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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Dark · #2299729

Amelia has a newfound hobby in her basement, one that's a little bit messy.

Pools of red drenched the floor and splashed the walls, a testament to the brutality Greg already endured. His body collapsed forward against the chains pinning him to the chair.

Amelia leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette and examining her handiwork. Dark gray eyes twinkled among the drying streaks on her skin.

“Do you think you can handle much more?” she asked.

Greg couldn’t answer, his lips swollen shut and his vocal cords raw from screaming. Blood caked his nostrils, burying the scent of smoke in the ripe tang of iron and suffering. Still, he recognized if he didn’t acknowledge her, she might take to doing something worse than talking. He mumbled incoherently, making her toss her head back with laughter.

A light switched on upstairs, and they both froze. Footsteps thumped against the floor, and hope lit in Greg’s chest. He thrashed against the chains, causing arcs of pain to blaze across his body, and summoned all his strength to shriek for help.

Without a word, she leaped across the room, pinning him against the chair and covering his mouth.

A mammoth shape blocked the doorway at the top of the stairwell, a gun extended before him. Rescue!

The cop descended the stairs, pausing when his gaze examined the room. His eyes widened. “What is going on here?”

Amelia released him, raising her hands into the air, and backed up from Greg. The cop studied him, but Greg’s hope for salvation died as he watched the expression change from shock to recognition and hatred.

It was the same cop who investigated him for the disappearance of the neighborhood children. The same cop who knew he was responsible but unable to prove it.

“It’s you! Amelia, I wasn’t here.”

Greg cried as the cop turned his back and hefted his weight back up the stairs. It was too late for regrets and forgiveness.


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