Bloodshed (Order of the Unseen, #1)
Molly Doyle
To anyone who has been bullied, who has been deeply affected by the loss of a loved one, who has lost someone to suicide, who has felt completely alone due to mental illness, who has any type of trauma
And to anyone who has secretly wished three masked men could have come to their rescue and saved them from the darkness
This is for you — You are never alone You are worth it You are loved Always
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
DAMIEN
I was seven years old when I saw all remaining life vanish from a man’s eyes for the first time. And over the next few years, it became lackluster. Just an ordinary weeknight where my old man would wake me from my sleep and bring me down to the basement, or what I liked to call it, his dungeon of torment, while Mom locked herself in her bedroom.
She always knew something was going on. At first, I wondered why she never bothered to even try to save me from the brutality of what was taking place in the lowest, darkest level of our home. From the casual screaming, and frequent times I’d walk upstairs covered in blood, at odd hours of the early morning, she had to have known something sinister was going on.
Yet, she never did anything to stop it.
She instead acted oblivious to the situation. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car, dazed and confused.
One night, when I was just ten years old, my father woke me from my sleep. I still remember every detail vividly, like it was just yesterday.
“Get up,” he ordered, yanking down the covers. “It’s time.”
He left the room, and I sprung out of bed, hearing the loud thuds of his footsteps fade away as he bolted down the stairs. Rubbing my eyes with my fists, exhausted from my usual tossing and turning, I stepped into the hall and immediately froze in my tracks.
For once, my mother was there, peeking her head out from behind her bedroom door. Her eyes were wide, filled with anguish. I’d never seen anyone look so horrified. So entirely helpless. Her heart was breaking for me. For the child she knew she could never protect.
“It’s okay,” I reassured her. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay.”
The sound that came from her next was a sound I would never forget. A sob of relief.
And I turned for the stairs, ready for what was to come next. Usually, he would just make me watch. But this night…was far different from the rest.
“Your fingertips are packed with nerve endings,” he explained, staring into my vacant blue eyes. “They send signals to your brain. Pain signals.”
He strode over to the metal table where a man I’d never seen before lay defenselessly, bound with thick chains. They rattled with his every desperate attempt to escape.
Although, I wished I could tell him that there was no use.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s worse than other parts of your body,” my father explained. “Let’s say, your arm.” He plunged the blade of the knife into the flesh of the man’s bicep without warning. The sheer pain became apparent as the man shrieked through the bundled-up rag in his mouth, hidden behind several layers of duct tape.
I remained still as stone. Not even a flinch.
To me, this was normal.
A learning lesson.
Far more important than school.
“Now watch,” my father instructed, positioning the man’s index finger between the pruning shears. “Notice how the fingers are more sensitive.”
With that, he cut through the man’s finger, slowly. Pure agony ignited within his eyes, as he kicked his legs and thrashed his arms. He cried, and cried, tears of absolute horror while my father cut around the bone of his knuckle.
The man jerked his wrists, trying to pull away, to put an end to the pain. My father groaned with disapproval, before squeezing the handles of the pruning shears with both hands, applying just the right amount of pressure. Several pieces of the man’s finger collided with the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut, his body slipping into a state of shock.
“Damn it, Damien,” my father scolded, shooting me an unimpressed glare from the corner of his eye. “Closer. Get the fuck over here.”
I swallowed hard, anxiously observing the man’s bloodied hand as I stepped closer, crimson red squirting out from the stump.
My father snarled, and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He grabbed the back of my neck impatiently and yanked me beside the metal table. My arms were frozen down at my sides.
“Your turn,” he commanded, smacking the shears against my chest, bringing me back to reality. The realization that I was about to get my own hands bloody, for the first time, left me confused. Nervous.
But I did as I was told.
It was a struggle at first. Cutting through skin was easy, but cutting through bone was a challenge. Even if it was just a pinky finger. I gave it all I had, and used every ounce of strength I could gather. At the age of ten, it was not as easy as one would think.
“Good,” my father praised over the symphony of a man being tortured. “More pressure, Damien. Use both hands.”
So, I did. And to the man’s dismay, and my advantage, it worked.
Bits of knuckle bone were now exposed, poking out through his flesh. Finally, his finger snapped off and fell onto the dirty, concrete floor.