I hobble around the small prison space. I scrape my hands manically along the walls, pressing against each of the silver blocks as I come to them. My hope is that one is not as it appears, and it will lead to a secret door, and my escape. So far, each one is just as it seems—a solid concrete block.
When I come to stand at the silver blocks behind the clawfoot tub, where my head once laid on what appears to be a wooden chock, I contemplate the possibility of drinking some of the water even though leaves float on top. The colouration is an autumn brown. Plenty of dirt and blood contaminate its purity. My thirst is ravenous, so intense that my need now outweighs the disgust. It’s a hesitant approach, but as I come around to the side and bend down, taking the edge of the tub into my grip for support, I’m already relishing the thought of quenching my thirst. Bent over the side, I run the fingers on my right hand through the ice-cold liquid. I need to drink. Cupping my palm, I lower my mouth.
“Do not drink the water, Red.” His voice booms.
I jolt, startled.
“Sit.” His tone is confident and controlled.
I do. My naked arse rests against the wet and cold concrete. I tuck my legs to the side and cover my exposed breasts with my hands, keeping my eyes turned downwards to my knees.
“You managed to get out. I shouldn’t be surprised; you’ve always been stubborn.”
I don’t know this British accent, but I do know him from what he’s shared. How? How do I know him?
“Did you see the garbage bag I left for you, Red?”
I bob my head, not daring to look up at the projection screen. I don’t want to see the man behind the screen.
“Go and get it.”
I lean forward and take my weight through my hands and knees, grimacing from the pain, panting through my teeth to avoid the screams that want to explode from between my lips. Anger burns in me like hot bitumen under naked feet in the middle of summer, and I toss my chin back. I growl when I see him covered by the black mask. I gasp when I look into his dull green eyes. I sob when I notice the thick scar that now invades his upper lip.
He laughs. It’s a menacing laugh. “What’s wrong, Red? Were you expecting somebody else?” His glare chills me, like a cold fog wrapping itself around my body, seeping through my skin until it latches onto my heart. “I can’t exactly make this easy for you now, can I?”
His eyes aren’t blue anymore; they’re green. Why are they green?
I drop my head. The wolf is playing games. He likes to play games. Am I being faced with a man who likes to play dress-up? Or am I up against more than one wolf? I refuse to believe there is more than one of him torturing me. I refuse to accept that he has an accomplice. Why would two people be so cruel, so malice, and want payback? How could I have pissed off more than one person?
The hairs on the back of my neck have risen. My skin’s covered in goosebumps, and my heart is pumping excessively in my chest, the way it does when he’s near. The wolf has to be a loner. He’s working alone, isn’t he?
“You are going to pay for what you’ve done.” It’s what he’s said. I lift my head and glare into his dull green eyes. I search them, wondering if this shade is real or an illusion. Is this part of his next trick?
I won’t let him fool me again. Yesterday, the wolf had me name Reid as my kidnapper. I believe he wanted to see if I could or would name Reid to be such a monster, and he succeeded, because I did. Another trap, and I fell for it like a mouse chasing baited cheese. He set me up to answer the way I did. The photograph in the cave. The colour blue of his eyes. The perfect shape of his lips. The wolf is wearing many disguises, but which one holds his true identity? I need to figure this out, fast.
“Who am I, Red?”
“An arsehole.” It’s a rumbled deliverance from my chest.
“Who am I, Red?”
“A monster.” I’m mad.
He heckles. “Who am I, Red?”
“A sheep.”
“Who am I, Red?”
This time, I pause. I allow all the anger inside me to build until I know I’m expressing every ounce of hate I have for my captor in my eyes. “A dead man.”
I don’t even blink.
His lips curl upwards, and then he laughs. “Are you ready to play again?”
“I was born ready.” Strength is the key to winning. I need to show him my power, and not the vulnerability that leaks from me.
“Well, get the bag and get dressed, because today will be your last.”
“Or your last. I can play games too.” I’m enraged.
“Now this is a side of you, I’ve seen before. I didn’t think you had it in you anymore.”
“Ha.” I stare him down without a single clue as to who it is that has me. “And now I know who you are. Would you like to ask me your question again?”
He seems shocked by my disclaimer because his smug smile disappears as his eyes grow wide, so wide I can no longer see his long lashes below his mask.
“Well. Ask me again?”
“You have no idea who I am.”
I force a smile.
“Get dressed,” he barks, then the projection screen goes blank.
Crawling in the direction of where his image was, I wonder if he’s worried there's a possibility I’ve uncovered his identity as I claimed, or if he called my bluff with ease. I’ve no idea who the wolf is, but I needed to try something to rattle him. I need time to figure out the wolf, or possibly wolves’, identities, even though a small voice in the back of my head keeps whispering, ‘Who cares who he is? He’s going to kill you regardless of whether you’re right or wrong. Just find a way to escape him.’ Can I escape him?
Taking the garbage bag, I drag it along the ground until I reach the corner of the room. I twist slowly, pressing my back against the foundation and close my eyes. One shallow breath is all I manage to take as I proceed to lift the bag.
Ting.
What was that noise? My eyes shoot open.
“Holy shit!” I say under my breath, turning my eyes down. I instantly drop the garbage bag. The wolf fucked up; he must have. I have a weapon, and I’ll not hesitate to use it.
The wolf
I pace between the bed and the television, set up not far from its end. Morgan has no fucking clue who I am. Bitch is trying to rile me up, and I won’t let her get under my skin. On occasion, I’ve allowed her to do that … fucking whore. Lines of red lipstick, lipstick owned by Daisy Malone, mark my wall with names. I stalk this list of bitches before placing both my hands on either side. Anger brews inside me. I swing back my leg and let out a primal howl.
Bang!
One powerful kick sees the plaster torn apart, and my foot buried deep in a hole I’ve created in the fibro.
“Shit,” I snarl as I twist at my ankle and rip my foot backwards. I huff when I bend down to retrieve my shoe left behind.
Thirteen useless slags and Morgan is the one I hate the most. She’s the devil disguised in angel’s clothing. She’s the last piece of fruit left to mould in a discarded fruit bowl. Morgan Banks is a storm hell-bent on destroying every single life which comes into her path. I want her dead.
Sitting down on my bed, I keep my eyes planted on my list as I undo the laces of my boot so that I can slip it back on.
Daisy Malone
Cheryl Riddell
Donna Martin
Sarah Pilcher
Christina Monroe
Elizabeth Shanks
Lillian Catcher
Alethia Warren
Stacey Seymore-Beth
Octavia Legend
Anastasia Daughtry
Katy Hodges
Morgan Banks
My trophies. Morgan is the only one I’ve not finished with yet. Each kill calculated and performed to perfection. Each kill used as practice for this moment, the one I’ve been waiting for for the last five years. I’ve never felt as alive as I do when I watch the life drain out of a woman’s eyes. It’s all in the eyes. The way they open wide due to a shock they’ve never experienced before. The way they plead. The tears that stain the tender skin surrounding their lashes. Eyes search for help and beg for mercy, but then a glimmer of fight widens the iris’ before surrender catches up, shrinking them … death is finally accepted.