ruined the illusion even though he gave them a chance to play their part. Some of them talked back. Some of them tried to physically fight back. Some cried the whole time. They all failed to live up to his expectations. They all had to die.
Jackie Willet was no different than the rest. She was a crier. She’d probably gotten by her entire pathetic life with those crocodile tears. They probably worked their manipulative magic on most people. They didn’t work on him. She had to die.
But first he’d make her pay for disappointing him.
Pop was always telling him that patience was not a virtue he possessed. Like Pop should talk. The man had elevated immediate self-gratification to an art form. It wasn’t always the wisest choice, but damn, did it feel good.
He’d run out of patience with Jackie Willet. She was huddled there in the corner sniveling and snuffling like some kind of wounded beast. She didn’t know what pain was. Yet.
She had failed him. He knew now that she wasn’t his dream doll. She never had been. She never could be.
“Come here,” he ordered.
Jackie shook her head and shrank deeper into the corner like she thought if she could make herself small enough she could disappear and escape. That wasn’t happening.
He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, reveling in the way she flinched every time his shoe scuffed against the concrete floor.
“Someone’s been a very bad girl.”
She was trembling so hard that he could hear her teeth clacking against each other.
He loomed over her, waiting, willing her to look up at him. He waited for her to beg.
She raised her red, tear-filled eyes to his. She licked her lips nervously before whispering, “Please…I…I’ll be a good girl.”
He pounced. Grabbing her armpits and lifting her a couple of feet in the air, he brought her face level with his. Before she could kick out at him, he slammed her against the wall. The sound of flesh meeting concrete was music to his ears. He liked it so much that he did it again.
She was crying in earnest now, big heaving sobs that shook her to her core. Whiny little bitch.
Holding her tight against the wall, he leaned in, pressing his chest into her torso. He angled his head so that he could better hear her struggle for breath as he crushed her ribcage. Little gasps, like the goldfish he’d had as a kid had made every time he’d taken it out of the water. How he’d loved watching that little fish gasping for breath, fighting for its pathetic life.
He pinned her to the wall with his body weight so that his hands were free to do what he wanted to her. What he wanted to do to Emily.
Jolting awake from yet another nightmare involving her abduction, Emily sat straight up in bed. It was dark. It was silent, yet she covered her ears, trying to shut out his voice calling for her. Her lungs burned, terror having stolen her breath. She took in desperate, greedy gulps of air. Her teeth were chattering, almost drowned out by the throbbing of her pulse.
Fumbling for the lamp, she knocked something to the floor. It crashed against the wood, rumbling as it rolled under the bed. The crash spooked her even further, and she rolled back into a ball and began rocking again, but she kept her eyes open. Finally she managed to turn the lamp on.
The light illuminated reality. The room, her childhood bedroom, came into focus. She blinked, thinking for a moment she was still stuck in her macabre dreamworld, but then she remembered that Mark Castle had driven her and Laurie “home.” Pretty much everything in the house had been updated since she’d last been here, replaced with fresh paint and new furnishings, but when she’d stepped into her old bedroom, it had been like unlocking a time capsule. Nothing had been changed. Same furniture, same linens, even the same posters hung on the wall.
It was as though she’d never left, but she barely even remembered the person she’d been when she’d last lived here.
Jackie Willet was no different than the rest. She was a crier. She’d probably gotten by her entire pathetic life with those crocodile tears. They probably worked their manipulative magic on most people. They didn’t work on him. She had to die.
But first he’d make her pay for disappointing him.
Pop was always telling him that patience was not a virtue he possessed. Like Pop should talk. The man had elevated immediate self-gratification to an art form. It wasn’t always the wisest choice, but damn, did it feel good.
He’d run out of patience with Jackie Willet. She was huddled there in the corner sniveling and snuffling like some kind of wounded beast. She didn’t know what pain was. Yet.
She had failed him. He knew now that she wasn’t his dream doll. She never had been. She never could be.
“Come here,” he ordered.
Jackie shook her head and shrank deeper into the corner like she thought if she could make herself small enough she could disappear and escape. That wasn’t happening.
He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, reveling in the way she flinched every time his shoe scuffed against the concrete floor.
“Someone’s been a very bad girl.”
She was trembling so hard that he could hear her teeth clacking against each other.
He loomed over her, waiting, willing her to look up at him. He waited for her to beg.
She raised her red, tear-filled eyes to his. She licked her lips nervously before whispering, “Please…I…I’ll be a good girl.”
He pounced. Grabbing her armpits and lifting her a couple of feet in the air, he brought her face level with his. Before she could kick out at him, he slammed her against the wall. The sound of flesh meeting concrete was music to his ears. He liked it so much that he did it again.
She was crying in earnest now, big heaving sobs that shook her to her core. Whiny little bitch.
Holding her tight against the wall, he leaned in, pressing his chest into her torso. He angled his head so that he could better hear her struggle for breath as he crushed her ribcage. Little gasps, like the goldfish he’d had as a kid had made every time he’d taken it out of the water. How he’d loved watching that little fish gasping for breath, fighting for its pathetic life.
He pinned her to the wall with his body weight so that his hands were free to do what he wanted to her. What he wanted to do to Emily.
Jolting awake from yet another nightmare involving her abduction, Emily sat straight up in bed. It was dark. It was silent, yet she covered her ears, trying to shut out his voice calling for her. Her lungs burned, terror having stolen her breath. She took in desperate, greedy gulps of air. Her teeth were chattering, almost drowned out by the throbbing of her pulse.
Fumbling for the lamp, she knocked something to the floor. It crashed against the wood, rumbling as it rolled under the bed. The crash spooked her even further, and she rolled back into a ball and began rocking again, but she kept her eyes open. Finally she managed to turn the lamp on.
The light illuminated reality. The room, her childhood bedroom, came into focus. She blinked, thinking for a moment she was still stuck in her macabre dreamworld, but then she remembered that Mark Castle had driven her and Laurie “home.” Pretty much everything in the house had been updated since she’d last been here, replaced with fresh paint and new furnishings, but when she’d stepped into her old bedroom, it had been like unlocking a time capsule. Nothing had been changed. Same furniture, same linens, even the same posters hung on the wall.
It was as though she’d never left, but she barely even remembered the person she’d been when she’d last lived here.
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