Inconvenience

Chapter 8: Angry

Chapter 8

When Max woke up the first thing he felt was the pain. It was a deep, sharp pain that stung and ached to the point that merely waking nearly drove him to tears again. It was across his back, his ass, his legs, arms and even his hands and feet.

The woman's warning didn't go unfulfilled. Her husband did take the belt to him, long and hard. It started almost immediately after the maybe-Russian man, Emile, left. He felt his arm get pulled and could tell what was going to happen, as angry as he was, but he didn't make it easy. He kicked and punched and shouted curses. He even bit the man when he tried to pull his hoodie off. That earned him a solid smack to the jaw. He could feel one of his teeth wobble after that, but he was pretty sure it was a baby-tooth, so it didn't bother him that much.

He didn't care that he was stripped, he was too pissed to care, even when the leather bit into him, he just kept yelling insults and curses at the man.

"Fucking cunt" and "Stupid bastard" were his choruses.

Even when the belt started to bleed him, he didn't let up. Neither of them did. Max used the pain, it fuelled him, made him angrier and angrier until he was certain his head would burst from how much he wanted to kill the man. It was good, it was what he needed. He needed to feel angry. He didn't know what else he could feel right now.

When it finally stopped Max was even more furious than before. The pain and wetness of his own blood made him growl and curse long after there was no-one there to hear him. He didn't move. His body wouldn't let him even if he wanted to. He let the blood clump into scabs, and his piss soak the mattress. He didn't care.

He didn't plan on moving, not for hours, not for days, maybe even years. He'd waste away on that bed long before his mood sweetened. It was only when an idea came to him did he find the will to stand.

Every part of him begged for him to stop, to lie down and be content with rest. He wouldn't listen to them. He needed to do this, if he didn't then he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

The carpet in the hall felt softer on his feet than the stuff in his room. This was new, and he was certain that his room hadn't been the least bit updated since before he was born. That didn't matter though. The only thing that was important was his plan.

The kitchen tiles were cold, but they were good, so very good. He bumped into the table, then the fridge, then the oven. Yes, this was exactly where he wanted to be. The cutlery drawer was next to the oven, if he remembered right, and the light jingle that sounded out when he pulled the handle told him so.

He felt around the cold steel, looking for something sharp, something long. He felt around the sides, and felt a long, thick piece of metal between his fingers. He squeezed it, just to make sure it was good for what he needed to do. His broken skin told him it was. He gripped the handle and pulled it out, causing a clanking ruckus as he did. Good, he wanted them to know he was coming.

He felt the new hallway carpet on his feet, walked past his own bedroom, past the bathroom, and up to the door he knew was theirs. The knob was in the same spot as his own. Their carpet felt as old as his did, but a bit thicker.

He couldn't hear them breathing. Maybe there was a god, and it had seen fit to judge them by killing them itself. If that was true, then Max cursed that god with everything he had. They were his to kill and his alone.

He bumped into the bed and held the blade out in front of him. He felt it meet...air. He crawled onto the bed, onto the flat, cold covers and slashed his metal out in front of him. Nothing. Then he remembered something else. This bed would go many nights unused because those two fell unconscious on the couch.