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CHAPTER ONE
Jigsaw
Jensen Killgore, 14 years old
Run!
Despite the chains tethering me to the wall, my mind keeps screaming at me to run. Run.
Instead, I remain frozen in place. “Sacred fire, guide my whip.” My father’s low prayer sends a shiver of dread down my spine. “Consume all that is impure in my son.”
“I fear no evil,” I chant, even though I’m supposed to remain silent. You’re the evil.
One day, I’ll be at the other end of that whip.
A subtle, high-pitched hiss slices through the air, building to a rapid crack.
Intense, searing pain sizzles from my shoulder to my ribcage. Fire races over my skin, leaving a throbbing ache radiating over my back. This isn’t the first, second, or even third time I’ve been whipped. It never hurts any less.
Another trail of fire blazes across my back. I twist my hands in the chain. Something in my wrist pops. A groan drags out of my throat.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of my screams or tears.
Relax. Relax. It hurts more if you tense.
Bullshit. Unbearable agony burns my skin no matter how I position my body.
A sting kisses my eyebrow and my body jolts with shock. My back’s already a scarred mess. But my face?
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head. Wetness trails down my back. My body sags against the cold stone wall in front of me. The sharp tang of copper fills my nose.
Blackness blurs around the edges of my vision. Chaos and fear rule my brain. My thoughts jumble, focusing on the agony in my body. Red and black swirls in front of me, and I mentally toss myself into the swirl.
Pain claims every inch of my body while darkness mercifully claims my mind.
Agony flames over my skin, straight down to my bones.
Cold, hard, filthy stone pushes against my cheek. I lift my head and blink into the darkness.
Infinite darkness.
I wait for my eyes to adjust. But still nothing.
No.
Despair wraps around my chest. The whipping wasn’t punishment enough. He left me in the box—a small, narrow room with nothing but uneven, gritty stone to comfort my battered body.
I press my palms against the cold floor and try to push myself upright. Straight hellfire shoots up my arms. Every part of my body hurts so badly, I didn’t realize my wrists are damaged from the chains. Carefully, I wrap my left hand around my right wrist, trying to assess the extent of the injury. Hot, swollen, rough skin. I press my thumb harder against the bone. Everything seems intact. I perform the same exploration on my left wrist.
I could be here for hours or days. Cataloging my injuries will make the time pass faster. Anything to keep my mind off the empty, dark, closet-sized room that locks from outside. Where my father always leaves me after my punishment.
Tears roll down my cheeks. How long will he leave me here this time? If I miss more school this semester, surely they’ll send someone to check on me, right? The frequency and intensity of the punishments have escalated this year. No, not this year. Ever since my best friend’s parents died and he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. My father has it in his head that whatever demon possessed Logan’s father to kill his wife, then turn the gun on himself, had somehow infected me with evil. Just because Logan was my friend? I never even got to say goodbye to Logan or mourn his mother—who I loved like she was my own. She was sweet, kind, and never quoted the bible.
My real mother’s long gone. The harem of women my father replaced her with don’t care what happens to me. My two older brothers left here as soon as they could, never bothering to return or check on me, even though they know what kind of damage our father likes to inflict. They don’t even know how much worse it’s gotten. How many more disciples my father’s collected and has living on our family farm. How they spend every Sunday in the barn that’s been converted into a “church” raging about sin and hellfire. How my father keeps threatening to take me out of school to save me from being “corrupted.” Not that I love school, but at least it’s something normal and gets me away from here for a few hours a day.
Logan’s Aunt Em and Uncle Boone had always been nice to me. Could I call them? Would they let me stay with them if I confessed the true depths of my father’s cruelty? Could I bare my scars to save myself?
One thing’s becoming clearer and clearer with each “punishment” I receive.
