Bloodshed (Order of the Unseen, #1)(2)

“Good. Very good.”

I glanced up at my father, noticing his approval. The amusement was evident in his eyes.

“You’re ready,” he vaguely announced, taking the shears from my grasp. “It’s been three years. You’ve watched long enough.”

Adrenaline coursed through me.

I knew what this meant. This was the moment my father and I would switch places in the room.

And I wasn’t sure if I was ready for what was to follow.

“You know what you have to do,” he stated, handing me the already bloodied knife.

Have to do. Have to do. Have to do.

“I can’t,” I stammered, my hands trembling. Heart pounding. Stomach churning. Did I really have what it took? I looked over at the man lying helplessly on the table and recoiled at the fear in his eyes.

There was a short-lived flash of hope. It was as if he believed I could save him.

Believed I could go against my father.

I shook my head, uncertain. “I can’t—”

“You can and you will,” my father barked. I’d upset him. That was clear. And I didn’t intend on getting beat tonight. “I didn’t raise my only son to be a fucking pussy! Are you a fucking pussy?”

“No, sir—”

“Then end this, Damien,” he demanded, shoving me hard against the table. I winced from the pain of my ribs clashing against the metal frame, but I fought through it. “For fuck’s sake! End this right fucking now! Now!”

I held up the knife over my head, before coming down hard, plunging the blade into the man’s abdomen. For a brief moment, my gaze wandered to his face. His eyes were nearly bulging out of his head. He was stunned. His body jerked involuntarily.

“Again, Damien!” my father viciously shouted.

A rage like no other hit me out of nowhere, consuming every fiber of my being. I yanked out the blade and stabbed the man again, over and over. I mainly focused on his stomach, but he was somehow still breathing. The moment I plunged the knife into his chest, I hit bone, and my grasp on the hilt slipped. Ignoring the soreness of my palm, I buried the blade into his neck, missing the jugular by not even an inch. Blood continued to spatter in every direction until my hands, arms, and face were covered in the warm, sticky substance.

His whimpers turned to gurgles, and eventually, he fell silent.

I lost track of time. The adrenaline began to wear off, and my arms suddenly felt like pudding. I held the handle of the knife even tighter, and let out feral grunts of pure hatred, not for the man lying before me, but for the man standing mere feet behind me.

I flinched as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Enough,” he ordered, and I became still, gasping for air. “Give me the knife.” I tugged the blade from the man’s gut, spilling out even more blood in the process. His naked body was saturated with it. And finally, a realization struck me hard.

I killed him.

He was dead.

And now… all I could see was red.

“The job is done,” my father told me.

Although, I wasn’t so sure. I curved my numb, bloodied fingers around the hilt with more pressure, and became more tense with each passing second.

I could end this.

Really end this.

I could save my mother.

All I had to do was catch him off guard. Slit his throat— “Damien,” he snapped, bringing me back to reality as he grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around to face him.

I looked up into his cold, empty eyes.

“Give me the knife, son,” he calmly instructed, eyes narrowed. “You did well.”

I did well. I did well. I did well.

“I’m proud of you.”

Proud of me. Proud of me. Proud of me.

“You’ve got what it takes.”

I got what it takes. I got what it takes. I got what it takes.

A dull ringing settled in my ears, and my vision became blurry.

And I handed him the knife, defeatedly.

“Good,” he muttered, patting my head like a dog. “Now, take off your bloody clothes and wash up.”

Blinking up at him, I remained silent.

“Hey!” he scoffed, snapping his fingers in my face, pulling me from the state of shock I was suddenly slipping into. “Did you hear me?”

Without questioning him, I did as I was told. I started with my white shirt, which was soaked with blood and sweat. My pajama bottoms came next.

Until I was standing in my underwear before him, my skin streaked with blotches of red.

“Now go wash your hands in the sink,” he firmly ordered.

I fought through the utter exhaustion as I staggered to the sink in the corner of the basement. The water turned dark. My head pounded.

No matter how much I washed my hands, the water continued to run red. That was when I noticed the long slice in my palm. I stared down at it, completely numb. I didn’t feel a single thing.

“You cut yourself, damn it,” he said, looking over my shoulder. He examined the wound before loosely tying a rag around my hand, in a lousy attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Now, what?” I asked.

“Now you go upstairs and shower.”

“Then, what?”

“Then you go to your room while I clean up the mess you’ve made,” he snapped, impatiently, shoving me toward the bottom of the stairs. “You need stitches. I’ll be up soon.”