Mafia Games by Vi Carter
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLAIRE
Time no longer exists. The thoughts of witnessing the day fade into night or the rebirth of a new day seems unimaginable. Days morph into weeks. I think it’s weeks. Maybe it’s longer, and maybe it’s shorter. The lighting never alters, so differentiating from night and day is impossible. I can only rely on my body clock. My mind buzzes, and I have that frayed feeling I had when my parents died. Any small thing would set me off. I’m teetering on that line; waltzing with madness is how I’ve always pictured it. I bite hard on my cracked lip, and the skin splits easily. It contorts the smile that I don’t want painted on my face. It’s not a happy smile or a sad smile. It’s one that shows how broken I am.
The black colored pencil is down to a stub as I run it across the white wooden flooring. An image manifests in front of me. I’ve been drawing without paying attention. My stomach twists as I’m dragged into the vortex of his dark eyes. Why did I draw him? My mind, even when I’m not focused, is fixated on my captor.
My palm turns black as I try to rub away the image with a ferocity that burns my skin. Everything inside me twists painfully, and I’m afraid. Afraid that I have been locked up in this box for so long that it has turned me inside out, and I’m losing my mind again.
And again.
And again.
“Shut up,”I mumble under my breath as the picture on the floor blurs. I blink back the tears. I sit back slightly, and I’m stuck on the figure.
He materializes at the end of the box. I haven’t seen him since those first few days. He’s here, and he’s observing me. My heart jumps into my throat. It’s his eyes, no, his height; no, his build; it’s all of him that terrifies me. I drop my head.
The picture of his eyes glares at me with judgment. He’s moving in my peripheral vision along the side of the box. I don't want him to see what I have drawn. Gripping the bottom of my white dress, I use the material as a scrubbing brush until the image is distorted enough to resemble a black blob. Yet, as I stare down, I swear he’s staring back.
I’m breathing heavily and stay kneeling with hunched shoulders. If the glass didn’t separate us, it would only take a few steps, and I would be able to touch him.
“You’ve stopped eating.” His words have my shoulders drawing closer together. My fingernails bend under the pressure as I dig them into the flooring, into the picture of his distorted eyes.
“Why am I here?” I turn my head and watch him through a curtain of disheveled blonde hair. When I slowly lift my head, my strength buckles under the weight of his stare.
A red stain on his white shirt draws my attention. The blood is fresh along the side.
“What have I done so wrong?” My words grow louder, and I wonder if he can even hear me. Is this Karma, Is this God, or is this just a man’s wrath?
He bends his large frame until he’s sitting on the ground. The position looks odd on such a powerful man. He drags his legs half up and rests his arms on them, his hands dangling across his knees. He has blood on his hands.
“I used to go to this priest, Father Flynn. He was a giant of a man. Seven-foot tall. I often questioned how he fit into the confessional box as a kid.”
My captor stares at his bloody hands, and all I can think is he killed the priest. A man of God. “You killed him.” The words tumble fast and hard out of my mouth.
“Some might say my confession didn’t fare well on him.” His lip twitches like he’s fighting a smile. But it falls flat, and all I see is anger. “No, he died of cancer.”
I’m sorry for your loss is on the tip of my tongue.
My captor returns to staring at his bloody hands, and I return to trying to stay calm and breathe. He’s too close to me. I know he can’t get through the glass, but my skin tightens across my bones. I feel like I’m up close to a lion, or an ocean of water is leaning against the glass. One small crack, and I’d be dead.
“He listened to me every Saturday night. I would tell him my week and everything I did during that time.”
I somehow doubted that what he did included cooking Sunday dinners or drinks with friends.
“Three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and all my sins were forgiven.” He looks up at me. “Do you believe in God, Claire?”
I could easily answer yes or no. “What do you think? I’m stuck in a glass box.” I rise as the unfairness of this situation roars to life inside me. “I’m stuck in here listening to you.”
He stays on the floor, and I dare to take one step closer. My temperature soars. “Talking about your priest, and your life, while you took mine. Why am I here? What did I do?” My body trembles as my voice hits a peak of hysteria. I need to shut up, but I need to know more.
“What do you want?!” My roar has him rising, and I stumble back.
“The same as you, Claire. I want what was taken from me. I can’t get time back. But I can take time.”
My feet falter and trip as I race to the glass, terrified that he might leave now that he has started to talk. “That’s what you are doing. Taking my time?” I’m confused, and he moves and hisses. The red stain bleeds deeper into the fabric of his shirt. He won’t answer. My fists hit the glass. “Tell me.” My words end in a whimper.
“You will eat your food.” His dark gaze grows darker, and he starts to walk away from me.
“I won’t. I’ll starve.” I’m following him, clinging to the glass screaming. I can’t be left in here again. I can’t accept this. “I’ll die my way!”
He pauses, and when he turns, his lip rises slightly. “The only person who is taking your life, Claire, is me.” Once again, his smirk doesn’t form completely before it dies.
“No!” I’m walking away.
“No?” he repeats, his question follows me.
“No!” I’m giddy as I race to my bed.
“Claire!” The warning in his voice pushes me quickly to the bed that I leap upon. My hand frantically feels around under the pillow. The cold steel has me half laughing as I pull the knife out. I spin on the bed and face my captor. “I said no.”
“Put the knife down.” His warning is low, and he’s rooted to the spot.
“No.” My voice is calm. I’ve spent so much time sharpening it along the inside of the plughole of the tub. It has whittled down the steel, and I have tested the blade on a few dresses.
I raise the knife to my wrist, and when I look at my captor, his eyes look panicked.
“How does it feel to have all the power taken from you?” I ask and press the knife to my wrist. Blood pools fast along the small nick. My blood roars in my veins, and I don’t know if I have the guts to continue. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to wait until he kills me. Is this the lesser of two evils?
“I’ll tell you.” His words are quiet. His hands curled into fists. “Put the knife down, and I’ll tell you why you are here.”
He’s lying. He has to be.
“Claire.” His voice rises, his gaze is pinned to my wrist that’s bleeding heavier. Without thought, I had pushed the knife deeper.
With shaky hands, I drop the knife on the bedspread and watch the blood flow from my wrist.
My vision wavers, and I blink. He’s gone. Now I wonder if he ever was truly there. I’ve officially lost my mind.
It’s the click.
The click of the door has me scrambling to stay alert. I raise my head, and he’s in the box. He’s walking toward me. His large steps eliminate the space between us. I turn as terror rips through me. My weakened body isn’t strong enough to get off the bed in time. I remember his smell. It’s here again. Strong hands touch me, and I’m screaming with the last ounce of strength I have. It’s useless as he spins me around, forcing me onto my back and pressing me into the mattress. I lash out at him, and blood drips from my wound back down on top of my chest.
“You’re making it worse.” His angry words have no effect on me. Not while his hands are on me.
“No! Get away from me!” I’m screaming and feeling for the knife. I can’t let my life end like this. My fingers touch the steel metal, and for a moment, my vision clears. He’s above me, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. Dark hair falls into his eyes as he glares down at me.
Darkness dances along my vision; it’s a warning that I heed. I wrap my fingers around the knife’s handle, and my scream propels the blade towards him. He swats the knife away like it’s an annoying fly. The knife bounces off the floor, and it’s the sound of doom.
“That wasn’t very smart, Claire.” I can’t look at him. A fresh wave of fear devours me. I buck and scream under his weight that grows heavier, and I cry as my lungs refuse to work and my sight fails me. I roll my head to the side, squeezing my eyes closed, darkness envelopes me, and the last word I hear is his curse.