Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (50 page)

~Chapter Forty~

I don’t bother with the gate. I’m sure I would be detected if I did. Something tells me that Granddaddy Pimp is a paranoid old fucker. The limestone wall that surrounds The Meyers’ residence is exactly the same as every wall around every house in Crestview. Knowing the landscaping is similar; I go around the back and find the maple trees that offer that wooded feel without encroaching in your yard. God forbid that you have to pay your lawn boy more for raking the leaves.

I scurry up the side of the maple with the biggest overhanging branches. Years of playing with the West Virginian brats makes me an expert tree climber. Stanton had brought up a new pastime for me. If I make it out of here alive and untainted, I’m taking up Parkour.

I crabwalk on the branch that extends over the wall; my fingers grab small limbs to keep myself upright. I squat down and wrap my arms around the branch- hands interlocking on my forearms. I slowly distend my legs, making sure they are aligned with the six inch width of wall. I hang for a moment. With a deep breath, I let go, praying that I will land safely. The ten foot drop makes me want to scream, but adrenaline is flowing. I cling to the wall, a satisfied smirk on my face. The only sound I hear is my labored breath and the pound of my heart reverberating in my eardrums.

I allow
a few moments to orient myself with my surrounding. The wall is eight feet off the ground. Way too far to jump since it’s almost twice my height. An arbor draws my attention. I steady myself to my feet, take a deep breath, and run along the wall to my target that is several hundred feet away. Lunging, I fuse myself to the flimsy wood of the arbor, thankful that I don’t weigh over ninety pounds or it would break under my body weight.

I drop onto a settee and crouch for a moment. The French doors lead into the dining room. No one at four a.m. would be dining in there. The gate, the wall, the security will make the Meyers complacent. Somehow I know that door is unlocked- intuition or maybe it’s just proof that I was born to be bad.

On light, silent feet, I ghost to the door, slowly lifting the lever. The click makes me grin, and my concentration sharpens. It’s like I become alive. I can see better- hear better. I can almost feel the air around me vibrate, informing me that nothing is displacing it- no one is here.

A few
inches, I slip through. I don’t click the door shut, but I make sure that it
looks
closed to anyone that may pass by.  I blend into the shadows along the wall. My eyes drink everything in in a second and my mind processes it. If I make it out of here undetected, I know what my true calling is. The non-talented, no-future whore named Faith is dead. In her place is Syn, and I fully embrace that I’m no good.

Faith felt dead inside.
Syn is enlivened inside and out.

I hold off rolling my eyes, but just barely. You rich fucks are going to wish you were more original and didn
’t model your houses after each other’s. Everything is the same- down to the wallpaper and furniture placement. Lucky for me- fatal mistake for them.

On the drive over here, my mind was creating a solution. If I were Mitchell, I wouldn’t make Lara comfortable, but that isn’t always possible. She won’t be in the servants’
quarters because that would leave witnesses. She has to be somewhere that Mitchell has constant assess to. My home had a small bedroom off the master that you could only access through the master. Lara said it was for a nursery. Fate, joking around, said it was for your wife or mistress, because you only want her when you want her. I thought Daddy would laugh, but when he didn’t, I knew it was true. That was the first time I decided I hated anything with a dick.

Lara will be in that room. I loathe her, but knowing that Mitchell possibly touched her does something to me that I don’t want to acknowledge. I swiftly ascend the staircase and stick to the shadows along the wall. I take a deep breath
, silently breathing it out as I push the lever to my grandfather’s master bedroom door.

I slip in
side and shut the door behind me so that a slice of light won’t wake him. Mitchell sleeps on his side in an opulent bed- softly snoring. I tiptoe over to his bed and stare down at him. The need to kill him sings strong in my blood. I want to seek vengeance for my birth mother, for the game, for what he will do to me in the future. But it would be out of anger, not vengeance. There would be no retribution in the act.

I leave before my grandfather
senses my gaze. I can never sleep through someone’s eyes on me. The door is exactly where I knew it would be. My parents’ ‘extra room’ was empty, but I can feel Lara in there. Her pain and agony wafts in the air, and I want to ease it- completely take it away. I want her at peace.

Another door latch-
another opportunity of detection- another success.

The room is opulent, at complete odds with the brutal
scene that is before me. The room is filled with rich navy blue with gold accents. A four-poster bed, nightstands, dressers, and a fainting couch make the room look inviting. But those who stay in this room will live a nightmare of unimaginable terror.

The smell hits me first. As soon as I
crack the door to slip inside the room, it forcefully hit me in the face. The only reason I know Lara isn’t dead is because the overpowering stench of decay isn’t present. The meaty smell of blood, the foul stench of excrement, and the sharp tang of ammonia, mingles with the musky scent of sex. My nostrils burn and tears prick my eyes from the intensity of the stench as soon as I entered the room.

Next
is the devastating sight- a sight I will never forget- a sight that will forever haunt my sleep. Lara is tied to the bed with old clothesline rope, as if they grabbed whatever restraint was closest. She is battered and bruised, reminding me of patient in a hospital bed after a horrific car accident. That is if you were hastily tied to your hospital bed with filthy rope by the patients of the mental ward. Her bottle-blonde hair is tinged red with her blood- blood that seeps from a cut on her scalp, to trickle down her temple and cheek. Her lips are split from lack of moisture and overzealous, unwanted kisses. She is nude. Her breasts have fingertip bruises and bite marks marring her pale flesh. Her thighs are tied open. The ropes cut into the fleshy part of her thighs, holding her sex open by being tied to the sides of the bedframe. Blood and other fluid are dried on her skin, flaky and scaly. The ropes imbed into her ankles and wrists so brutally that they raw and bloodied from her struggles.

Momma has cut me deep. Momma threw me away. Momma killed my daddy. Momma has been raped and tortured. My heart and my gut are in agreement. No one deserves that treatment, no matter what acts the
y may have committed.

Momma’s cloudy blue gaze connects with my horror-filled eyes.
She tries to speak but I put a fingertip over my lips to tell her to be quiet. I walk over to her, not wanting to be near her, but needing to touch her for what I’m about to do.

I climb on the bed and kiss her cheek. “I forgive you,” I breathe into her ear
, ignoring the stench and indignity that she messed her bed.

Momma’
s lips split farther, blood trickling down the cracks. She tries to smile. She tries to speak. A pained animal-like noise garbles up her throat. I move on the bed and straddle Momma’s emaciated waist without making a sound. I pull a pillow from beside her head and hold her eyes.

She swallows and licks her lips. “Kill me,” she
weakly begs.

“I am, Momma,” I
solemnly whisper to her.

“Thank you, Faith.
” Swallows, more blood flows down the splits in her cracked lips. Her pale tongue clears it away so she can speak. “Thank you, daughter,” she cries, using the last vestiges of her strength. I stifle the sound with the pillow before Mitchell can hear her.

I
firmly hold the pillow over her face. Using as much leverage as my weight will allow. Momma bucks in her blinds- her body fighting for life, even though her mind seeks the sweet release of death.

I smoother my mother- not out of vengeance or anger. I offer Lara Simpson mercy. I could have released her, but they would have tracked her across the world and back. Lara’s belief in her God and her guilt
over killing Daddy would have made her war between suicide and life. She wouldn’t have been able to live with the nightmare that she just endured- she was too weak, and I understand the difference now. The strong protect the weak and offer mercy. When caught, and she would have been caught, Momma would have suffered this travesty all over again and again and again until Mitchell’s perversions were satisfied. I could have said my goodbyes and left her, but she would’ve endured hours of countless rape and indignities until they snuffed her flame out in an agonizing way.

Momma’s body
fights me. She thrashes, yanking on her binds. I have to grip her hips with my thighs so that I don’t get bucked off. Deep mournful sounds flow from her chest as my fingers grip the pillow and firmly push. Her muscles spasm, several big quakes… and then she stills. I can feel the life drain from her, flow from her, as she falls lax and at peace to the soiled mattress.

Lara
’s no longer my momma. She’s just a shell, just a skin housing that she used to embody. The eyes no longer hold the eternal spark of life- they no longer look like Lara’s eyes.

I don’t feel sick
, as I thought I would.
I don’t feel regret, as I thought I would.
I don’t feel bad, as I thought I would.

I feel alive.
I feel energized.
I feel good.

I gave Lara mercy when she deserved none
. I ended her suffering because she couldn’t endure her punishment.

My momma is at peace because of me.

I don’t kiss her goodbye, she’s no longer there. It’s just a body lying on the bloody, waste-filled mattress. I take the pillow that is covered in her blood and leave the scene of Lara Simpson’s death.

My grandfather is peacefully sleeping. His snores fill the air. Why does he get to sleep and wake another day when he is evil? A deep hunger- a need to kill fills me, flows through me, runs over me, and tries to control me. I shove it
deep down- I am not evil. What I did was not evil. I will not kill out of anger or thirst.

I lay the pillow next to my grandfather’s head, blood-side up. I run my finger through my mother’s co
oling blood. I paint an X on Mitchell’s forehead.

Mitchell Meyers’ has been marked for death. His days are numbered. When the anger fades, I will be the one to look in his eyes and see the light fade out. It won’t be for his mercy, but for the mercy of all of those who are directly affect
ed by his life. It will be a cause of great celebration. 

~Chapter Forty-One~

A weight has been lifted, a turning point in my life taken. I slip out the master bedroom and listen. Being caught before was bad. Being caught after committing murder, taking the pleasure of rape, torture, and death from my grandfather, and marking my grandfather for death- if I were caught now, I would be in Hell.

“Ahh…” a throaty moan pours from the room at my right. “Every time we fuck is better than the last,” my mother purrs in ecstasy. Leave it to my mother to get fucked while a woman was being tortured, raped, and murdered in her home. For Gwen the Whore, sex is always the answer.

“I’m going to cum,” she groans
, and I hate her even more. That cunt can get off when I can’t- fucking figures.

I need to get out of here. Roman is waiting. I have to get back to Stanton’s before he wakes for work. He always checks in our rooms before he leaves. If I’m awake, we eat breakfast together. If I’m sleepy, he says his goodbyes and leaves. Stanton is the master of schedules…
and nothing breaks his routine.

I should leave… but I can’t. I have to see what shmuck is
aptly screwing Gwen’s brains out. The door is cracked, leaking out the mingled moans and the sound of a bed being pounded into the wall. I cross the hallway in the blink of an eye, seeking the solace in the shadows along the wall. Three steps and I’m at the crack in the door. The moans are stronger, the panting labored and ragged, the sounds of sex are violent and intoxicating.

Only self-preservation keeps the gasp silent. My wor
ld dissolves and fractures into thousands of little pieces of hope, love, and trust, only to float away into the dark abyss. There is no such thing as love, hope, and trust for a bad girl named Syn- a whore and a murder.

In the tryst with my mother is Wil. Wil is
fucking Gwen senseless with a look of rapture on his harsh face. Sweat beads down his muscular back, drawing my attention to the fingers leaving crescent moons in the pale flesh of his perfect ass. Wil’s arms are taut as he violently thrusts into my mother- each wave of his hips drives her higher, her moans louder.