The Wrath of Cain(53)

I hear my mother screaming for my dad as Cain grips me tightly. The semi isn’t stopping; we’re bring pushed. I can feel the truck being lifted off of it axles.

My dad is yanking on the door handle, trying to get it open.

“Motherf*ck! Fuck! Fuck! Get me out of here, goddamn it.”

I’m panicking. We all are. I’m in the middle with no seat belt on. It’s my own damn fault. I didn’t put it on after gawking out of every window in awe of the city lights. I’m being pulled, tugged, and yanked in every direction.

“I don’t have any goddamn f*cking control of this thing!” my dad screams.

I see the gun come up and he shoots a hole in the window then beats it with his fist until it gives.

“Oh, my God, he’s shooting. He’s hanging out of the car. Dad, noooooo!” I scream, reaching for him, only to be jerked back by Cain.

After that precise moment, my mind is a fog. It feels like someone hit the slow motion button on a horror flick, only this isn’t a movie. This is really happening. One moment Manny and I are teasing each other like family members would, and the next we are getting hit by a truck. The thundering noise echoes throughout the darkness, the grating sound of metal against metal, twisting steel, and screeching tires.

The lights from the dashboard illuminate the horrific scene as my mom’s head jerks forward, the seatbelt digging into her flesh as the truck begins to flip. I scream in terror as I watch my dad being ejected from the vehicle. Suddenly we come to a stop. Cain and Manny try to get out of their seatbelts as Cain hangs on to to me for dear life. It’s chaos. There’s no other way to describe it.

There are no noises now. No yelling, no screaming. Everything has gone from the lightest shades of gray to the darkest black. I don’t know if I’m dead or alive. If I feel numbness or pain. If I’m moving my hands and feet or not. Nothing. If I’m alive, then why can’t I hear my family? Where are they? Am I alone? Thrown from the truck like my dad?

Is this the fear one gets right before death? You try to inhale a breath, not even knowing if you truly are. I feel detached from my body. If this is it, then take me. Take me so I don’t have to think about my family. Take me so I can breathe. Just take me!

“She’s coming around.”

My muscles constrict. My heart starts pounding. All of my limbs are weak and tingling. Yet, that voice, it doesn’t sound like the sweet voice of an angel. It’s rough, deep, and more like the voice of the devil. I’m going to hell. That’s where I am, just like Monty said. The voice is gone now. I’m floating. Floating through nothing but blackness.

“Wake her up,” a brooding voice says close to my ear.

“I’ve tried. Her eyelids flutter every now and then, but then the bitch is right back out again. She’s been banged up bad. Bruises and cuts everywhere. You really should let me see if she has any internal damage.”

Is he a doctor? Please let him be talking about me. I’m not dying. Not being sent to hell.

“She gets nothing. If you don’t get her to come to within the hour, it’s your ass right along with hers, Doc.”

I feel an arm on both of my shoulders shaking me adamantly.

“Listen, girl. You need to wake up. At least for a few minutes.”

“Pl…please. My family.”

My eyes flutter open, trying to adjust them to the bright light. I can vaguely see an older, gray-haired man leaning over me. He’s too close. His eyes show years of wisdom mixed with something else. Compassion? I just don’t know. The devil as we know him is the king of tricksters. But something tells me this isn’t the devil and I’m not dying.

At least not yet, anyway, I think to myself, remembering the other person’s threat.

“It’s about damned time you came around. That will be all for now, Doc. Thanks.”

The voice I heard earlier is coming from my left. I turn my neck towards it.

“It’s you and me now, Princess.”

I’m unable to open my eyes all the way, but I am able to get a glimpse. If I were able to gasp or cry out, I would.

He is the scariest man I have ever seen. He’s not much older than I am. His head is shaved bald and he wears a black patch over one eye. A thick scar, old and healed, runs from the center of his forehead all the way down his cheek. It’s ugly and twisted, as if someone had sliced him with a jagged knife.

The scruff on his face matches his voice. Coarse, rebellious, and dirty. But in spite of the scar and patch, this man is downright sexy. This is a smoothly polished professional who I have no doubt is a trained killer.

His eyes tell a story. A long, f*cking scary ass story. I’ve been trained how to read people, and my observation tells me he’s seen and done some horrific things in his life. What I want to know is, what does he want with me?

I shake my head trying not to think about what he is going to do. He presses my shoulders down with so much force I can feel my bones start to rattle.

“Get off me!” I scream to the best of my ability through my scratchy and sore throat.

He withdraws his hands.

“You have it in you, I see. Good to know.”

I’m seething. My body is bruised from head to toe. I remember the accident. The way I was tossed and flipped around in the truck. Everything. Now that I know I’m not dead, I want my husband and my family.