Key to Hell (Hell Night Series Book 4), page 2
So many things passed between us then. All the remembered pain and suffering. Every single agonizing touch I inflicted on her. Every degrading and revolting thing Father did to her. Every minute we were together, the good, the bad, and everything in between.
It’s those thoughts that have my hand letting up on the key. I want to gouge the fuck out of my flesh. I want to rip it away until it scrapes against the bone. But I want to see Rella more, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let the first time we meet again after so many years, after everything she’s been through, be with my arms torn to shreds.
A door upstairs clicks open, and I’m on my feet within seconds. Trouble’s worried gaze meets mine as he descends the stairs. His eyes flicker down to my hand that’s fisting the key once again, a steady flow of blood dripping on the floor. My body is rigid, and my jaw muscles hurt from clenching my teeth so hard.
Rationally, I understand his reasoning in wanting to talk to Rella first, but it still pisses me off that he’s kept me from seeing her.
“She wants to see you,” he rumbles thickly.
He’s just as affected by today’s revelation as I am. He’s always loved his sister fiercely and felt the pain of not being able to protect her, of not being able to save her. His guilt is different from mine, but it’s still there and it’s still just as crippling.
He jerks his chin to my hand and then to the bathroom a few feet away. “Come.”
I want to snarl “fuck you” and sprint up the stairs to Rella, but I follow him instead. As impatient as I am to see her, I don’t want to walk in the room with blood pouring from my hand and frighten her.
He already has the first aid kit out when I step in the bathroom. Walking to the sink, I turn it on and stick my hand under the flow of water. It immediately turns a pinkish color as the blood is washed away. There are scabs from older wounds, along with the new ones and the scars of the past.
I grab a rag from the side of the sink and begin scrubbing.
“Give me the key,” he demands, his palm up and open, while the other hand holds a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“Fuck you,” I grunt. He knows better than to ask me to give him the key. That piece of silver hasn’t left my possession in years, and it never will.
“Then put it in your pocket and leave it the fuck there. She doesn’t need to see that shit.”
I ignore the indignation in his tone and stuff the bloody key in my pocket. I already had plans to put it away anyway.
“Has she told you anything?” I ask gruffly.
The hand that’s reaching out for my injured one pauses. He continues and flips it over. I’m a grown man who can take care of his own wounds, but most of the time I don’t give a shit about them enough to do so.
He pours the alcohol over the open gashes. The sting feels like fire licking along my skin, but I soak up the pain like a junkie enjoys the effects of heroine. When he puts the bottle down on the sink, I grab it and pour on more. His brows slant down, but he doesn’t stop me. He knows my need of pain is what helps keep the demons at bay. At least for a while.
“No,” he answers my question belatedly. “But something’s not right with her.”
I jerk my head up and glare at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. She won’t let me get near her.”
I scowl and yank the antibiotic ointment from him, slather some on my palm, and toss the tub back in the kit. I personally don’t give a shit if my hand rots off, but Judge’s daughter, Maisy, made me promise to take better care of my wounds. As much as I’ve fought it, that innocent little girl does my insides in.
“I should have listened to you that night,” he remarks quietly, pain lacing his tone.
“You didn’t know. There was no way for any of us to know she was still alive. There was a fuckin’ funeral, for fuck’s sake.”
He nods, but I still see the guilt eat at him.
I stand there impatiently as he wraps my hand in gauze, then takes care of the small prick on my forearm. Once he’s finished, I push down the sleeves of my shirt and turn to leave the bathroom. He grabs my arm, stopping me.
“I know this is hard on you, Emo. I can’t even imagine what’s going through your head right now. Just… watch your actions around her. We don’t know anything about where she’s been or what she’s been through.”
My lips form a tight line, and I jerk my chin up. In other words, don’t mutilate my body in front of her.
Got it.
Leaving him to clean up the mess in the bathroom, I go back out to the stairs. JW’s no longer there, but I spot him in the kitchen, chugging on a beer. I stop at the bottom, looking up until I see the door that hides the most shameful part of my past. I don’t scare easily. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I was scared, but I’m fucking terrified right now. She says she wants to see me, but what if it’s only to spit in my face and scream at me for all the stuff I did all those years ago? What if she looks at me with fright in her eyes? I wouldn’t blame her, I loathe myself for what happened, but it’ll still gut me beyond repair. I’d give anything to go back in time and somehow stop Father, to kill him the first time he made me hurt her, to take away every painful thing done to her.
My hand fists, and I wish I had the key in my grip. The small piece of silver burns against my thigh. Reaching in my pocket, I run my finger along the grooves. It soothes me just enough for me to take the first step. I pull in a deep breath and take two more. Three more steps has my breaths coming in short pants. I grit my teeth and take the remaining.
Once I’m standing in front of the door, the hand I have shoved in my pocket is gripping the key. I relax my hand, pulling it out and looking at my palm. There’re no punctures, only red indents.
I twist my neck from side to side to relieve some of the tension. Gearing myself for fuck knows what, I rap my knuckles against the door.
“Come in,” a soft voice calls from the other side. I close my eyes at the sound. Her voice is deeper, less high-pitched and more feminine.
Gripping the doorknob with my bandaged hand, I twist and push open the door. At first, I don’t see her, and a second of panic chokes me. A rustling of clothes comes from my left, and my eyes dart that way.
The curtains are mostly closed and the light is off, but it’s still easy for me to make out her figure rising from a chair in the corner. I saw her standing outside The Hill, and again when she came inside, but I’m still no less shocked. Besides those two times, the last time I was with her, she was ten and so damn small. While her frame is still small, she’s a grown woman now, no longer the girl who was innocent despite the horrific things she was forced to do.
Her thick dark-brown hair is long and straight, her complexion pale against the dark strands. Her slightly slanted green eyes watch me warily, as if she’s unsure of my reaction to her. She has on a pair of black skinny jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves so long they cover half of her palms. She’s paired her outfit with black boots that come to mid-thigh. Both the jeans and shirt do nothing to hide the womanly curves of her body.
I try to look past the obvious visual of her and search for any physical marks or scars of any kind. I don’t find any, but that doesn’t mean jack shit. She could be hiding all her imperfections.
I’m rendered speechless, having no idea what to say to her. What is there to say when you’re faced with the girl you were forced to rape repeatedly when she was just a kid? The same girl you thought was dead for twenty-four years.
Her eyes flicker down to my bandaged hand, and I hope like fuck she doesn’t ask me what happened. I won’t lie to her, but I would hate giving her the truth.
When she opens her mouth and I hear her voice face-to-face for the first time in twenty-four years, it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“Hello, Aziah.”
CHAPTER TWO
RELLA
ALL I CAN DO IS STARE AT HIM. The boy who played a vital role in my disturbing childhood is standing not even ten feet away. Equal amounts of awe, fear, and elation flow through my limbs. I want to run to him and beg him to hold me, but I also want to run away.
It’s not him I fear; I’ve never been afraid of Aziah. It’s the pain of my past, a past that’s connected to him, that petrifies me. He was just as much of a victim as I was, and I’ve never held him accountable for the things his dad made him do to me, but even so, when I see Aziah, I see his dad. I feel the phantom pain of being violated.
He’s so much bigger than I remember. Not as tall and muscular as my brother, but still very much imposing. His black hair is longer, several clumps hanging over his forehead and almost in his eyes. The pure blackness of his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. He’s wearing all black, just like me. The expression on his face suggests he’s just as wary as I am.
My eyes slide down to the hand wrapped in gauze. I’m curious what happened to him. The bandage wasn’t there when I saw him inside The Hill a couple of hours ago.
My throat feels thick. What if he doesn’t want to see me? Maybe I remind him of a past he wants to forget too? But I heard him downstairs. I heard him breaking things and yelling. I heard the desperation in his voice when we first arrived and Trouble whisked me upstairs to this room. He sounded upset and mad, almost manic.
I lick my dry lips and open my mouth to speak. At first, I can’t get the words out. It’s been so long since I’ve used his name.
“Hello, Aziah.”
He closes his eyes, and I’m momentarily stunned at the peaceful look that crosses his face. Even as a young child, despite the disturbing situations we were forced into, I’ve always felt a closeness to him. I loved my brother, JW, and Judge, but what I felt for Aziah was different. Regardless of him being smack dab in the middle of my nightmare, he was my champion. Trouble protected me as much as he could, and I knew he would do anything to take away my pain, but Aziah was always there with me. He experienced the same horror I did.
Aziah opens his eyes, his expression moving from calm to once again tortured. His back hits the wall and he slides down with his knees drawn to his chest. His position reminds me of a small child, huddling his body as tightly as he can.
I don’t like looking down at him, so I sit down on the floor and mirror his position, except I hug my legs and rest my chin on my knees.
“You were dead,” he whispered brokenly. “We buried you.”
My chest aches at the blatant pain he’s feeling.
“How…?” He stops when his voice cracks.
I know I have a lot of explaining to do. This is a shock for everyone. As much as I don’t want to talk about it, it’s something I owe him. I haven’t told Trouble yet, much to his frustration. I don’t know why, but I wanted Aziah to be the first to know.
“I’m not sure.” I close my eyes and think back to that day. The pain of the knife sliding over my wrists. The blissful feeling it gave me, knowing my nightmare was almost over. And the agony that came afterward. I open my eyes and look at him. “After I… slit my wrists, I blacked out. I woke up a few days later in a dark room. At first, I didn’t know where I was. I remembered slitting my wrists and couldn’t understand why I was still alive. My whole body hurt so badly I could barely move, and when I tried, I couldn’t. My arms were held down by thick straps. So were my legs. I screamed so loud that it hurt my ears. That was when Dr. Manor came into the room, and I realized I was in his office. He injected something in my arm, and that’s all I remember until a week later, when I woke up somewhere else. I wasn’t in Sweet Haven anymore.”
Torment creeps across Aziah’s face, and I feel his pain like it’s my own. “I heard you,” he croaks. “I fuckin’ heard you,” he says louder, anger mixing with his pain. “I thought I was losing my mind, but I wasn’t. It was you. Fuck!”
His legs drop down flat and one of his hands frantically moves to his pocket, digging inside and pulling something out. He fists whatever it is and squeezes his eyes closed. I watch helplessly as his features twist in affliction.
My eyes widen when a drop of blood from his fist drips to the floor. What in the world is in his hand? The need to go to him and somehow soothe away his pain is great, but I hold my spot on the floor, afraid to get too close.
“Aziah.”
He flinches, but thankfully opens his eyes. When they focus back on me, some of the ache leaves his features. My eyes move to his hand and his eyes follow, then widen as if he didn’t realize what he was doing.
Slowly, he puts his hand back in his pocket and pulls it out again, keeping his fingers tightly closed.
“Where have you been this whole time?”
I drag my eyes away from his hand, wishing I had the nerve to go to him, peel away his fingers and see the damage he left behind.
“I was sent to a friend of the Moores, Marco and Gabriela.”
“Did they—”
I don’t let him finish. I know what he’s asking, but I can’t bear to hear the words.
“Yes.” My nightmare didn’t stop when I left Sweet Haven. It continued for fourteen more years.
Rage blazes in his eyes, the look so sharp it staggers me, and I hug my legs tighter.
“Where?”
“Just north of San Antonio.”
By his expression, he doesn’t like that answer. I can understand why. I was less than two hours away.
“You got away?” I nod. “How?”
I dig my nails into the sides of my calves. “We were out one day and came across Deanna and Mick, Jenny’s parents. I was twenty-four then, so it was ten years ago. They cornered me when I went to the bathroom. I didn’t remember who they were until they mentioned Sweet Haven and explained they were Jenny’s parents. I was scared at first, didn’t trust them, but then they told me how they escaped Sweet Haven years ago and were the ones who told the authorities about what was happening. They wanted me to go with them, and I was so desperate to get away from Marco and Gabriela that I took the chance. I figured it couldn’t be worse than what I was going through already, so I left with them. Two months later, we moved to Odessa.”
“Where are they now?” he growls, the blackness in his eyes turning sinister. The looks sends a shiver slithering down my spine.
“Deanna and Mick? They died nine months ago from a car accident.”
A pang hits my chest at the reminder. Deanna and Mick were the first adults after I was taken from Sweet Haven who were nice to me. They told me everything; from them being active Hell Night members until they had Jenny, to them growing to hate the activities, to their escape and plan to tell the authorities about the town, to the pain of leaving Jenny behind. Over the years, I grew to love them and was extremely grateful they persuaded me to go with them that day.
“No!” I almost jump at the harsh word. “Marco and Gabriela. Where are they?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
His eyes narrow dangerously, his fist clenching and unclenching. I wonder what he’s thinking. I personally don’t care where Marco and Gabriela are, so long as it’s far from me.
“Why are you just now coming back here? Why haven’t you ever tried to get in touch with Trouble?”
Guilt churns in my stomach. I missed my brother terribly, especially those first few years. We were very close growing up, and he tried his best to protect me as much as he could. I can’t count the times I’d sneak in his room at night to sleep with him when I had nightmares. He always held me tight and whispered stories to me until I fell asleep. That’s where my nickname Rella came from. Cinderella was my favorite story. He read it to me so many times, he didn’t need the book anymore. When we all decided to give ourselves nicknames because we hated our real names, I came up with Rella because I hoped my prince would save me one day. Unfortunately, that day never came. I never called Aziah by his nickname though. He was given his because he felt emotions about as much as a sack of potatoes. Or that’s what Trouble, Judge, and JW said. I always saw a different side of him. He felt emotions, probably more than anyone else; he just learned how to hide it.
A tear slips from the corner of my eye and trickles down my cheek. I ignore it and look back at Aziah.
“I was scared,” I whisper, so low I’m not sure he hears me. Apparently he does, because his face contorts. “I knew you were all here. I had Deanna and Mick try to find you about six months after they took me from Marco and Gabriela. When they told me you were here, back in the same place that caused us all so much pain, it terrified me. I wanted my brother back, I wanted my friends back, I wanted you back, but I just couldn’t….” I shake my head and close my eyes, a couple of tears flying from my cheeks and landing on my hand. “I couldn’t come back here.”
When I open my eyes, I’m surprised to see that he’s no longer against the door, but only a couple of feet from me on his knees. I tense, every molecule in my body freezing, and the air in my lungs get stuck. It’s not him who sends fear racing through me, it’s anyone who gets within touching distance. It doesn’t simply scare me to have someone close, it terrifies me so much I do one of two things: become petrified or become hysterical. At the moment, I’m not sure which reaction I’ll have.
I throw my hand up in the air, desperate for him to stay back, at the same time wishing so much I wasn’t like this. I know he wants to offer comfort. I’d give anything to be able to accept it, but after living most of my life with people who have hurt me any time they touched me, it’s hard to learn to live life a different way. Marco and Gabriela didn’t limit their abuse to only once a month like the adults in Sweet Haven. I felt their filthy hands every day.
I know Aziah would never willingly hurt me, but it’s ingrained in me to automatically expect anyone close enough to hurt me.
“Please don’t,” I croak hoarsely, feeling my body closing down. My head swims and my mouth dries up. I will the terror away, but it stays locked inside, consuming me in its dark grip.
