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—”