The Blood That Lies In His Shadows

Chapter Five: Fading Echoes

TRIGGER WARNING:
IF YOU DON'T WISH TO CONTINUE, SKIP TO THE *****

~Mason's POV~

**three hours earlier**

I’m back in the mansion, in the small cell that serves as my bedroom. My body aches from lying on the cold, hard ground, the chill exacerbating my old, unhealed injuries. The room is dark as always, with nothing more than the sound of my own shallow breathing echoing around the walls to keep me company.

I wait. Heart pounding as I strained to hear his approaching footsteps.

That’s when I heard them — casual, heavy steps across the tiles, the steel-tipped boots that he wears especially when he’s planning to torture me. He’s always careful around my face, mostly just slapping it; the worst injuries being inflicted on the rest of my body. I never understood why.

The door swings open and slams shut with a force that nearly broke the hinges. He’s mad. Panic surges through me and I attempt to crawl away before he can reach. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have tried to leave the mansion, why did I think I could escape? Now I’m going to pay the price.

Before I could manage to move, however, he grabs a handful of my knotty hair and drags me up to my weak knees.

He’s silent, as always; he looks down at me with disgust while I avoid his glare. I try to speak, try to mumble a weak apology, but he slaps me across the face hard, sending me sprawling back onto the cold concrete.

I attempt to move, but his boot rams into my stomach, making me see stars. He kicks me again and again, each blow growing more aggressive than the last. He kept calling me things, the words venomous as they dug into my soul.

By the time he was finish, I tasted the metallic bile burning my throat, but I refused to let it spill, knowing fully well that it would only anger him more if I made a mess.

He kneels down now, pressing down on my aching ribcage. His large hand squeezes my throat, a little beneath my earlobes, while the other slowly travels down the length of my trembling body.

Please, no.

He leans down, glaring at me with eyes darker than usual. He’s drunk, I realized, I can smell the strong liquor in his breath. Please no. “Did you enjoy your little fun, you ungrateful bitch?” I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to, as he was cutting off my airway. I just stared back, paralyzed with fear. “I own you. Did you think I’d ever let you leave me?”

He slaps me again.

I tried to mumble an apology, refusing to cry because that’s what he wants me to do, but all that comes out of my mouth is pained groans and a stream of blood that I failed to hold back.

Everything changes so fast. The next thing I knew, I’m being flipped onto my stomach, pain shooting through me as he rips off my T-shirt and presses harder on my lower back. I brace myself for the worst, expecting him to tear off my pants too and do the unspeakable. But instead he chooses something different. Something worst.

He retrieves a shiny blade, a military knife, the familiar cold steel pressed against my back. Normally, he used that knife to cut my legs whenever he was having his way with me. But today, he clearly had different intentions.

My breath hitches as he begins carving into the length of my back, the pain wearing and indescribable. I bit down hard, the strain threatening to break my teeth; I refuse to scream or beg for it to stop, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my tears.