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I’m starting to really enjoy creating.
I head to the shed, drawn by the promise of more tools to perfect my grim masterpiece. The musty scent hits me as I push through the creaky door, and I sift through the cluttered shelves with a practiced hand. My fingers curl around a coil of rough, thick rope, its texture coarse and unyielding. I find a box of rusted nails, their sharp edges glinting ominously in the dim light, and a few old wooden beams.
Fucking perfect.
This shit is going to be fucking great.
Returning to my work, I carefully thread the rope through the loops in the wooden beams I’ve set up before I drive the nails into the wood with deliberate force, pinning the rope and securing Emily’s distorted, hay-stuffed body to the frame. The more I look, the more I relish the sight. Her final transformation into an unholy custodian is complete, a grotesque warning for anyone who dares to cross my little nightmare.
The perfect fucking guardian for Jim’s backyard.
I drag Emily’s lifeless body across the yard, the sodden ground squelching beneath her as I pull her towards Jim’s small vegetable garden. The moonlight catches the glint of the rusted nails and the coarse rope still clutched in my hands. Each pull sends her limbs swinging through the air.
I reach the garden and its neatly tended rows of winter vegetables. Using all my strength, I shove the wooden beam into the soft, moist soil of the garden, forcing it deep into the earth. The beam sinks with a satisfying resistance, the ground giving way under its weight until it stands firm and upright, and my art project rises amidst the rows of carrots and cabbages.
With the beam anchored securely, I adjust Emily’s body, positioning her so that she stands—more or less—erect in the middle of the garden. The coarse rope holds her tightly to the beam, her distorted, hay-stuffed form resembling a grotesque figure against the serene backdrop of the vegetable patch.
From the window, the old man’s dog, Gary, watches with a mixture of curiosity and unease, his eyes reflecting the dim light as he observes the transformation of his once-peaceful yard into a scene of dark artistry. I step back, savoring the sight. Emily is no longer merely a corpse; she’s become a chilling statement, a silent witness to the consequences of what happens when you cross my little nightmare.
I leave Emily standing in the garden to rot like the garbage she is.Was. The night air is thick with the smell of decay, but I push it from my mind as I head back to the house. Each step is lighter, my satisfaction palpable.
I’ve truly outdone myself this time.
Turning back toward the house, I see my girl on the porch, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze is a mix of amusement and frustration. She’s growing accustomed to these morbid tasks.
“You finished?” she asks, her eyebrow arched in curiosity.
“Yeah,” I reply, dusting off my hands. I grab my own bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “Let’s lock up.”
We move through the house one last time, making sure everything is in place. The doors are locked, the windows sealed.It’s like we’re burying our past here—the ghosts, the memories, the blood.
The only thing I’m taking with me is her.
She locks the front door with a soft click and turns to me, her eyes searching mine. “Where are we going? You still haven’t told me anything.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “It’s a surprise.”
She frowns, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. “I need more than that.”
I pull her close, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Trust me. You’re gonna love it.”
She huffs, but her arms circle around me, and I feel her tension slip away. We walk toward the bike parked under the dark sky, its matte black frame gleaming under the streetlights. I hand her the helmet, and she puts it on without another word.
Such a good little nightmare.
The bike rumbles to life, its sound vibrating through my bones as I straddle it. Everything else falls away—the weight of the past, the shadow of the cartel. It’s just us now, the open road, and a future that’s fucking ours to shape.
Mine and hers.
My girl settles behind me, her arms wrapping tightly around my waist as I twist the throttle, pulling out onto the road. The wind bites at my skin, sharp and cold, but it’s nothing compared to the chill that’s been inside me for years.
However, that coldness is finally gone.
Demarko is dead. My father’s blood has been avenged. But the Don Leon cartel won’t stop looking for us—they never will. I know that. They’ll hunt us down until they know we’re dead, until they have the revenge that I just spent years seeking. They will eventually find us, but even when they do, I’ll never stop protecting her. My little nightmare.
I’ve made sure we'll be safe for at least a while and I won’t stop until I’m certain we can finally live without fear.
Ireland. That’s where we’re headed. A new life, new identities—all arranged by my boss. He’s set up everything for us: new papers, new names, a house in Derry. Far enough from the cartel to give us a fighting chance.
