Torture to Her Soul Read online

  J.M. Darhower

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 by Jessica Mae Darhower

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Bonus Scene

  Acknowledgements

  To anyone who has ever fallen in love with the last person they should ever give their heart to.

  This is for you.

  Secrets are a funny thing.

  You keep them bottled up, hidden thoughts nobody else hears. It makes it hard for others to get close to you—for them to ever really know you—when you hold the deepest parts of yourself back, only letting people graze the surface.

  But some secrets, I think, are better left unspoken.

  Sometimes secrets have the power to kill. The power to destroy. We each hold nuclear weapons inside of us, our fingers always hovering over the buttons for detonation. Most of us press them. Some of us don't.

  I wish I had that kind of restraint.

  I envy those who keep everyone at an arm's distance.

  I'm weak.

  Too fucking weak.

  I let her get too close to me.

  I heard this saying once, long ago, that I've never forgotten: three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead. I've spilled many secrets in my life, secrets that always ended up with somebody dying. Sometimes because of me, and other times... well... because of me. I think about them when I lie in bed at night, see their faces when I close my eyes, relive the moments the buttons were pressed and everything around me imploded.

  I'm a haunted man.

  Darkness surrounds me.

  Figuratively.

  Literally.

  It's dark.

  It's that heavy sort of darkness, the kind you can feel when you breathe, the denseness filling your lungs and slowly suffocating you. There's no relief in this darkness… only more torture. Sweat coats my skin as the summer humidity clings to the air, making it hard to find a shred of comfort. I toss and turn, restless, in and out of sleep, losing seconds, minutes, hours...

  Every time I look, the clock in the bedroom reads something different, the glowing red numbers taunting me.

  11:43 pm

  12:11 am

  1:45 am

  2:09 am

  Rolling over onto my back, I squeeze my eyes shut, throwing an arm over my face, trying to force myself to stop looking at that damn clock. It dictates my life and I hate it. I fucking hate it. The silence is strained, the noises from the old house settling exaggerated to my ears. There's nothing peaceful about it.

  Another creak.

  A wooden floorboard groans.

  The bed shifts suddenly.

  I move my arm and open my eyes, my gaze hitting the ceiling when I'm jolted. I find nothing but darkness above me, the glow from the alarm clock in my peripheral.

  Slowly, turning my head, I look at the time again.

  2:45 am

  Another noise.

  A loud click.

  My heart skips a beat before hammering hard in my chest.

  I know that sound.

  It's not normal.

  Unnatural.

  The cocking of a shotgun.

  I sit up, blinking rapidly, desperately seeking out whatever's in the darkness, but it takes too long for my eyes to adjust. No, her eyes adjust before mine, and she sees it… she sees the predator.

  She realizes we're the prey.

  "Naz!" Her voice is a panicked scream. "Oh God, Naz!"

  I'm frozen. It's only a second. Just one second delay until my vision finally adjusts. I stare at the familiar face—a face that smiled at me hours ago, like there was nothing but love between us. A face, I realize, of a man who held secrets. A man I didn't really know.

  The face of my best friend.

  It's only a second, but it's a second too long.

  A second of hesitation that takes away everything I love.

  BANG

  The noise explodes into a fiery light that jars me, thrusting me to consciousness. I sit straight up, once more smothered by the darkness. I gasp for air, sweat pouring down my face. I blink rapidly, the scene greeting me again and again every time I close my eyes.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Fuck.

  No matter how much I try, I can't forget it.

  I can't stop seeing it.

  I can't stop reliving it.

  The bed beside me shifts, and for a moment I convince myself it wasn't real. It was just my imagination. That's it.

  It didn't actually happen.

  I'm okay.

  She's not dead.

  But when I look over, it's not Maria's eyes that regard me, not her face I see, and reality comes crashing down all over again.

  It wasn't a nightmare.

  No, it was a memory.

  Karissa eyes me cautiously in the darkness, but she says nothing. She doesn't try to console me or ask what's wrong. She doesn't have to.

  She probably already knows.

  She knows me.

  Sighing, I look away from her as acceptance sinks in, instinctively glancing toward the stand beside my bed, seeking out an alarm clock I haven't owned in twenty years. I wonder what time it is now… wonder if it even matters anymore.

  Time stopped at 2:45 am that day.

  I've been stuck in the darkness ever since.

  I'm going to tell you a secret.

  A secret I've never told anybody.

  I, Ignazio Vitale, have always been afraid of the dark.

  If you tell anyone that, I'll kill you.

  My life is a case study of gluttony.

  If you're looking for an apology about that, you'll want to look elsewhere. I'm not sorry in the least. Everything I do, I do it in excess; everything I have, I have more of than I'll ever need.

  What can I say? I don't deny myself anything.

  I've killed over a dozen men in my life. More than two dozen, if we're being honest here. I stopped counting long ago. I kill, and I hurt, but until recently, I only ever really loved once.

  Maria Angelo.

  I thought she was it, thought she was the only one who would ever reach me, the only one to beat through this battered armor I wear. I thought my ability to love ended with her, and I was fine with that. I live my life in excess because it leaves me satisfied. Love, on the other hand, hurts like a son of a bitch.

  I know.

  Believe me, I know.

  I watched love die right in front of me, gasping, struggling for just one more breath life wouldn't grant. I decided, at that moment, that I'd rather just die than feel that again.

  B
ut then she happened.

  I pause in the doorway of the kitchen and casually lean against the wooden doorframe, watching as Karissa cooks. Or tries to cook is more like it. Oil splatters into the air from a pan on the stove, some chicken frying away, the outside of it blackened nearly beyond recognition. A pot in the back boils over, the burner hissing when the liquid hits it, as smoke rolls out from inside the oven.

  "Shit, shit, shit," she chants, popping the pink earbuds out of her ears and draping them around her neck. Grabbing a set of potholders, she yanks open the door, trying to fan away the smoke. It quickly consumes the air around her the same time loud beeps start blaring through the room.

  She casts an angry glare at the nearby smoke detector before pulling out a baking sheet and throwing it on the counter, spouting another string of curses at whatever it is. Biscuits, I assume, although they look like lumps of shit.

  Appetizing.

  I walk over and reach up, popping open the smoke detector and pulling out the battery so it'll stop making noise. Karissa glances at me, offering a timid half-smile in place of any words.

  Words are a rare gift from her these days. She showered me with plenty of scathing ones before they dried up and we entered the drought stage.

  I wait it out, but her silence is deafening.

  Frustrating.

  Downright torture some days.

  She walks around here with those earbuds in her ears, music blaring as she blocks out the world. If she can't hear me, she can pretend I'm not here. If she can't hear me, she thinks I won't waste my breath trying to talk.

  She turns back to the stove, to her burnt food. She's usually better than this, but something has her frazzled. I'm not sure what it is.

  "Everything okay, Karissa?"

  She clicks off both burners as she mutters, "just fucking wonderful."

  My jaw clenches at her tone and I force myself not to react. I don't take to disrespect well, but she dishes it out some days like I'm starving for it.

  Hell, maybe I am.

  Maybe I deserve it.

  But I don't like it.

  At all.

  Instead of pushing her for more of an answer, for a better answer, I just walk out, leaving her to salvage a dinner she knows I won't eat. She does this every day now, part of a routine she settled into this summer, a routine she doesn't often differ from anymore.

  She's predictable, borderline robotic as she fights to keep her emotions from showing around me, like if she does the same things day in and day out, maybe I'll grow complacent and overlook her presence. Like maybe I'll forget about her. Like maybe it's the key to getting away. She doesn't realize that's how I catch people. They think they fade away in the bustle, when they stand out more to me that way.

  She's distracting herself, with these disastrous dinners, these routines, but it doesn't keep her from thinking. From overthinking. Strained silence fuels the most morose thoughts. I know. Believe me, I know. And that just makes it all worse.

  She's a ticking time bomb.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  It's only a matter of time before I clip the wrong wire and she explodes.

  Heading into the den, I take a seat at my desk and pull out my cell phone to call a nearby Chinese place. I order whatever the special is today and request some Beef Lo Mein without any of the vegetables, Karissa's favorite.

  I can hear her moving around in the kitchen, banging cabinets and throwing things. I just lean back in my chair and listen to her chaos, absorbing the impact like it's made with her fists.

  I didn't set out to love her.

  I didn't even plan to like her.

  But it happened... we happened... and I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with that.

  The delivery guy shows up in less than thirty minutes. A new one every time, different places whenever I order out, so nobody can predict where I'm eating from that day. It's not fool proof, but it's certainly proven safer than eating something Karissa makes.

  I pay for the food before curiously strolling toward the dining room. The light is off, but Karissa sits at the table alone. The glow filtering in from the kitchen shows me she has a plate in front of her. She shifts the food around with her fork, not eating it, as she once again has those earbuds in.

  I'm not surprised.

  Another part of her routine: she won't admit defeat.

  Wordlessly, I pull out the carton of Beef Lo Mein and set it on the table beside her before I make my way back into the den, leaving her with a shred of dignity, letting her eat whatever she wants in peace.

  Dealing with people.

  Finding things.

  My specialties.

  I sit in the den, my feet propped up on my desk, leaning back in the leather office chair as I scarf down my dinner. My eyes are trained on the laptop, on the stock ticker scrolling along the screen. I have some of my money invested in various high-profile businesses, legitimate dealings that keep me off the government's radar, but my focus right now is on the little ones, the barely existing penny stocks nobody cares about.

  Chop stocks, they call them.

  You find one, invest, and con a bunch of others into putting their money in, convincing them it's the next big thing, and then as soon as the price skyrockets, you pull your money right back out. The stock will plummet, since it's shit, and everyone else loses out, but you walk away with a pretty profit thanks to the suckers.

  It's illegal, and I don't do it, personally, but it comes with the territory.

  Finding things.

  I've always been good at orchestrating schemes, finding a way to get things, to make money, but it wasn't until I started working for Ray that I really honed my skills. I have connections all over the world now—if somebody needs something, I know a person, or know a person who knows a person who can get whatever it is. It goes hand-in-hand with dealing with people, when it comes down to it. If people are terrified of you—of what you're capable of—they'll never cross you or turn you away.

  That particular skill of mine wasn't discovered until later… until the world I built crashed down around me, leaving me a ruthless shell. When you've got nothing left inside of you except for darkness, it becomes easier to snuff out somebody else's light.

  And that's me. I do what I want, take what I want, and make no apologies for any of it. After all, I wasn't born this way. The world made me who I am, and the world pays for that mistake every day. There's only ever been one thing to evade me, one person to elude me, one clever enough to stay ahead of me all these years.

  Carmela Rita.

  Johnny was easy to find. He took the same route Karissa is taking now: predictability. He played it close to the chest, settled into a routine, buying a house and working a shitty nine-to-five job, hoping to fly under the radar by becoming nothing. Fitting, really, since he was nothing.

  Carmela, on the other hand, shook up her routine, living a life of chaos, of impulsiveness. Whenever I got close to her, she fled, switching tactics, moving on somewhere else.

  She's a lot like me, I think.

  She's smart.

  But I'm smarter.

  It's how I know this isn't over, that killing Johnny hadn't ended anything. I wish she would run again, disappear into another life, create another existence somewhere and never look back, but she won't.

  I know this, because that's not what I'd do.

  Carmela's full of darkness, too. The only light in her life now brightens my home, and she'll come for it. She'll come for Karissa.

  God help her when she does.

  Speaking of the light of my life…

  My eyes shift from the laptop to Karissa when she walks into the den, barely making a sound as she curls up on the couch and grabs the remote control. She turns on the television, keeping the volume low, as she flips straight to the Food Network. A notebook lays open on her lap, a pen tucked between her fingers that she absently shakes as she stares at the screen.

  She takes
notes, like it's important.

  She jots down recipes, like she needs ideas.

  And she studies… and studies… and studies, her nose stuck in that notebook half the damn day, like there's going to be some sort of test at the end of it all, like she's going head-to-head with Bobby Flay or Rachel Ray or whatever obnoxious host she's watching today.

  I close the laptop and finish eating, my attention on Karissa now. I watch her, dissecting her like she dissects whatever's being cooked, breaking her down into tiny fragments like the ingredients she jots down in her notebook.

  I wonder if she knows how much I've done this, how much I've studied her, how well I know her inside and out. I know her sighs and smiles, the meaning behind the crack in her voice and the goose bumps on her skin. I can tell when she's happy, when she's sad, when she's furious all by the gleam in her eyes and the pep in her step. She's an open book, an energetic, emphatic woman, and no matter how hard she fights to keep her emotions from showing, I know what it is she thinks of me.

  I know she hates me.

  I can see it. I can sense it.

  It's written in the tension in her muscles, the way she folds into herself when I'm close, the flush of her body whenever I dare touch her. But I know she loves me, too. Because a fire wages beneath her skin, and not all of it is fueled by anger.

  Every now and then she'll forget she's supposed to despise me, she'll forget she's not allowed to want me.

  She'll forget I'm a monster.

  And all she remembers in the moment, all she knows, all she cares about, is that I'm a man, a man who went through hell, a man who loves her, who swore he wouldn't hurt her, and for the moment she'll let herself believe it. She'll forget I'm the bad guy and remember what it felt like when she thought I was the hero.

  The one who would drown so she could stay afloat.

  That's what I cling to.

  That's the glimmer I look for when I study her.

  It's not there today.

  She's scowling, every inch of her tense, her jaw clenched. She knows I'm looking at her but refuses to so much as even acknowledge I exist.

  I smile, watching her.

  She's trying to hurt me, but all I can think is she's so goddamn beautiful when she's pissed.