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He gave the wrong fucking answer.
That was when I took out the blade hidden in my boot and drove it straight into his heart.
And I’d done the same today and lost my shit over a teenage boy, who clearly wasn’t well enough to put up with their shit.
No doubt that was why they took him. He couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t defend himself. And that was why I took him, too. I took him from that fucking place and to Beyond Heaven—our very own secret facility where victims of trafficking could heal in peace.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans for that boy, and he went to a different kind of heaven shortly afterward.
But he didn’t die alone, in a dirty cell with some fuckwits dick in his ass.
He died with me at his side, telling him fucking stories from the bible. I wasn’t religious, but I got the feeling he was by how he babbled to God in his dazed state.
I’d have traded places with him in a second.
Life was haunting me, and I was ready to escape it.
I once had it all. The world was at my feet, and it had all changed in the blink of an eye.
I was a retired singer, turned tattooist, etching barcodes onto people’s skin as they kicked and screamed on the bed they were tied to. Implanting trackers into their flesh while they begged and pleaded, telling me what a fan they once were, like it would change anything.
I had little control over what happened to them.
No control.
I’d lost everything.
The only purpose I’d ever had was an awful one, and it had started when I was only a teenager myself.
A purpose to lead in the pretty and innocent with my voice, attracting them to concerts they’d never return from.
It never bothered me back then.
But things had changed.
I’d changed.
And I’d be glad to be out of that life if I wasn’t stuck in this shitty existence.
That poor fucking kid—he wasn’t even sixteen, and I wasn’t there sixteen seconds after his passing, rushing back out the door to the shithole I now worked at to look for the monster who had taken weeks off his life. Damien. He’d told me his name was Damien, and he wanted someone to know it, to remember him by it.
Maybe I should have thanked the man for causing Damien’s death, preventing him from having to fight against the cancer that was eating away his strength, but I didn’t.
Damien could have had a better few weeks if I’d known about him. He could have been one of the rare few that got away.
And rare they were.
Because we weren’t heroes, we were also monsters, who occasionally did good things.
And I saw it as a good fucking thing when my blade ended another monster, piercing his heart. Remains of that organ were no doubt still clinging to my boot from where I’d stomped into the cavity created by a dozen holes. His useless body gave up fighting me and slumped to the floor. But I wasn’t worried about that. I wasn’t concerned about the six men from three weeks ago, either. Like the girls and boys they abused, no one would be looking for them.
The golden glow of my headlamps lit up the dark road, the full beam on to avoid me hitting any of our fucking cats that liked to roam out here, terrorizing the field mice.
My eyes rolled, seeing Ollie’s recently valeted shiny Volvo at the side of our bungalow.
He was home, no doubt balancing between the roles he’d taken on that tested him daily, big brother and superior, demanding answers of his own for why I’d fucked up, again.
He probably already had answers.
