Wildfire

(15)

Kenneth Deora

I left her alone not because I was scared of her anger. She could take out as much of her anger as she wanted on me. She was much safer than the media was anyways.

The latest headline was about me killing my mother along with my brother. My mother was alive and I was a single child. I sighed. All the thoughts on loop. I was going to have to drink again to shut these up again.

Drinking meant thinking about him; Thinking about what I did and I hated it and the way it hurt. Don't act like you didn't deserve the pain. I did. And I knew I did.

I sighed again trying to relieve some of the weight off my chest. Spoiler alert that didn't work. It was just helpless attempts to make the guilt go away.

My personal phone rang with my mom's name on it. I hesitated before hitting decline. I didn't know if my personal phone was being tracked or not. My business phone definitely was.

I stared at the screen for a second more before I looked up at a man with a rod in his hand.

"NO!"

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"Well well well.... look who we have here..." The strange voice drawled out barely reaching my ears over the throbbing pain in my head and the sharp sound of ringing. I tried to rub my eyes but some kind of rope tied my hands behind the metal frame of the chair which was now digging into my skin.

"Who are you?" I uttered. I had no idea how long it had been since I was here. The room was painted in black which made it seem smaller than it was.

"You should know, Deora, I was next on your list wasn't I?" He threw a glass of water on my face, making me cough out the volume that I inhaled in a split second. What the actual fucking fuck was this guy talking about. "What list?"

A harsh hand landed on my face. It didn't hurt but it brought back the parts which made me lose my life earlier. It brought back my father's "concern" for me and I fucking hated it. "Don't play dumb, boy. You know damn well what list." No I didn't?

"I think you have the wrong person." He responded to that with his fist on my throat. "Of course and somehow all the people dying recently coincidently owed money to your father, huh?" I never noticed a pattern. But if I wasn't the one killing them then who- another sharp hand met my face. Blood trailed down my face from all his attempts to acquire information I didn't have.

"I don't know anything about it." With a sudden kick he tipped my chair backwards on the cold floor. I think I broke my wrist. "It's pathetic how you killed your father first and now you're stealing his hard earned money and even killing people for it." He spat out.

"We'll give you time to admit your fault, otherwise we know ways to make you." he punctuated it with a kick to my chest before leaving, the pressure on my ribs made me cough out blood across the floor.

How long had I been here? Why and how did all these people owe money to my father? Half of these were never even mentioned in the records when I checked. There was no chance I had forgotten about it. I never forget anything. My Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM) was a blessing and a curse.

Lucas Carlin, Callaway brothers. They did owe a large sum to the company but I never saw a pattern in between the deaths because I didn't even know the other names on the "list".

I could already hear the headlines about being a psycho-maniac killer and "lacking humanity" from a mile away.

Before that I needed to get out of here. The dark walls almost seemed like they were closing in and It's not helping my claustrophobia.

My mind wouldn't stop thinking. It was probably ignoring the physical pain but I didn't want to think.

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"Kenneth!" My father's voice travelled like a roar through our house followed by the sound of my mom's heels tipping on the floor and the scattering of maids. I swallowed in nervousness and walked downstairs.

"Yes, Father?" I looked up to see his bloodshot eyes. Oh god. Not again. "I heard something about you having a little party of some sort today?"

My birthday party. That I didn't even arrange. My friends just wanted me to celebrate it. I never did; I was too scared to celebrate it. My father didn't think I had done anything worth celebrating yet so I didn't go against him.

I found out about the party today and I knew I was going to be in trouble for it. I couldn't say no to my friends without making it suspicious. I stepped back when he started walking towards me.

"Well it would be too bad if you can't go because you're hurt, Kenneth." That was all he said before pushing me to the ground. My knees hit the ground with a crack before something was thrown at me.

"You're not going anywhere. Call your friends and tell them." I nodded, too scared to argue and piss him off even more. Every time I pissed him off mom had to pay for it in one way or another. I couldn't have that again.

"Okay." With another push I was thrown across the room. "And next time you go on and try to celebrate a "birthday" make sure you've done something worth celebrating."

"I will, dad." I got out of the room before anything else could escalate.

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The pain in all the different places was unbearable. My head from hitting the floor, my wrists and ankles from being tied up and the rest of my body from pure exhaustion.

It had been a few hours since I'd been here like this. And my thoughts wandered off to a certain Italian woman who was currently pissed at me. I shouldn't have been here. I should've been with her; apologizing to her.

What if her panic grew into a panic attack, what if she saw the cake again. What if she hated me now and wouldn't see me again. I needed to fucking apologize to her. I needed to know she doesn't hate me. I needed it more than air.

Would she cry now that she was alone? I hoped she wasn't crying. I hoped she was mad at me and talking about how much she hated me. I would take another bullet, or knife, or both if it meant she wouldn't cry.

That thought alone made me struggle against the ropes in hope and helplessness. FUCK.

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