eyes. Not even a sliver of reaction.
They’re still dark gray and unattainable.
But he releases the other end of the club and covers my hand with his bigger gloved one.
It’s harsh and intrusive almost breaking mine beneath it as he shoves the cold metal against my trachea.
“Is this what you want?” He strangles me with the club. “Do it properly if that’s the case.”
My breathing restricts and pressure builds in my neck, stiffening my veins and heating my face.
The urge to thrash, kick, and fight course through me, but I force myself to keep my presence of mind, to calm my breathing and my thoughts.
The best way to allow someone to win is to let them get into your head, confiscate your thoughts, and replace them with paralyzing fear or threats.
I meet his blank eyes with my determined ones.
You can’t hurt me.
Much.
The worst he can do is make me lose consciousness like he did to the other participants.
And while I prefer not to faint, that’s still a better option than being interrogated and eventually selling out the one I made a promise to.
“I see.” His gravelly voice assaults my ear. “You think I’ll stop after some breath play and a warning. That I’ll hit you, knock you out like I did the others, and continue on my path to torture some other poor soul. You feel slightly bad for them, but at the same time, you’re glad it’s not you, right?”
My lips part, both so I can breathe properly and due to his words.
How could he read so much into my plan without me having to say a word? Is he psychic?
Please don’t tell me the Heathens participate in cult activities and have actual pacts with demons.
“I would’ve done that. I should’ve done that.” He tugs on my hair, making me wince. “But you had the audacity to get on my nerves, so now I’m tempted to just…steal your last breath.”
My swallow is met with the metal of the club, which is like having a brick on my trachea.
I shake my head once, or as much as it is possible with his hold on my hair.
“Though we do have that rule about not killing anyone during the initiation…intentionally.”
I don’t miss the way he stresses the last word. He’s saying that he’s considering killing me anyway and then disguising it as if it was unintentional.
This is the part where predictions and stories are so different from reality.
I’ve heard a lot of rumors about how the Heathens beat up people for sport and kill without blinking an eye.
But to actually witness it firsthand or, worse, be on the receiving end, is no different than being thrown into the eye of the storm and knowing your chances of survival are slim to none.
No amount of deep breathing or rational thinking will save me. He’s already in my head and he knows it.
He’s my only chance of leaving this place alive and he also knows that.
What he doesn’t know is that I refuse to go down without a fight.
“Fuck me first,” I whisper, my voice so low that I barely hear it.
His entire being pauses, like when I slapped his hand earlier.
“Fuck you first?” he repeats slowly, almost as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue.
I nod.
He releases my hair, hand snaking down the pulse point in my throat, leaving shivers in its wake before he cups a breast through my shirt. His touch is savage, almost punishing as he digs his fingers into the skin. “Why?”
It takes everything in me to remain collected despite the throbbing and the dull ache in the sensitive flesh of my breast. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”
For the first time since I saw the man in the orange mask, light flashes in his eyes, but it’s not interest. More like sadism.
A thrill for something.
What, I don’t know.
“I don’t fuck virgins. They aren’t a good fuck. No offense.” He says it meaning every offense behind the words. Then he releases my breast, but only so he can reach beneath my shirt, shove the top of my bra down, and pinch my nipple.