A new chapter, because I can't sleep. Hope you enjoy...
Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.
I've never felt this alone in my life.
Sure, a lot of my time growing up was spent by myself. There wasn't many people who could understand me, let alone compete with me at some level when it came to intellect. It's the downside of being called a 'genius.'
There were the times I'd have to worry about Mom; about whether she was eating or moving out of bed or even going to teach class so we could pay the electric bill that month. I felt then like there was no other kid like me on the planet—one who was 'raising' their mother instead of the opposite.
But this? This is, without a doubt, the worst.
He's been gone forever. You'd think I'd be happy—he's not here, after all, quizzing me or tormenting me or beating me or telling me I have to 'confess' to some real or imagined 'sin' I've supposedly committed.
But I'm not.
Instead, I'm merely existing. Existing in the agony of my physical pain, which is getting worse as the time lapses from hours to days. Existing in emotional torment, as I warily keep watch over the three remaining screens, waiting for 'Raphael' to appear in one of those homes, ready to slaughter unsuspecting people under the guise of 'God's will.'
The crickets are getting louder. Or the cicadas. Maybe both. I can't tell anymore.
I'm staring at the lean-to, the computers, the thin brown walls that isolate me from the rest of the world. I've tried getting a look out of the dirty windows, but aside from thick muddy streaks all I can see is a large tree of some sort and tall grass, as far as my very tired eyes can see.
All I can think is, My God, I've killed someone. I've sentenced them to death, even if I didn't wield the actual murder weapon.
And then I counter: And if you hadn't, you'd be dead. You and even more people you couldn't save.
The thought doesn't make things any easier. I've tried pulling on my bonds, but they won't give. I've tried standing up, but I end up falling back into this damned chair every time. I've even thought about tipping the chair again, just to get away from the sight of brown walls and fish guts and despair, but then I remember what happened the last time I tried that.
Even if I managed to do it, I still can't get away. My foot is in no condition to walk. My legs are cramped from sitting so long. I can barely feel my backside anymore. And my head has given up, fading from a dull thud behind my temples to a thick fog with accompanying percussion.
There's also the thought that there is no one looking for me. Maybe everyone thinks I'm dead…
Stop that, I chide myself sternly. They're still looking. They wouldn't give up. Not ever.
I want so very, very much to believe that, but it's getting harder.
Just then there's a sound that catches my ear: the sound of surprise, of fear, of sheer terror. It's coming from a woman on the third screen—the one who was sipping some sort of red wine. The panic in her eyes is one I know well, and the gentle shhhh she hears is one I've heard before.
It's like a grisly crime scene, unfolding in front of my eyes. The kind where you know what the outcome will be, but you can't bear to take your eyes off of it.
He makes his phone call, the 911 call that will pinpoint his location.
He's holding the point of a carving knife right at her throat.
She doesn't even get the chance to make her defense, or plead for her life. One quick stroke, and it's all over. The man with her—maybe her husband—is felled just as instantly.
I could've saved them. I could have just picked someone to die, hoped that they'd be warned in time.
I could've prevented this.
I look now at the scene 'Raphael' leaves, the wine glasses tipped over, the bodies on the floor, the knife left in plain sight. Two more lives lost, and for what?
I could've saved them…
And before I know it, I'm crying. Not just one or two tears trickling down my face, or biting my lips as I try to hold it in.
No. These are huge, heaving, torso-wracking sobs that are escaping from me, one right after the other. My eyes are so wet I can barely see. My stomach hurts from the sorrow and the lack of food. There's a feeling of shame and weakness that engulfs me, and I can't get it to go away.
Why, God?
Why those people?
Why me?
Have I done something to deserve all of this? The torture, the beatings, the anguish?
Am I Job reincarnated, the proverbial 'whipping boy' that needs to swallow the punishments of the world?
There's no way to know.
And all I want to do is cry harder. I can't even put my face in my hands, because of how they're bound. I can't hide my emotion from 'him,' should he come back and see me like this.
I pray to God it's 'Tobias' that returns.
Then again, he might decide to 'help' me again.
And I can't take that either.
