Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(103)

The scene scarred my brain for life, irrevocably changing me. I went out of my way to be kind and gentle to every living thing. The cook caught me, time and time again, feeding birds, mice, and other woodland creatures.

My mother fell more and more in love with fruity smelling alcohol, leaving me motherless, with a rambling drunk.

All while my father amassed a stable.

He already had a stable full of cars: Bugatti, Audi, Ferrari, and Porsches. He owned a barn full of thoroughbreds and world cup racers. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted humans. Girls. Possessions.

On my eighth birthday, he brought home his twelfth filly. She kicked and screamed, until he punched her so hard she passed out. A full wing of the house was barricaded for his new acquisitions. No member of staff was permitted.

But I knew secrets he didn’t. Hidden passageways in the walls—no lock could keep me out.

I watched from air ducting and wall cavities. My stomach twisted as I saw sick, foul acts committed against fragile women.

Rather than suffer boyhood excitement, a thrill of shame coated my life. I wallowed in guilt. My own flesh and blood ruined lives of others. Stealing their freedom and turning them into broken belongings.

I never loved my father, but day by day, my hatred for him grew. I hated that he’d created me. I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted him gone.

On my thirteenth birthday, I broke into the stable while my father wasn’t there.

The girls all looked up with red-rimmed eyes and fright. I didn’t know why I went. To offer sympathy? Comfort? It seemed so stupid, standing there. I offered to bring them anything they wanted—to steal food from the kitchen, anything to take that hopelessness from their eyes. But they wailed and hid; running from a scrawny thirteen-year-old boy.

Their fear stank, and I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. But I owed them something, anything—it was my father who ruined them—it was my place to make it right. “Please. I don’t mean to hurt you.” My balls hadn’t dropped; my voice sounded as high as their whimpers for help.

Not one of the girls came near me that day, but I saw their bruises, the shadows under their eyes, the haunting emptiness in their souls. I couldn’t stay away.

The next day I returned and uttered the one word I swore I never would. The word my father used a lot. “Esclave, obey me.”

Immediately, the girls stiffened, dropping to their knees. All twelve bowed, long hair, all different colours, kissing the ground.

That was the day I learned the word broken. They were broken. Completely. And I couldn’t stand it. With one command, they were mine, and I hated their weakness as much as I hated my father for creating such miserable creatures.

I ordered, “Crawl to me.”

Sounds of skin rubbing against carpet as the circle of naked slaves obeyed.

“Stop.” They did. Immediately. Total obedience.

Standing in a circle of women, I made a vow. I would help them. No one should be broken beyond repair. No other human had the right to steal their life.

I would become their saviour, and rehabilitate them back to sanity.



*



Three years passed before I got hold of an untraceable gun. Boarding school in London allowed me to mingle with rich, bored kids with mean connections. Criminals hung around the wealthy like flies to rotten meat, and I took advantage.

I earned a reputation for being closed off and angry. When really, I plotted constantly how to bring my father to justice. My family’s reputation preceded him and people feared me. Feared my power, my own legacy of a ruthless tycoon.

I did nothing to disillusion them. Fear was a powerful weapon—I knew. I saw how fear ruled my father’s women.

Two weeks later, school holidays came around. I travelled home on the train, with my leather bound suitcase and a heavy black gun in my waist band.

I hated going home. There was nothing there for me. Only the undying need for vengeance.

My mother had died a year before from alcohol poisoning, leaving me vacant. She was my mother, but never paid attention to her only son. I wasn’t bourbon or Shiraz, therefore I wasn’t important.

Mrs. Sucre welcomed me home, and I holed away in my room, cleaning my new possession. Staring at shiny brass bullets, I welcomed anger and rage.

At two in the morning, I went hunting. Night was my father’s playtime hours. I knew where to find him.

I sneaked with the silence, fingers tight around the new purchase.

The whimpers of girls punched me in the chest. Soon. Soon you’ll be free. I knew they’d thank me for what I was about to do. My own sanity would thank me. Soon, I wouldn’t have to live with guilt that I allowed my father to continue hurting so many innocent women.

My father never heard a thing.

I sneaked right beside him while he f*cked a girl, holding her pigtails like handholds; his old man ass wobbling with every trust. My lips curled in distaste and I snarled. The girl’s tears set fire to my stomach.

I raised the gun, testing the weight. My hand was dry—not sweaty or nervous. My heart even and sure.

“Enjoy your last f*ck, father. It’s the last you’ll ever do.”

My father, Mr. Quincy Mercer the First, stopped mid thrust, face bright red, jowls trembling.

“What are you doing in here, you little shit? Get out. I told you this part of the house was forbidden.”

Girls all around the room, tied up in horrible positions, started to cry. Some with their necks bound to ankles. Others hanging from the ceiling upside down. Tears flowed, but light slowly glowed in their eyes. Hunger, revenge, freedom, infected each like wildfire. Smashing the shackles of brokenness.