A Ruthless Christmas by K.L. Savage
I’m drowsy. My head is spinning, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t open my eyes. I groan when I notice every part of me is in pain. What happened? I manage to pry my lids open, blinking to clear the blur. I can’t see anything.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I take a deep breath and try again. I can see clearer this time. I don’t know where I am. It isn’t the basement or a hospital. It’s run down and old. The walls are cracked, the paint is chipping, and the floor is cold, gray, and hard like stone.
Cement.
It’s also cracked, with stains. I can only imagine what they are.
A painful moan comes from my left, and that’s when I see Patrick. He has a piece of glass in his thigh, blood staining his blue jeans.
The accident.
Someone rear ended us, and Patrick lost control of the vehicle.
“Patrick!” I call out his name and try to run to him, but a thick, clear glass barrier is between us, stopping me. I bang on it with my fists, then squat to get to his level since he’s still lying on the floor. “Patrick, get up. Get up. Come on.”
He groans again and finally rolls to his uninjured side, leaving the leg straight that has the glass shard in it. “Sarah?”
“I’m here. I’m here, Patrick. Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” he jokes, then staggers to his feet. Dragging his leg behind him, he comes to the other side of the wall and presses his hand against it. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. It looks abandoned.”
“It’s the asylum,” Patrick recognizes.
“You’re sure?”
“No, but it’s the only place I can think of,” Patrick says. “It’s old, rundown, and the rusty wheelchair in the corner is giving me creepy vibes.”
A sad chuckle bubbles in my throat. “I’ll have to agree.”
“Are you okay? You’re bleeding. Prez is going to kill me.”
“You’re in worse shape than me.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
The sound of a door opening to the room has us turning. Patrick tries to get as close as he can to the glass to protect me, but he can’t. While he takes a step forward to challenge whoever brought us here, I take a step back. The further away from this freak, the better.
He comes into a front area just outside of both of our cells. And he’s wearing a baby mask. It’s clear, showing the flesh colored tone of his skin, but the design camouflages what he looks like. “Can’t even show your face?” I spit. “Coward.”
“Oh, so feisty,” he says, lacing his hands behind his back as he steps forward. “And so beautiful. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.”
I don’t like that he knows my name. And the way he says it sounds like he’s finding pleasure in saying it.
“So young and beautiful to be with men like the Kings. I’m here to show you the fault of your ways. To show you that the good in these people you surround yourself with is fake. I’m as real as it gets, Sarah.”
His words lodge a weight of fear in my belly, causing the nausea to churn tenfold. “And you think, what? That I’m better off with you? I’d never be with you. I’d rather—”
Our kidnapper slams his hands against the door. “You’d rather what?” His spit sprays against the rectangular window. “You’d rather die than be with someone like me? You’re surrounded by people like me. I mean, look at the man next to you. He’s a drunk.”
“He is not!”
“It’s okay, Sarah. He’s taunting you,” Patrick says, trying to get me to calm down.
“I’m telling her the truth!” The man bangs his fist against the door, and I jump. Bile creeps its way up my throat. I want to throw up. All the horrible smells are getting to me. The dust clinging to the air, the mold along the walls, the rotten stench surrounding us; I can’t handle it. “She deserves truth, not constant lies.”
“Who are you?” My voice trembles. “What do you want? Money? We have plenty of money.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. The column of his throat is thick, and his large Adam’s apple bobs. He is in shape. His arms bulge and his chest is wide, which tells me he’s strong. “I want you to see the truth,” he says. “I don’t want money. Money isn’t important to me.” His hand splays against the window. “But you are. The biker life isn’t for a woman like you, Sarah. I’ve tried so hard to kill a few of them off, to better the world, but no one will fucking die!”
“Oh my god,” I stumble backward. “You buried Tongue! You tried to drown Knives! And Daphne…”
“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Patrick slams his body against the metal door, but the metal doesn’t even creak or give from the weight of him.
“You’ll never be able to get me. You know what these rooms are? These are the insanity rooms. It’s what I call them.” He starts to pace, slowly, dragging his finger along the walls. “These are the rooms the crazies go in, the ones who constantly scream, the ones who cry, who hurt themselves. The ones who have to get strapped down. The ones who wear the straitjacket.” He turns around and walks toward me.
Patrick watches him like a hawk, following The Groundskeeper’s every step.
“So many evil things happened in these rooms,” he continues, lowering is voice. The octave sends shivers down my spine. “I read one man banged his head against the glass so many times, he killed himself.” He tsks, as if he cares. “Shame.”
But he doesn’t.
“If you look, you’ll see the crack. Right there.” He points in my cell, and I follow where he’s pointing his finger.
When I see the point of impact, I lose any control I had over my stomach and vomit.
“Sarah, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say to Patrick.
“The baby?” Patrick asks, and I know it’s to see if I feel any pain. I don’t. Yet.
“Baby? You’re pregnant?” The Groundskeeper bangs his fist against the door. “I’ll get it out of you. Don’t worry. You won’t ever have to deliver a biker’s baby.”
I scoot back until I hit the wall, holding my stomach protectively. If I am pregnant, there is no way in hell I’m going to let this man touch me. What scares me even more is how sincere he looks as he stares at me, like he genuinely cares and believes in this mission that he’s on.
“First things first,” he says, lifting up a bottle of whiskey.
“No!” I shake my head, realizing what he’s about to do. I turn to look at Patrick, who’s watching The Groundskeeper unscrew the cap to the bottle, fingers clenched in his palm and chest heaving. He’s already fighting himself. “Don’t do this. I’ll go with you. Okay? I’ll go, just leave Patrick alone.”
“Don’t you mean, Pirate? I’m sure after all of this, he’s thirsty.” The Groundskeeper walks in front of Patrick’s door and pours some whiskey on the floor. “You can’t be a pirate without a nice swig of whiskey. Isn’t that right, Pirate?”
Patrick’s reaction is immediate. His nostrils flare, and he falls forward, catching himself on his fists as he tries to control the disease swirling inside him.
“Patrick, don’t give in. You can do this. Think about Sunnie. Think about her. Hold onto that.”
“This smells so good,” The Groundskeeper says, almost with a sexual gratification. His eyes close as he inhales, and Patrick’s eyes stare at the bottle with want and need. “Watch him fall apart, Sarah. Watch him and let him so you know just how weak the Kings really are.” He places the bottle in the middle of the room and walks out the door, locking it behind him.
The buzzer sounds, and automatically Patrick’s door swings open to allow him in the main room where the bottle waits for him.
“Sarah…” whispers Patrick, a desperate hinge to his voice that’s begging me to save him.
Patrick finds the furthest corner in his cell and sits. His shirt is drench in sweat, and he licks his lips as if he can taste the alcohol. He buries his hand in his jean pocket and pulls out his sobriety chip, bringing it to his mouth and holding it against his lips. I hope he can taste the victory on the small token because it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
I thought the biggest villain was The Groundskeeper, but he isn’t.
It’s the square bottle with a narrow neck sitting on the floor, the burning smell of whiskey hanging in the air, and the temptation to get drunk. Patrick’s damnation is only a few feet away, and the only thing stopping him from giving in is control.
And it’s fragile enough that it can break at any moment.
