Redeeming Rhys (21 page)

She became confused as she, too, got lost in his eyes. Wren tried to hate herself for that, still letting herself feel attached to the recluse-like boy from years ago, but there was no hope. Maybe Rhys was right about one thing. Heaven wasn’t real. Hope wasn’t real and prayer didn’t work. Wren continued to think in her hazed state that heaven and hell were all the same. She thought that it was difficult to believe in something better when you were at the brunt of something hurtful.

“Oh, my darling. The answer is simple,” Rhys drew a deep breath in between his chapped lips with smeared black paint.

“The truth.”

Rhys brushed his lips over hers and she submitted to him as her cunt writhed in pain and throbbed in pleasure. Wren felt the blood seep slowly from her entrance, and all she could hope for is one result.

Death.

Rhys coaxed her mouth open further, his actions were slow and gently, and Wren went along with it because her body was his. She was in shock, not fully feeling the effects of the metal wire rammed up her pussy. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins heavily, but pain would plant its way through her like a venomous little seed and grow, never stopping until she killed her will completely.

Rhys situated himself between Wren’s legs and grabbed his hard cock, gently probing her bleeding entrance until she moaned loudly in his mouth. Wren attempted to claw at his chest, another futile fight since her hands were so weak from being tightly restrained. Rhys removed his lips from her mouth, their connection unbreakable, and he eased himself inside of her. The wetness he could feel coating his dick was almost too much for him to bear. She was warm, extremely wet, tight, and smelled like his favorite stench.

Blood.

“You are ki- kill- killing me…” Wren panted, still attempting to claw at any part of him.

The adrenaline started to wear off as the tearing, beseeching discomfort swallowed her whole. Through it all, with every hilt of Rhys’ hips, she tried so hard to deny herself the feeling she hated herself for.

Desire.

Lust.

How can those two sentiments be felt in unison with abusiveness and pain? Wren whimpered out, reaching her tiny hands out for Rhys. Instead of pushing him away, she tried to bring him closer to her. The thought of him fleeing again for ten years and her being isolated with nothing more than her depraved, depressed thoughts made her crazy. She split into someone else that second, and that very thought made her scared. She knew she couldn’t live with herself if she accepted that as her fate.

She swallowed back the dryness in her throat, begging to know the truths that Rhys held.

“Truth. Please,” she begged, while grabbing onto his tattooed arms.

Rhys continued a gentle rhythm, sweetly fucking her bleeding cunt. He knew she enjoyed it as it hugged him in the best fucking way. Rhys knew it was time. Time for things to change. For her innocence to be completely lost. They say when a child endures something traumatic, they don’t remember until later in life when something triggers it. It can also come on through a dream or flashbacks, neither of which had occurred with Wren.

Her nightmares would come from Rhys’ mouth.

Rhys cupped Wren’s breast delicately, bending down until his mouth was at her ear.

“Play dead, little Sally. Play dead. Play dead, little Sally. Play dead!” Rhys sang in almost a child-like tone.

Sally was their neighbor and also the child that died next to the swing-set that day. Play dead was a game that Wren and Sally used to play. Something made her heart speed up and her bones shake. Her mouth went dry and panic filled every part of her. She wanted him dead, just like little Sally.

Just like her parents.

She cried out, again, realizing that hell was welcoming her with open arms. Rhys’ slow movements ceased and he took her cheeks between his hands, making her look him in the eyes. Petrification was an understatement as she watching his lips curl over his teeth like a maddened creature ready to eat. He began pounding his hips inside of her, so hard that Wren was sure that her hips would break and her womb would bleed out.

“Play dead, little Sally. PLAY DEAD!” Rhys screamed.

Wren was overcome with pain, fear, and dread. She let the hellacious time she was living in cease as she welcomed the blackness once again.

Death was her best friend and the lost boy kept her secrets.

RHYS WATCHED HER,
listened to her, and knew every part of her. He was just a boy, but he was smart. He knew that he wanted her since he laid eyes on her when he was just six-years-old. At ten, moments that they shared turned into something so much more.

Sally, the neighbor-girl, came over regularly to play with Wren. That day though, Sally wouldn’t ever go home again.

Next to the swing-set was a small fort that stood around six feet off the ground. Wren’s father built it for her the Christmas prior. Rhys remembered that well. He wasn’t even lucky enough to get a toy car or sock full of coal. The year before he was simply forgotten. Wren loved that swing-set. Rhys would watch her from outside, or peer through the curtains inside and admire the guileless smile she wore so well. But there was something more sinister about Wren. Perhaps that is why Rhys was drawn to her so much. It was inevitable and there was no denying what he wanted. He would do whatever necessary to do it, including hiding her secrets.

Rhys sat up against the house that day, watching Wren chase her friend through the yard. They were playing the game that Wren loved so much, which entailed literally enacting being dead. Little Sally didn’t want to play that day, but Wren wouldn’t give her a choice.

Rhys kept watching. It was what he did best. He either was misbehaving or invisible. There was never an in between.

“Sally! Come up here. We can have a tea party,” exclaimed Wren.

She was high above in the fort, and little Sally was deathly afraid of heights. She stared up at Wren through emerald eyes, pushing her blonde hair over her petite shoulders.

“I don’t know, Wren. It’s kinda high…”

“You don’t want to play dead. You don’t want to come up here and have a tea party. What do you want to do, Sally?” asked Wren in a condescending tone.

Wren had badgered Sally into a corner and gave her no other choice but to climb up the ladder.

“Oh, okay. I guess I’ll come up there and have a tea party.”

Sally climbed up the ladder, her tiny hands grasping onto it like her life depended on it. Little did she realize, it would be cut too short.

Sally finally arrived to the top, taking extra precaution when she stepped onto the main planks of the fort. The ceiling was tarped over with a blue tarp purchased at a construction store and both sides were open that had ladders that led down to the ground below. There was a sandbox beneath it. It was every child’s dream… or nightmare.

The clinks of their tea cups made Rhys look up, the wind from the afternoon air whisking around, making the blue tarp billow perfectly.

“I don’t want to have a tea party anymore, Sally.”

“Oh, okay Wren. What do you want to do?”

“Play dead, Sally!” Wren giggled.

“I, I told you I don’t want to play that game anymore. It scares me, Wren.”

The faux-porcelain shattered, the perfection of the afternoon lost in a moment. Faint cries erupted and instantly replaced the previously happy atmosphere.

“Play dead, Sally! Play dead! Play dead, Sally! Play dead!”

Wren grabbed Sally’s hair, dragging her over to the edge of the fort. Before Sally could have time to plea for her to stop, Wren pushed her petite frame over the edge. Sally landed on her head, snapping her neck.

Rhys stood, staring at the girl he had fallen for. She turned around to look at him, her raven curls bouncing in the breeze like a deadly melody that pulled at every heartstring that Rhys had. Rhys swallowed as his gut churned with want. He knew those feelings weren’t right, but something about that moment appealed to him in the most fucked up way.

Wren brought her hand up to her mouth to silence herself. She jumped out of the fort, landing on her knees and splitting them open. She yelped out in pain, but stood up. Rhys ran to her side, grabbing her hand for comfort. Wren smiled at him, knowing that she, too, could manipulate him.

She turned to the wooden post that was planted into the ground by concrete for the foundation of the fort and smashed her head into it until she passed out on the ground. Rhys bent down to her, brushing her black locks away from her face, not even caring about the dead little girl next to her. She was still breathing, but she had hurt herself.

Rhys ran into their home, shouting for help. His mother, who was surprisingly sober that day, came rushing around the corner.

“Momma, there’s been an accident by the swing-set! Hurry!”

Julianne rushed outside to find Wren unconscious and Sally dead. Wren roused a few minutes later, immediately crying in Julianne’s arms. The gash on her head was so tiny, it could barely be seen, but Rhys remembers the smell, so metallic and wonderful. It was then when he fell in love with the aroma.

After the cops and ambulance came to haul off Sally’s body, Wren sat on the swing with her knee scabbed over and her heart numb to everything that had just happened. It had all been Rhys’ fault; though Wren didn’t say such words, her father on the other hand, would lay the blame on him.

It was then that Rhys understood that Wren was capable of death. She was made for him.

Death consumed her again.

WREN WOKE UP
shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was from shock or death. Whatever the result, she had come to terms that she killed her childhood friend. What else had she been capable of? Was it even real, or was it part of some sick game?

She hoped that the end was near, whatever that meant. The end of his torture game. The end of her life. It had been too much. She had lived a life full of lies and she couldn’t do it anymore. It was too exhausting and being alive expelled too much effort. She lifted her head up to look around the room, realizing she was alone. She looked at the door, seeing that it was closed, and then to her bruised and broken body again. Wren understood she had one last chance to make a run for it. It was now or never.

She rolled over and tried, but failed miserably to sit up. Wren ended up rolling completely off the bed. A loud thump echoed off the walls in her room. She propped herself up and was disgusted by the sight on the bed. There was blood trails smeared all over it, she was surprised she was even breathing. She touched between her thighs, which was still bleeding a faint amount. She bit the inside of her mouth until she tore into the flesh while grasping onto her duvet, an ill attempt to stand on her feet. She opened her mouth to allow a silent scream to escape her. Something, anything, was better than being trapped, including her emotions.

Wren stood, surprised at her ability to remain upright, and put one foot in front of the other while keeping her eye on the gold-plated door knob. She wasn’t sure what was on the other side of it, but she had to take a chance, whether her life was worthy of living or not. She. Had. To. Try.

She became dizzy just a foot or so away from the knob and, just like before, terror seeped its way through every cell of her being. Wren’s world went into slow motion as she watched the metal plating of the door knob turn, the clicking and movements making her ears burn and her stomach hurt. She felt like she was the star of her own horror film, about to get slaughtered and mocked by the world. Wren wasn’t even sure why she was fighting anymore. Running was useless. She had to accept her fate.

Rhys was a killer, so was she.

She wanted to cry. Wren wished she could run, but it was then that she recognized that she was no longer capable. The door opened and she was greeted with Rhys, who was dripping wet from a recent shower. She felt humiliated, hurt, and disgusted with his behavior. How could he be enjoying himself in the shower next door as she lay there bleeding and injured? It wasn’t even about the abuse that she had sustained anymore. She was fucking humiliated. She wanted to be worthy.