Forsaken Control (Oathkeepers MC) (7 page)

After a few minutes, he takes a deep cleansing breath. His body finally relaxes a little, shoulders deflating. His sapphire-colored eyes glance to me, hurt and confusion awash inside his irises. He gazes at me as if
I’m
the one who has betrayed
him
, but all I’ve done is craved to have him.

“Everything will fucking be okay,” I mumble, attempting to show him some compassion, but I suck at that sort of thing. He blinks, the shutters coming up and he nods.

“Yep. My bad. Guess I should say thanks for calming me down and bake you a fuckin’ cookie now.”

I release him, backing away. I get it. He’s pissed, and I probably embarrassed him by manhandling him, but I’m fucking done with his little attitude.

Cain comes to stand beside me, and I silently beg my dick to go down. Cain knows I’m kinky and shit, that I like other things sexually. I’m closest to him, and I don’t want him knowing ‘bout the shit I really struggle with daily.

2 Piece shakes his head, staring at the ground, then meets Cain’s gaze. “Sorry ‘bout that, Cain. Didn’t mean to get so fuckin’ heated. I know this ain’t your shit an’ all.”

“Look, it’s cool, bro. I’d probably flip the fuck out if I had a sister I pretty much raised, dating an outlaw biker too.” Cain brushes it off and fist bumps 2 Piece. I guess he would be the most understanding, as he goes crazy and fights people quite frequently.

2 Piece nods, clearly still distracted and straightens his clothes out, quickly taking off to go inside the clubhouse.

I take a deep breath, sighing and glancing back at the Prez to find him staring at me curiously.
Shit.
I hope he didn’t catch anything more than what Cain did, but I have a feeling he just figured out something. Prez is way too smart and observant, part of the reason why he makes such a good President to a bunch of hard ass bikers.

“What was that all about, Ares?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I play it off, shrugging. I know what it was, though. He’s pissed at Twist and with the crazy tension between 2 Piece, Avery and me since the last time we were together. It’s making all three of us a little irritable.

“I thought y’all were close an’ all?” Cain peeps up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Prez lightly slaps me on the back. “Son, you know what he means. You, Avery, and 2 have a different sort of closeness. I know Cain is your boy and that you’re family to me, but they are different for you.”

I glance at him, unsure. I’ve never let anyone in on anything remotely close to this. Why would I? So they can make fun of me and shit like my father used to? I remember the lines he used to taunt me with as he beat me. I’ll never forget that surreal day in the cold basement that changed my entire fucking life.



I was hungry that day. I never ate much, being scrawny, malnourished, and abused regularly. Life was awful with my whore of a mother, but at least I usually had some bread to eat.

With my father, however, I stole what little bits of food I could and ate at my one and only friend’s house. If it got too bad, I’d occasionally look in a few dumpsters behind the small restaurant near our shack of a house.

Our creepy, old house was covered in wooden shingles, the white wash paint was worn off in many places, and the wood was slowly rotting away. Weeds and trash littered the yard surrounded with a chain link fence. Not that it mattered. Who’d willingly want to go to a place like that? There were three small concrete steps leading to a shoebox-sized, screened-in front porch. The screens, however, had all been broken and stripped out.

My father liked to sit on that porch and wait for me to come in. Sometimes I could sneak into a back window, but he usually caught me. His scantily-dressed women would come to the front porch, too, and bring him wads of money. I never understood why they would want to come to our house to give money to someone as awful as my father. Wouldn’t you rather give money to nice people?

If the women showed up with little or no money, he would beat them. One nasty looking dark girl came; she was as skinny as me at the time, and he caught her poofy hair on fire when she didn’t give him what he wanted. Her screams didn’t bother me then, though; I was used to all of the screaming, whether it be from me or someone else.

When it was my turn to experience his wrath, I stopped realizing I was even doing the screaming. It’s like I went to a completely different world, escaping and making everything bad disappear. Sometimes when I would bleed a lot, I would imagine I was going to pass out and never wake up again. I wouldn’t ever have to feel the pain caused by him again.

I tried to hide the bruises and cuts. The first time my friend’s dad saw me, he had freaked out. Dom lied and told his dad that he and I had been jumped by some boys at school. I was so scrawny at the time that his dad had believed him.

That was just one of the many times Dom had lied for me. I had been at his house eating dinner right before I came home and
it
all happened.

I always did my best to be silent and invisible. My father had various “tools” in the basement; some he would use to tie people up to, and others he would utilize to hurt people. I hated that room and did whatever I could to stay away from him and it.

I should have known he’d be there waiting for me. I was sneaking in through the back window close to my room, attempting to be as quiet as possible.

I had just put my feet on the nasty matted old carpet when I was slammed into from the side and shoved into the hallway wall. Old bruises caused pain to shatter throughout my body as I collided with the hard surface.

“OOOMPF!” I let loose an aching gasp, my undernourished body trembling, knowing he’s within ten feet of me.

“Sneaky, sneaky! You thought I wouldn’t smell you, rat?”

He reached out and snatched my midnight black hair. One trait passed down from my mother. He flung my head forward, causing an ache to splinter up my scalp as he threw me to the floor.

Self-preservation kicked in as I began to crawl, screaming at my limbs to move. My fingertips ached as I clawed at the carpet, attempting to move my frail body.

“Get to the basement! It’s time I teach you a lesson about sneaking into my house, faggot.”

He followed me and shoved me with his foot as I crept toward the basement door. I knew if I didn’t go willingly, he would only make it worse on me. I tried to escape the basement trip once before. I’ll never do
that
again; it’s amazing I even survived.

I crawled as quickly as I could, knowing if I didn’t keep going, he’d kick me…hard. The last time I quit crawling, he’d kicked me a couple times, dragged me to the door, and threw me down the wooden stairs.

Once I got to the basement door, I forced myself to get to my feet. When standing, I now came up to his chin. He hated that I was growing; in fact, the bigger I got, the worse the beatings and “lessons” got. He barely paid attention to me when I was small, save the occasional smacks of his belt for allowing myself to be seen.

I feel the cold metal of the door handle twist against my palm. I know I’m just a few steps from agony, and I feel my stomach churn in dread.

The door opens, and I sit on the first step. I slowly scoot down the stairs on my butt like I always have. It’s the only way I can go down them without him kicking me first and making me tumble down.

With each zing of pain against my tailbone as it connects with step after step, a new wave of panic sets in.

I can’t possibly handle this. My body is too broken to deal with any more; I don’t think I can take anything else. I won’t live this time. I know he’s going to kill me eventually…maybe tonight. Why does he want to hurt me? Why does he hate me so badly? I know it would be easier to just let him kill me than to live day by day in endless pain. I’m young and I shouldn’t ache all the time or worry about chipped teeth or my bones not healing right. I hear Dom’s mom talking to his dad about these things. I pretend I don’t hear her talk, but I do.

I got to go to school while my mom was alive. I didn’t have to stop going until he made me, when my mom was murdered by that fat man.

Discomfort climbs up my back as I collide with another step going down. He’s killing me this time; I can feel it. His desire to take my blood and my life radiate like a fog around him.

I only have one step left…only one more to go. This is it; this is the last step I will go down.

One…oh, no…just one more. My heart speeds up rapidly as if I may have a heart attack and I start to pant as panic sets in. The basement air is cool, but my forehead is covered in sweat.

My head feels foggy as I scan over every surface in the dim basement. I don’t know it until it happens, but somehow I hit my father. I’d made my way to the freezer before he caught up to me.

I remember gripping the hammer and swinging it; each swing colliding with his jaw. He didn’t see it coming. It had never crossed his mind that I’d ever fight back or attempt to escape.

Blinking in shock, I swing the hammer as hard as possible again when he stumbles. I can feel the impact of the hammer connect with his skull—both squishy and hard all at once. 

My father falls. His dark eyes like mine widen in shock as he sees me charge for him. Once he hits the ground, I climb over his body, straddling him, swinging the hammer again and again. With each strike, his blood splatters all over my fingers, my hands and arms, my face. Each new blow brings a new spray of the thick crimson liquid, and I can’t seem to stop myself. Over and over, I slam the strong metal into his broken skull. I can feel the hate climbing down my arms, feeding into the frenzy of finishing him until he’s completely gone and can no longer touch me.

I finally stop, my arms feeling beyond heavy and I don’t think I could take another swing if I’d wanted to. Dropping the hammer to my side, I hear it make contact with the concrete floor. The air I’d been holding deep inside my lungs finally escapes in a rush. My chest feels tight and achy and the heaviness soon covered my entire body.

Glancing down, I cherish my stained hands and watch the blood droplets running down my forearms. Instead of being frightened, I rub my hands up and down my arms, coating my skin in his blood as if to empower me. The feeling that washes over me is liberating as I wear the blood of my enemy.

My father no longer moves, but I know I will never be free of him. He terrorizes me in my sleep, and I know he will continue to haunt me in the darkness, even after he’s no longer here. His face is missing; just a bloody slop in place of his once evil expression. His body remains intact, so I must do something to stop him. He can’t ever hurt me again. I have to figure out a way to make it all go away;
he
has to go away completely.

I gaze around the basement, taking in each of his tools and contraptions of horror until my eyes stop on his miter saw.
Perfect.

His big, muscular body is extremely heavy as I attempt to drag him over to the saw that rests on the bottom shelf of his bench table. My arm muscles weaken and hurt so badly, but I keep on.

I shift and pull his body, shuffling in small steps as I watch his blood smear along the basement floor. Nothing is going to stop this from happening. After countless methods of torture and agony, it’s
his
turn, and I don’t care if he can feel it or not. This is for
me
, not
him
.

I drop his ankle, scooting the old saw off the dusty shelf and as near to him as the black cord will allow me to. The extension cord gets me barely close enough to reach his knee. That’s okay. I just move his large body closer.

That’s how it all began…how I became the Butcher.

I started with his ankle, taking one body part at a time. I pushed that saw blade down…the shrill sound…the grinding and smoking as it sliced through his flesh. I can still feel the way the warm blood felt as it sprayed over me.

Dom knows, but not really. He found me that night in the basement. He had never come to my house before, but his father had told him I should stay with them from now. His dad was tired of seeing me hurt, and this was his way of offering me freedom from my father. His father had no idea that I’d created my own stairway to light…to my own escape.

I worked tirelessly cleaning and scrubbing up the gruesome mess I’d left in the basement, just like my father had made me clean up all of the bloody messes before that. As I sprayed disinfectant and dabbed at the last bits of blood, I wiped them away, and I laughed.

I fucking laughed because I had overcome such torture, that I was awash in his own blood this time, and
I
was the one still alive.

I moved in with Dom until I was old enough to find the Oath Keepers MC. We never spoke of that night; in fact, he pretended it never even happened in the first place. I, on the other hand, replayed that shit over in my mind every goddamn day of my life, smiling inside at the fact that fucker was dead and gone.



“Son? You okay, boy?” Prez’s gruff voice rouses me.

“I’m not a boy, old man.”

“And I ain’t no fuckin’ old man, so I guess we’re even.” He chuckles.

Grinning slightly, I nod.

Prez was the first person to really draw me out of my shell. He knew what I needed, being young and confused. He could sense the anger inside, the need for blood occasionally to help keep the beast dormant. He would have me fight sometimes, especially with all of the working out I was doing. I bulked up quickly. I was damn near living in the gym when we first met. The lifting and running helped keep me from wanting to slaughter anyone who made a stupid remark or snide comment in my direction. They had no clue the type of person they were talking about, what I had been through, and what I had to overcome in order to survive.

“I was askin’ if you’re all right. You seemed far off for a whole minute. I remember what that glazed look means, Ares.” He grasps my shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. I tower over the older man, but he doesn’t worry. He’s shown me nothing but kindness. “Cain and I know ‘bout you carin’ for Avery and 2 Piece. Maybe you ought to talk to them ‘bout it?”