While wallowing about my broken finger & knuckle and my inability to write much right now, I found this marvelous story I had written a year ago saved on my computer. I found it and fell in love with it again, so now I'm posting it - hopefully you guys will like it!
Synopsis: This is a story about Ellie, a woman who uses her connection to the Sons to get revenge. The Sons do not appear in the first chapter, which is essentially a prolouge, but obviously play a key role in this story. This is a very juicy story of revenge. It is also a very dark story, not for the faint of heart. Warnings for the story: Language, Violence, Sexual Situations (including rape), a bucket load of self-destructive qualitites and drug abuse. More warnings will probably pop up later.
As always, enjoy. :)
Revenge is a confession of pain - Old Latin Proverb
This story is mostly true. I say that only because I've never been one for telling stories, mostly because I can't trust my own memories. I suppose the drugs are to blame for that, but that's for another time, another chapter. You may find yourself asking why you should listen to my story, especially when there are others far more interesting than my story of a lonely woman on a quest for revenge. I could ramble off a list of hundreds of reasons why you should read my story and I could just as easily ramble off many reasons why you shouldn't listen to my story. It's not a pretty story, it's dirty and bloody. There is no happy ending, because this is the real world and in the real world there is never a happily ever after. Fairytales only exist between leather bound pages and this is real life where only fairytales of a Grimm origin exist.
But what I can tell you, dear reader, is that this story – my story, is something that you should learn from. Learn from my mistakes and for the love of God, don't follow in my footsteps. This story is a warning. A warning for all of you who think that revenge is the only way to calm a hostile soul.
This story is mostly true – but it's my story, as I remember every last painful detail. And it's a story I'd like to share with you.
But just remember my warning, keep it in the back of your mind as you listen to my tale and let it remind you that things seldom go according to plan. My story is not pretty. It is not about finding my one true love. It is not some heart-wrenching story about redemption. While there are moments I remember fondly, my story is about death and pain and misery.
This story is mostly true, but I need to tell it. Someone else needs to know how horribly awry everything went…
I never meant for any of this to happen. May God have mercy on my soul.
Growing up in Charming was never something I wanted. But, hey, we don't exactly get to choose our origins. Origins choose us, that's just the way life goes. Spiderman never chose to get bitten by that spider. Daredevil never chose to run into a vat of toxic waste. Superman never chose to be sent from his home planet in an escape pod.
But as much as I hated growing up in the small town, where as a teenager there was nothing else to do other than smoke weed, drink stolen 40's and have sex with any willing partner, I'm glad that I consider Charming my home town. After all, had I not spent the first eighteen years of my life trapped within the town limits, it would not have made me the woman I am today. It would not have afforded me the options I needed later in my life.
I left Charming the day of my eighteenth birthday and spent over a year gallivanting around the country, doing anything I wanted – sleeping in roach motels, screwing any guy I deemed half-fit and doing the finest drugs America has to offer. But that got old and I came back home at the age of twenty and decided that Charming was without a doubt my home. I got a job as a mechanic here in town, the only skill I just inherently had - and am damn good at. I was content with my life. It was simple and free of any stigma – everything that I desired.
I suppose you could say I had a fairly normal up-bringing. It was always me, my mother and my sister in our small ranch-style house on Blue Bird Street. Where my father was – I never knew. Never really cared to ask, either. My mother was enough and never actually knowing my father, I never knew what I was missing out on. My friends had fathers and I understood the concept but never understood the need for such a thing. When those very friends went through the divorce of their parents, like the majority of the population does nowadays, I never understood their turmoil. So what if your mother and your father would now be living in separate houses and you would have to split your weekends? At least you have a father.
My friends took this for spiteful apathy and I never cared to correct them. This pessimism I hold so dear has led to the crumbling of a lot of friendships, but I've never been one to care about other people's opinions of me. Let them think I'm a bitch, because they can't be true friends if they aren't willing to look past a few flaws. Besides, friends often and in the end always go, never leaving behind a single twinge of heartache in their wake. I've always been a self-sufficient, highly independent person. From a young age, Ma always told me that the only people you can count on in life is family and yourself. I don't think any philosopher has ever spoken truer words.
I'm starting to lose track here. I tend to do that from time to time.
I've always been a trouble maker. My mom said that as a young girl I would start fights with the boys in my class if they beat me in tag. Yeah, I know it's stupid, but I never made any claims that I was a scholar. I just didn't like to lose and the fact that they were boys never fazed me – a trait that carried on throughout my adult life. I always loved to prove that as a woman I could do anything the boys could do – most of the time I could do the same things better. I've always had a need to prove myself. Not to anyone in particular - just to the world in general.
Something about pushing boundaries, getting into fights for the hell of it and bringing mayhem just gives me an indescribable glee, a mischievous satisfaction that makes me happy to the core. I once sped past a cop at a buck-fifty just to see if he would really pull me over – which he did. I got a hefty speeding ticket and a court appearance notice, but it was worth it. I gave that cop a damn good chase and the surprise on his face when he saw that I was a chick was fucking priceless.
Here I go again, loosing track….
What I'm trying to say is, I've always had a knack for trouble. Mom always liked to say that trouble has a GPS lock on me. I can't say that she was wrong, just a little mistaken in her wording. I always went looking for trouble. It never had to find me.
I was fine with this, rather I found happiness in my ability to hold my own and revel in chaos. I loved trouble and trouble loved me.
That is until one night when trouble followed me home. And in this situation trouble is a 5'11 man named Buck who smelt of Tennessee whiskey and had a love for flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off.
Now men, especially drunk men with the IQ of a walnut who are surrounded by equally drunk men with even lower IQ's, don't like losing anything to a girl. Even if that thing is a harmless game of pool – which I admit, I hustled them at. It's how I pay for my narcotic habits, and hustling is something I'm damn good at.
It doesn't help that I gloated my fair amount, laughing in their faces that the dumb rednecks couldn't even win against a girl who has played pool "once before" in her entire 22 years on Earth. Like I said, I have a knack for trouble.
It was the dead middle of a warm April night when I awoke to the sound of breaking glass coming from the living room. I've always been a light sleeper and usually that certain trait of mine pissed me off. But on this particular night, I was grateful to be awoken from my deep slumber. I took the aluminum baseball bat that I keep beside my bed and ventured out to find the intruder. I passed by my little sisters bedroom, who was also awoken by the sound, and told her to lock her door and barricade it with her dresser until I gave the all-clear. Frightened, she obliged – knowing that I would do anything in my power to protect her just like any time before. I broke a kid's arm for pushing her off her bike once.
My mother's bedroom is at the end of the hall, and I don't take the time to peek inside. She's a heavy sleeper, a direct result of the numerous pills she takes every night to keep her mental disorders in check. It would take a bomb bigger than the one dropped on Hiroshima to wake her. So I leave her be, knowing that I can easily handle some knuckle head who thinks that just because there's a brand new Mustang in the car park that we must have money – which we don't.
Passing into the living room with my bat held high, I was startled to find not one, but three intruders. They're the drunk rednecks from the bar. The drunk rednecks that I had beat in pool. The drunk rednecks that I had taken $400 dollars from, laughing the entire time that silly little boys don't know a damn thing about anything.
I might have been laughing then, but I most certainly am not laughing now. They have guns and knives – one even had a crowbar. They have that look in their eyes, the look of fiery determination and pure malicious intent. It's a look I've seen before. It's a look I dread.
"I already called the cops, now get the fuck out of my house!" I shout. It is a lie, of course, because I would never call the cops - I fucking hate pigs. But these rednecks don't know that.
Or so I thought.
"There's no way she called the cops – right? You said it yourself, Buck – this bitch would never get the pigs involved!" A man hidden from my view shrieks with panic.
"Calm the fuck down. There ain't no way she called the cops." Buck growls. I don't know these men aside from our encounter at a bar in Lodi tonight. Yet, they apparently know me - or they know of me through my reputation. In my twenty-two years I've built quite the stalwart reputation for myself and it always seemed like a good thing. Locals knows not to mess with Ellie because she'll break your nose without any hesitations. Everyone knows not to mess with Amber, because her big sister is Ellie and Ellie will cut your balls off for messing with Amber. Everyone knows that you leave Ellie alone and I always held that in high regard. I was always so proud of my tough reputation.
Until now. Because if they thought I was some weak bitch, they would not think twice about me stating I've called the authorities.
With no words spoken, the tallest of the group – Buck, approaches me, coming dangerously close to invading the personal space which I am highly protective of. I swing the bat with perfect force. Three years on my high schools co-ed baseball team and I've still got the goods.
He catches the bat mid-strike with his large mitts, easily wrenching it from my grasp. So I spit in his face, a large wad of phlegm from deep within my lungs, speckled with black bits from smoking too much, splatters on his left cheek. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
But it obviously wasn't.
Quickly taking the bat and getting into his own less than perfect posture, Buck swings at me – hitting me in the ribs and knocking me onto the ground. As I gasp for breath, wrapping a protective arm over my throbbing core, I look up from the ground at the crowd in my living room.
They are here for something far more sinister than I want to envision. It's clearly evident in their hostile postures.
"AMBER – RUN!" I shout, hoping to hell that my sister is smart enough to crawl out her bedroom window and run to safety.
"Go get her!" Buck orders one of the goons with a finger thrust towards the bedrooms at the back of the house. The nameless goon runs past me and I stick out an arm, wrapping it around his ankle, pulling up and forcing him to harshly come face-to-face with the unforgiving tile flooring. His nose crunches against the hard tile, blood gushing from his nostrils. He moans in pain, shouting obscenities about a broken nose.
What a pussy. I've broken my nose twice and never have I cried in pain like that.
I feel a hard kick delivered to my ribs that steals my breath and makes me cough up blood, the vile metallic taste of blood filling my mouth to the brim. I spit out the extra onto the floor but quickly my mouth refills. Through the blurry curtain of blonde hair that has fallen over my face, I stare up at Buck with my green eyes fierily narrowed with determination not let this escalate any further.
"You leave her the fuck out of this! If you want your god damn money, you can have it!" I shout, but my words are wheezy and fall short of being menacing.
Buck bends down on one knee, coming closer to my level. He firmly grabs a large portion of my hair and pulls my head up, bringing me so close that our noses are on the verge of caressing. I wince against the pain of having my hair pulled.
"This isn't about the money." He growls. All I can smell is the liquor on his breath. All I can see is his dilated pupils, shining in the green glow from the clock on the stove. By my vast knowledge of drugs, I'd be willing to bet its crystal he's on – a potent poison that is too easily made and too easily sold. It's the one thing I would never touch because I know how much it changes people. I know how it instills its abusers with fire and brimstone straight from Hell.
Buck pulls me straight up by my long hair, which I try and grab the base of to lessen the pain but with his free hand – the one still holding the bat – my bat, he swings hard at my left arm. I hear the snap of bone and feel the brake shiver up my shoulder and down my spine. Through the pain, a sinking feeling develops in the pit of my stomach. An omen that tonight is not going to end well.
I hear a commotion from the back of the house, the sound of wood-splitting as a door is busted in – I hear Amber scream. Panic grips my pain-riddled chest tight.
"YOU FUCKING LET HER GO!" I scream, thrashing against Buck who holds me in an unmovable position pressed against his body. I can feel his dense muscles against my flesh, barley covered by my unfortunate choice of sleep ware – nothing more than a black bra and cotton panties.
I can feel his hard intentions against my lower back.
I bring up my leg and harshly connect my foot with his knee with bone snapping force, sending him off balance and crumbling to the floor. I bolt to escape – to collect my sister and run like hell. My mother can take care of herself – she sleeps with a gun under her pillow (an old habit from growing up in Hell's Kitchen).
Buck is not nearly as incapacitated as I originally thought – he grabs my leg as I run, quickly picking me up and throwing me head-first against the floor. I feel my head first bounce of the wall and then crack against the tile. I feel warm blood begin to run through my hair and onto the floor.
I feel myself fading quickly.
And just before my world completely dissipates to nothingness, I hear Amber's blood curdling scream echo throughout the house.
I wish I died right then, no matter how cowardly that sounds.
Death is so much more preferable than the truth that I awoke to discover.
A slap against my face is what wakes me up. It's stone-hard and leaves behind a severe stinging, but it's nothing compared to the pain in my arm and in my side that provides a sharp jolt every few seconds.
My eyes flutter open slowly and I instantly panic as I see Buck's fat face directly over mine.
"You're going to watch this." He growls.
His face, a fleshy oval riddled with acne scars is scrunched up with disdain but his eyes twinkle with delight. It instills more fear in me than I ever thought I'd experience. One of his large hands, smelling of nicotine and dirt, wrap around my jaw, forcing my head to turn and see what's next to me.
Amber, gratefully unconscious with a bit of blood trailing down the side of her temple from a strike to the head, is tied down to her twin-sized bed – her arms tied with rope to the ends of the headboard and her feat tied with the same rope to the ends of the foot board. Her innocent underwear, white cotton briefs, are torn at the sides and lay in a puddle on the floor. Her night shirt is ripped open, revealing her supple eighteen year old breasts. I noticed a piercing in the left nipple, and for a brief moment I forget the situation we're in and wonder why she never told me she got her nipple pierced. We are a close as could be and she normally tells me everything. Quickly, however, it sinks in that she is exposed in her entirety, her milky white skin giving off a faint glow from the moonlight that streams in through the open window.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's about to happen.
"NO! Don't you fucking dare – I'll fucking kill you!" I shout, but my words are muffled because Buck's hand still wraps around my jaw, smushing my cheeks together.
The threat must get across through, because he punches me hard in the ribs – exactly where the bat had struck earlier. My body jerks from the pain and I struggle to breathe through it. My ribs are without a doubt broken but in this moment I could not care less. I try to move my arm so I can swing at the buffoon over me, but my arm does not move. Frantically I look around and much to my dismay, I find that I am in a situation identical to Amber's.
My arms and legs are tied down, the knots so tight that I cannot feel either of my hands or my feet. My bra and panties are missing, leaving me completely exposed. The cool breeze from the open window blows past my bare breasts, sending a chill throughout my whole body. My skin, riddled with scars and random tattoos does not glow in the way Amber's untainted flesh does. Rather, my tanned skin seems exponentially darker in the moonlight. Almost like I hail from Italian or Hispanic descent, far my truthful displayed Scandinavian and Germanic roots. We have different fathers – neither of us have ever met our sperm donors, but that does not make her any less my sister.
That does not make me any less determined to save her innocence.
Continuing to gather my surroundings, I notice the two other men are in the room as well. The one with the crow bar stands by the door, holding the improvisational weapon horizontal with both hands and a wary look on his narrow face. The other stands by the window, picking dirt out from under his grease stained nails with his large switchblade, appearing rather indifferent about this devious situation. My mother is thankfully absent from this equation. Part of me hopes she was at least able to get to safety. Another part of me hopes that she is on the other side of the closed bedroom door with her gun, ready to save her daughters.
But I'm a pessimist. Always have been and I predict I always will be. She's probably tied up to. Or worse – dead. But I refuse to dwell on that for too long. I just can't imagine my mother in a situation worse than this.
Whimpering, I look into Buck's ominous brown eyes and ask, "Why are you doing this?"
Buck leans in closer, his thin lips twisting into a vicious snarl, "Because I want to."
"Please, I'll do anything… Just don't hurt her. Please!" I beg, tears down streaming freely from my sage green eyes and staining my cheeks.
Buck laughs. The bastard actually laughs.
He leans in close, his lips touching my 1-inch gauged ears, "I'm going to fuck her tight pussy, while you watch. And then I'm going to slit that pretty little throat of hers while you watch her bleed out. And then, it's your turn… Only you'll be begging for death after what I have planned for you." He runs a calloused finger down the side of my face, trailing all the way down to my right breast where he harshly gropes the mound – painfully pinching my nipple between two fingers.
"Please… I swear, just… Just do whatever you want to me, but let her go!" I beg.
I'm crying ferociously now, tears falling faster than the seconds that painfully tick by. My lower lip quivers and my heart thumps against my broken ribs.
I look into his eyes, pleading with every ounce of strength I have for him to accept my offer.
But it's clear that he has his mind set on doing this unforgivable deed.
A vicious cross between a snarl and a smirk twists his face, "You're going to watch every fucking second of this… - Jake, make sure this bitch sees everything."
The man by the window, the one with the ratty green baseball cap who had been cleaning his nails look up. I can't make out his face, he is obscured by shadows, but I can see him nod in agreement. He walks over and clamps both of his hands against the side of my face, forcing me to turn in the direction of Amber. He says nothing, but I can smell the familiar odour of motor grease and oil on his hands.
Buck walks across the room. I can hear the clinking of his metal belt buckle as he undoes his pants.
"NO!" I shout, thrashing more against my bindings and the hands against my temples. This shout of mine is enough to startle Amber awake. With wide eyes, she looks around and begins to pull against her ties. But it does no good.
"Ellie!" She yelps, looking briefly at the approaching man before turning to me, terror widening her golden eyes to doll porportions.
Buck's pants fall by his ankles.
"Just look at me, Amber. It will all be over soon." I try to hold back my cries – try to show her strength and starve away her fear. However, she can clearly see how equally terrified I am. She can see the way my elongated face is clearly etched with panic. Amber begins to sob hysterically, shouting protests as Buck gets on top of her.
"Look at me!" I shout with force. Tears streaming down the supple cheeks on her heart-shaped face and breathing ragged through her petite nose, she looks at me.
Despite sobbing violently, I try to sound as comforting as possible, "It'll all be okay. Just go somewhere else and it will all be okay."
She nods slowly and shakily, clenched lips quivering as she tries to hold back her sobs.
Buck gets into position, his large erect penis in line to enter her virgin hole.
"Remember that trip we made to the Grand Canyon? Go there." I coo to try and comfort her. Amber nods again, but it's barely enough of a motion to be perceived. Her eyes squeeze shut, a waterfall of tears escaping and drenching her face and the lavender bed sheets beneath her.
"It'll all be okay."
My comforting words are completely hidden under the sickening scream that flies deep from Amber's throat as Buck quickly thrusts into her with one hard motion.
I never look away. I keep my green eyes on Amber's golden brown eyes, showing her that we're in this together and that we will somehow make it through this.
Buck's rape of Amber in reality does not last long, a grand total of five minutes and thirty-seven seconds, but it seems like he thrust into her for seven years while I could do nothing but watch and pitifully try to comfort my young sister – locking eyes with her as we both try to tune out Buck's feral grunts.
Buck pushes himself up off of her. Amber's sobs have dulled to an inaudible level, but it's clear that she's still crying from the tears drenching her and her sheets and the look of sheer desperation on her heart-shaped face.
"It's okay." I mouth, unable to speak. Amber doesn't respond, too shocked to do anything other than whimper.
I see Buck reach down and grab something off the floor. I see a metallic glisten in the moonlight.
I see what's coming and know I can't stop it.
"Look at me and don't you dare look away. I love you, Amber! I LOVE YOU!" I shout just before Buck takes his blade and slashes it across her throat. Instantly, blood spurts up onto the ceiling and flows from the incision, drenching Buck with arterial spray and covering Amber's nude body in crimson that drips down onto the bed, gradually cascasing onto the dirty beige carpet. Amber gasps once, but her terrified eyes never leave mine.
"It'll all be alright." I mouth.
She tries to nod but she can't.
And then it's over. It's all over so quickly.
I am witness to the luster in her eyes extinguishing like a snuffed flame. I sat back helplessly as she was murdered.
"No!" I cry, shouting and whimpering all at once as more tears cascade down my already soaked and sticky cheeks.
Her dead eyes stare at me, asking why I didn't save her – asking why everything didn't turn out to be okay like I swore.
The overwhelming sorrow over her death is quickly washed away by a blinding rage that hastens my breath and stops my tears.
Sleek nose flaring with rage, I look over at Buck – now drenched in Amber's warm blood, "You motherfucker! I'll fucking kill you!" I scream so loud that the corners of my mouth split and bleed.
Buck says nothing – his sinister smirk says it all as he saunters over to me.
I'm next.
He gets on top of me, the old mattress beneath me buckling under his substantial weight. He nudges my legs open wider with his knees and lines up his entry.
His penetration is quick. Even though I am far from a virgin the rough thrusting of his penis entering me, burying so deep that he hits against my pelvic bone sends waves of pain radiating throughout my entire body.
But I don't whimper.
I don't cry.
I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
Instead, I stare him dead on – my jaw clenched so tight that my teeth ache and a vein in my head pulsates. I swear right then and there that even if it's the last thing I do, I will make every last motherfucker involved die excruciating deaths.
He thrusts and grunts, his fat face covered with Amber's blood never once leaving my vision. It is an image that will forever be burned into my mind. It is an image that will fuel the unforgiving rage deep inside me.
Every hurtful penetration only solidifies my desire to slaughter.
When he's finally done, which takes much long than with Amber – twenty minutes that felt like a century, he bends over and presses the long blade against my throat. His upper lip snarls as he presses the blade deeper - though not hard enough to cut.
He's about to say something.
Suddenly, I can hear a multitude of wailing police sirens off in the distance, speeding down the road.
And so can Buck and his two goons.
In a rush to escape before he is caught, Buck hastily drags the blade over my throat to finish the job. I can feel the razor sharp edge slice through my skin, I can feel warm blood begin to flow from my neck down onto my chest and pool all around me.
He quickly dismounts me and follows the path of his goons – quickly jumping through the bedroom window and running off into the night.
I bring my chin to my chest, desperately trying to apply the only pressure I can to slow the fast bleed.
I hear my front door being broken down, the horrible sound of wood splintering exactly as it sounded when Amber's door was broken down.
"HELP!" I scream, but there is no sound.
My head gets fuzzy, consciousness slowly slipping from my grasp like sand slowly falling from my fingers. I breathe deep, but no matter how deep I breath the severe lightheadedness I am stricken with will not cease.
I'm going to die.
The last thing I see before I completely pass out is the quick burst of light from a flashlight entering Amber's bedroom, finding the two mutilated young females inside.
Even in my unconscious, I swear that vengeance will be mine. Even if I have to come back from the dead and haunt the despicable men who raped and killed us – I vow that they will pay.
In many ways, I think that desire for vengeance is what kept me alive.
That was the worst night of my entire life, a night I will never be able to forget...
This is where my story truly begins. So, dear reader, if you have the nerve, read on.
It only gets better from here.
Please review and let me know what you think. :)
