NOVEL NEXT vol. 4 chapter 11 - The Last Moment of the Hunt (5)
However, Jerome’s eyes narrowed as though he’d realized something. Instead of the bewildered expression from last night, he grinned mischievously.
“Adorable, foolish Raymond.”
“…”
“I made you a monster, Raymond.”
This was the crucial difference between Jerome and George. Jerome spoke without hesitation—he didn’t say I was born a monster or of their kind from the start. He claimed he himself had made me a monster.
“We’re neither kind nor gentle. We’re monsters.”
Jerome pressed in close. His green eyes gleamed with madness like a snake’s. He stroked my cheek and whispered,
“Raymond, if I untie you now, what will you do?”
“…”
“Will you escape? Pull over, throw me out on the road, and run away? Or will you kill me? Will you rape me, crush my face, gouge out my eyes, cut off my dick and balls, and burn me alive?”
“…”
“Hatred,” Jerome whispered, “is stronger than any bond. We”—he licked his earlobe with his tongue—“have the strongest bond of all.”
Seething, I balled my cloth-wrapped fists and struck Jerome’s head like lightning. I pounced on him and pummeled his skull with both fists. He laughed as the blows rained down. No, he wasn’t helpless—he simply chose not to resist. His arms hung limply as he broke into laughter, even as the handcuffs scraped and blood gushed from his nose. I swung again, determined to smash his teeth, and roared words I didn’t even understand—beastly, meaningless howls.
The van screeched to a halt at the commotion. Someone from the driver’s seat tried to come over. I pressed my forearm down on Jerome’s throat. He coughed and groaned. I squeezed harder and shouted,
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, Jerome!”
He laughed even louder. I leaned on his chest, applying all my weight, screaming into his face. His hand stroked my back, sending a chill down my spine. When I finally looked up, Jerome’s face was smeared with blood, yet he gave me a shy smile.
“It’s a promise.”
Someone from the driver’s seat plunged a stun gun mercilessly into my back. I convulsed and collapsed on the floor as my vision blurred and pain exploded in my skull. Waves of nausea rose. Through the spinning darkness I saw a familiar woman’s face. She roughly gagged me and supported Jerome as he coughed.
My body twisted in convulsions, then finally went limp. In the lull, the woman cleaned Jerome’s face and pressed a handkerchief beneath his nose.
My eyes fluttered open and I looked at her. I recognized her—the green silk blouse she always wore. The first day I arrived at Bluebell, she’d given me a scarf, telling me, “It’s winter here until May,” and held me in her arms.
Anna.
It was Anna.
“Jerome. Please sit up front.”
Anna yanked my collar and hauled me forward. Gasping, I crawled after her. She fastened my leash to the anchor point above the rear seat. I curled up on the floor, watching her. My body twitched now and then from the stun gun’s aftereffects.
I shivered at the thought: I should have killed Jerome, too. I bristled at myself for being outraged that Jerome called me a “monster,” when I’d just beaten his cheek bloody.
Jerome disobeyed Anna. He crawled beside me and lay down alongside me. Anna sighed and watched us for a moment, then, resigned, she started the engine.
We lay face to face. Tears fell without my knowing, but I blinked them away and stared back at Jerome. Still, he was right—I had gone too far. Unlike Matt or James, the moment I left Bluebell I’d become irretrievable. Just as I recognized my hatred and contempt for life in George, in Jerome’s face I found my own madness—a madness now fused to me, writhing inside.
I’m not a dog to be trained. I placed my hand—still wrapped in cloth—on Jerome’s battered cheek and stroked it, as gently as he’d touched mine. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. A shiver ran through me. My toes curled, the hairs on my neck stood on end, and my lips burned. Jerome narrowed his eyes and watched me in silence. I closed mine.
I had been raised as a monster.
The ride back to Laborham was hellish, the drug’s aftereffects amplifying every jolt and bump. Whenever I opened my eyes, the black highway stretched endlessly to the horizon. I trembled, flooded with déjà vu, then thought of James. Realizing I was retracing our escape in the truck brought on fresh waves of torment.
Even with the air conditioner off, I shook with chills. Jerome, sweating in the heat, covered me with blankets upon blankets. He never touched me, only watched me with an inscrutable expression. As night fell, I felt I might freeze to death—yet he wrapped me tighter each time.
Between shivers and losing consciousness, I imagined James sitting beside me. I ached to see him and to keep driving away with him under the blazing sun, along open roads where no traffic lights or lanes mattered. We would sing our own lyrics to pop songs on the radio, toss the map out the window, and go wherever we pleased. But we arrived in Laborham.
I awoke to the sound of construction at the camp. I found myself trapped in the cabin as though I’d never escaped. I was curled on the mattress, clean clothes on me, my collar secured to the chandelier hook.
I rose; the cabin’s bleak emptiness was unchanged, and I was alone—no James, no Matt. The drug’s worst effects seemed to have passed; the unbearable cold was gone. I sat up, looking at the filthy mattress that somehow bore fresh signs of intercourse despite its flea-infested state.
I’d survived alone. Without James, without Matt—just me here. What now? Would the rapes continue, or would I wait to die, as George promised? I barely had the strength to think. I fiddled with the padlocked collar, then noticed unfamiliar items by the mattress: socks, sneakers, a first-aid kit, water, and simple meals—like being in prison.
Before opening the kit, I lowered my pants to my knees. A clean bandage covered the wounds on my thigh—someone had treated me already. Jerome? Simon? Not George. Pulling my pants up, I examined the kit. Pills and supplements sat inside. What the hell… I glared at the packets, then shook my head.
I had no strength left for detours. I only wanted whatever quick end they intended. I ate the sandwich—thick with beef—slowly, then swallowed all the pills. When the fullness passed, I wandered the living room until the collar’s chain barely tugged.
I thought I’d die here—in that vinyl-lined room. George had threatened to kill me many times, only to revive me, as if playing with a toy. Jerome and Simon neither sought to kill me nor to spare me—only Matt died in that room. Jerome claimed he saved him, but that must be a lie. They never leave witnesses alive…
I collapsed with a strangled feeling. Matt’s corpse, wrapped in vinyl, his face vivid in my mind. The sandwich churned painfully in my gut. I retched until I emptied the cabin’s floor. My body convulsed and jerked long after. Only after a while did I calm and breathe again. No tears came—only disgust and fatigue.
I was still trapped in the cabin. I pounded the cement floor with my fist until my knuckles bled, then roared like an animal but shed no tears.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
Startled, I sprang up. I wiped vomit from my mouth and peered down the entryway hallway. Footsteps approached. The figure who appeared was someone I never expected.
We stared at each other in shock. Hammerhead—the foreman—stood there in his hard hat and work clothes. He looked around, then back at me, disbelief frozen on his face. Behind him, through the open window frame, I heard voices approaching.
If Hammerhead discovered this, he’d die too!
I crept toward him, barely contained by the collar’s chain. I motioned frantically, “Hide—quick!”
He still looked petrified. I tossed him an empty water bottle and whispered, “If you don’t want to die, hide!”
Hit by the bottle, Hammerhead snapped out of it. His eyes darted over my collar and the mattress. Then he realized this was more like a rural serial killer’s lair. He panicked, and I pointed him to the unfinished room beside the bathroom—no window, but the only hiding place.
Moments later, the front door opened. My heart pounded as two laborers entered—faces flushed red from heat, sweat pouring.
“Fuck, he puked!” one snarled at me, disgusted. Hammerhead peered from his hiding spot in horror. I stepped forward to draw their attention. Sweat poured down my face.
“Hey, asshole, who’s gonna clean this up if you puke?”
The worker kicked me hard in the chest. I crumpled, clutching my ribs, gasping. His companion waved him off.
“Jack, Olgami said not to touch him today.”
“He’s messing up our work.”
Jack huffed but held his blows.
“What a creep.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered to their bearded faces.
“Sorry—I'll clean it up.”
If not for Hammerhead’s presence, I’d have smashed Jack’s immature face, even if it killed me. But if Hammerhead found me, he’d die too. So I knelt and apologetically began cleaning. One worker cursed me, then stepped toward me, zipper at his fly.
“What you staring at? Suck it.”
“Jack, don’t do it today…” his friend protested.
“I told you, use your mouth.”
“But…”
“No, I’ll do it.” I cut in.
“I’ll do it. I want to.”
It sounded absurd—I’d just thrown up—but if it diverted their attention, fine.
“Good,” Jack smirked, grabbing my hair.
“If Olgami gets mad, just say you asked for it.”
I swallowed my rage and unzipped his pants. My hand slipped under his sweaty underwear, pulling out his pale, soft cock. I didn’t breathe through my nose anymore. Mechanically, I took him into my mouth, glancing at Hammerhead’s hiding spot. He peered through the crack, aghast. When I glared, he ducked away.
It seemed these idiots were meant to keep Hammerhead or {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} any uninvolved workers out of the cabin. One had said, “Shouldn’t we keep watch? Maybe Hammerhead or others will come…” The one shoving his cock in my face had dismissed it, “It’s fine.” They’d done their job—until I screamed earlier like a madman, drawing Hammerhead in.
What should I do with Hammerhead now? Beg for help? Tell him to forget it and run? As I struggled between them, Simon appeared.
“I told you to leave him alone today.”
In a grim, hushed tone, Simon spoke. The worker backed off, pulling out and coughing to catch his breath. Saliva dripped from his mouth as I spat on the floor and looked up at Simon, who ignored me and said, in a clipped tone,
“Get on with it.”
The worker, half-relieved, stepped forward. I braced myself, and forced myself to continue—anything to survive.