It was only one in the afternoon, but the temperature was already approaching ninety-three. Paul had been fidgeting uncomfortably for quite some time, and Sarah could see small beads of perspiration gleaming on his handsome face.
He scratched his expensive looking haircut, glanced at Peter, and asked him, rather politely one might add, if he would mind opening a window.
Peter nodded obediently, and rose to his feet. He approached Sarah, whom the boys had tied up hours ago, and inquired: "Um, excuse me, but would you mind if I were to open a window? It's pretty hot in here."
"Go fuck yourself," Sarah spat, her voice strained.
At that moment Paul's gloved hand lashed out and connected solidly with her cheek, which was followed by a loud and almost comical SMACK. "There's no need for that kind of language," Paul said disapprovingly. "Do you want us to put the tape back on? Do you want us to hurt your brother again?"
Blinking away tears, Sarah glanced down at Michael, who lay on his side, bound and gagged with a piece of cloth. He looked back up at her, eyes wide, fearful yet expressionless at the same time. He whimpered softly from behind the ratty wash-rag.
"No . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry," she apologized, a lump forming in her throat.
"Apology accepted," Paul replied, smiling gaily.
"Um, so do you think it would be okay if I opened a window?" Peter repeated. He wiped his forehead.
"Yes, you may."
Michael made a pitiful grunting noise. He was crying.
"Hey, cheer up, buddy," Paul said soothingly. "I know something that'll make you feel better. You wanna play a game?"
Sniffling, followed by silence.
Peter had returned. "Oh, we're going to play the game?" he questioned. He walked over to the sofa, grabbed the boy by his shoulders, and hoisted him to his feet. Michael made little effort to get away, but it wasn't like he would be able to anyways.
Peter plopped down on the loveseat, balancing Michael on his knee, as if he were a little brat about to deliver his Christmas list to the department store pillow-bellied Santa Claus. "Hey, quit crying," Peter ordered, speaking in a stern yet gentle voice. "You're gonna play the Game."
"What's the game?"
Peter smiled.
Paul produced a crinkled, wadded-up Bi-Lo bag and covered the boy's head with it. "You'll like this game. It's called 'Cat in the Bag'."
Michael shrieked hoarsely. He struggled, trying his best to escape and end the Game, but Peter held him firmly. It was no use.
"Stop it!" his sister cried, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. "Stop!"
If only she could move. If only she could fucking move.
She thrust herself off the couch in a crazy, sideways motion. Her forehead exploded in a burst of pain. Her vision blurred. Stars danced wildly before her eyes.
She felt weightless, and she was growing extremely lightheaded. The pain was still fresh and furious, and Sarah wasn't sure just what the hell happened. She suspected Paul had struck her again, but as she hit the carpet, she saw the coffee table and realized her mistake. She had bumped her head on it. Something warm and sticky was flowing from the spot where her forehead and the edge of the coffee table had shook hands.
Shit … why did I move the goddamn coffee table? Mom's always telling me not …
Her thoughts drifted off, and she found herself drifting off into a thick darkness.
Sarah slowly gained consciousness and was met with a dull, throbbing pain. Disoriented, her mind hazy, she glanced around and wondered why she was in the living room instead of her bed. Her eyes fell on a small puddle of maroon, and everything came back to her.
She whimpered.
Michael … oh God …
Craning her neck up, she saw not a soul. "Michael?"
Silence …
Then, whistling. From the hallway. It was Paul.
The tune sounded familiar. Very familiar! She couldn't quite place it. It was a slow melody, haunting yet catchy.
"Breaking The Girl"? No fucking way.
Her stomach felt knotted and coiled. Her heart thundered in her chest. The two well-dressed young men stepped into the living room. Michael was not with them.
"Where's Michael?"
"Ah, you're awake. Here, I'll help you up."
"Where the fuck is Michael? What the fuck did you do to him?"
Paul buried his sneaker in Sarah's ribs. There was sharp, fierce explosion of pain that raced all the way from her armpit down to her hip.
She cried out. She began to weep.
"Now, I told you," Paul said, grabbing the duct tape off the table, "there's no need for that kind of language. We're gonna have to punish you now!"
He tore a piece of tape off the roll and sealed her mouth shut. "We really don't like doing this, but you keep forcing us to," Peter said, bending down to his knees. "It hurts a lot more than it hurts you, believe me."
They lifted her off the floor, and Sarah saw what had happened to her brother.
Michael lay on his stomach, arms and legs still bound. The Bi-Lo bag was still covering his face. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that he was dead.
Dead.
He's dead. Oh God. Oh God.
Her body trembled. Everything seemed dream-like. The intruders, Michael's body, the duct tape covering her mouth …
This isn't happening. This isn't happening. Wake up. Just wake up and you'll see that this is all a really, really bad dream. You'll wake up and walk out into the hallway and trip on Mike's baseball glove or stub your toe against something. But you'll be safe. There won't be anybody waiting downstairs to tie you up and torture you. You'll see.
She commanded herself to wake up. She couldn't. She wasn't dreaming.
So … there you go. Chapter 3! It's short, and it sucks, but who gives a fig? Oh well. Comments would be appreciated
Jon