Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Twenty-Five
Britney
My dress is red. That’s the only thing I think as I float in and out of consciousness.
He’s torturing me for not giving him what he wants and pain sears through my shoulder where he tore the flesh with his knife. One of many, but this one’s the worst. Put me out of my misery already.
The figure left in frustration a while ago and I don’t know how long I’ve been alone. He’s trying to break me, but what he doesn’t realize is I’m already broken beyond repair. He’s chosen the wrong victim.
Even in the heat, I shiver uncontrollably, and I begin to feel lightheaded. Thoughts of how I can escape have been replaced by my wondering how I can put an end to all this. I don’t want to be here anymore.
A sinister tune reaches my ears. Humming. The figure steps back into the room, the source of the music now clear.
“Why won’t you kill me?” I rasp out.
Just do it, please, make it quick.But I know they won’t.
He walks over, tracing a finger lightly around the skin of the wound on my shoulder. The feeling is a sharp contrast to their nails driving in. Internally, I cry in agony, stars fill my vision.
“I’m not finished playing my game.”
A whimper falls from my lips and I watch as the figure pulls the gun out again from his pocket, setting it down on the small table. As he ramble’s under his breath, I start to slip in and out of consciousness again.
Soon, I won’t wake up.
I come back around, and wearily my eyes focus on the window. The light outside isn’t as bright, and the white beam has been replaced by a fiery orange glow as the sun starts to set.
That’s when I hear it.
I try not to react, but somewhere in the distance, I hear the hum of an engine. I want to cry out, scream for help, but I barely have the energy to speak, as blackness creeps into my vision.
The figure leans in and I feel their breath on my ear, when they say, “Someone else has decided to come and play.”
The slam of a car door is the last thing I hear.
***
Becket
The cab pulls up outside the old, red-brick apartment block I lived in as a kid before we were taken in by the Witness Protection Program. Passing money over to the driver, I keep my eyes set on the entrance, never moving them away, just in case. This part of the city has gone from being shady to the kind that people avoid at all costs. Unless they have something to hide.
I step out, desperate to find Britney, and accidentally slam the door shut. I wince. So much for being discreet.
My head falls back as my eyes slowly move up the building, taking in the graffiti, the windows—some broken, some boarded—until they reach the top. Six floors and I’ll know if my instincts are right. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there, but I have to find Brit.
Before leaving, the cab driver rolls down his window and sticks out his head. “Are you sure you’ve got the right address?” His eyes move to the front door, with the peeling paintwork and broken padlock.
They’re in there I know they are. “One hundred percent,” I answer, dismissively.
He doesn’t ask any more questions, simply throws the cab into drive, leaving me behind.
I quickly pull my phone out of my pocket and send a message to Evan, giving him the address of where he’ll find me. Us. Then, I take a deep breath before stepping through the entryway of the apartment block, back into my old life, back to where this all started and where everything went wrong. My stomach churns as my mind runs through all the possibilities of what I might find.
Moving slowly up the flights of stairs, I’m careful with my footing, stepping around rubbish and broken pieces of furniture that block the way. All the while I create a mental log in my mind, preparing myself for when I need to make a quick exit out of here with Brit. I hope we get to that point.
After climbing a couple of floors, my legs begin to feel heavy, and I rub at my thigh, where every now and again a searing pain shoots through the muscle. I grind my teeth as I try to ignore it and continue pushing higher. I’m five floors up when the pain becomes unbearable. I stop and stand, breathing in and out deeply, trying to get my shit together before I’m faced with my past. Before I find him.
When I get to the top, I struggle to breathe and it has nothing to do with the stairs.
I carry on moving forwards. If I stop, there’s a chance fear will take over and that can’t happen. My fear is nothing in comparison to what Britney must be feeling and it’s that thought alone that has me placing one foot in front of the other. Placing my hands carefully against the slightly open door, I push gently, trying not to make a sound. Please be alive. I sidestep more rubbish and a hole in the floor, setting foot in our old apartment.
I’m halfway along the hallway when I see her in the living area and freeze. The last remains of the sunset burn orange through the boarded-up window, emphasizing the red silk of her dress. A stab of pain fills my chest. Last night it was almost white. My eyes scan over her exposed skin and bile rises in my throat. Her smooth skin is sliced in a pattern. Blood trickles down from each gash. He’s turned her into his own work of art. Her matted hair is covering her face, her head slumped down against her chest. I’m sorry, Brit, this is all my fault.
I take a step forward, needing to find out if she’s still alive. In my haste, I misjudge my footing and one of the floorboards creaks. The damage is done, that’s if the door of the cab didn’t already give me away.
With nothing left to lose, I charge towards Britney, collapsing down at her feet.
“Brit,” I hiss. “Brit, talk to me.”
Running my hands through her hair, tears fall as I take in how damaged and swollen her beautiful face is. My fingers skim over the already purple bruises around her neck, finding their way to just below her jaw, feeling for her pulse. It’s weak, barely there. I need to get us out of here and fast. I’m about to start undoing the restraints around her legs when a chill runs down my spine as the clapping starts. Quiet at first, getting louder as footsteps move into the room. Slowly, I turn around.
“You came to play,” says the voice from my nightmares.
Through a clenched jaw, I reply, “You wanted me, I’m here.”
He doesn’t respond.
My eyes skirt to the side, finding a gun on a small table, set up, ready to go. He’s baiting me. It’s positioned just far enough away I have to leave Britney to get it. He wants me to make a choice. My safety, or hers. He’s forgotten—I’m not an eleven-year-old boy anymore. I’m bigger, stronger, faster, and if I’m going down, I’m taking him with me.
A creak close by startles us both. This wasn’t part of his plan.
Seizing the moment, I lunge forward. With every ounce of strength I have, I drive my shoulder into his stomach. We both fly through the air. His back slams against the wall behind. I hear the air whoosh out of his body. We both collapse to the ground. It’s the opportunity I need. I clamber away, back to the gun. It’s almost in reach. But I put too much weight on my bad leg. Buckling under my weight, I fall down. Sliding along the floor, pain threatens to consume me. Stretching out my hand, I manage to grab hold of the gun. Quickly, I roll away. Back towards Brit.
The figure grabs at my ankle. I kick his hand away, trying harder to get to Brit. I’m almost there. A fist collides with my temple and the world tilts. My grip on the gun slackens but I manage to keep hold of it.
Hands grab my shoulders from behind. I’m thrown sideways to the ground. The figure climbs over. Pins me to the ground by my throat. It presses down, trying to force the life from my lungs. We’re coming to the end of the game.
Blackness creeps in. Only one thing keeps me grounded. The feeling of my hand on the gun. My finger on the trigger. I don’t know where I’m aiming. I don’t have time to think. I choke for air. With what little strength I have left, I raise my arm.
Right before everything slips away, a deafening bang fills the room. Then, there’s nothing.
