Page 2 of Asylum (The Wellard Asylum #9)

My mind reels as I glance around, waiting for an idea to hit me.

I silently curse the voice in my head for making the decision to kill Scott but offering no help in doing so.

All thoughts disappear as he comes to stand in front of me, offering his hand.

Quickly masking my surprise, I slide my fingers across his palm, and he pulls me up, wrapping his arms around me.

“What happened, little sister?” He whispers against my cheek, my stomach roiling at his closeness.

His warm breath whisps across my face, a single throb in my head signaling what’s coming. I’m fighting my own mind to stay in control so I can carry out my plan to kill this motherfucker.

“Your mom slapped me,” I whisper, playing the obedient little stepsister he’s come to know.

I fought like hell the first time he sexually assaulted me, but after he knocked me out, being complicit and conscious seemed smarter.

I wanted to know what was happening to me.

Up to this point, I’ve disassociated during the act, planning my getaway once I’m alone.

My eighteenth birthday is only a couple of months away.

All I had to do was wait, but my temper fucked everything up.

No. That bitch fucked it up, and now I have to improvise.

“She got what she deserved for touching you.” He grins, pulling me into his chest.

That’s rich coming from you.

Bile rises in my throat as his warm touch seeps into my skin. “You’re not mad?” I ask innocently.

Keep the chunks down, Olivia.

He leans back, tilting my chin to meet his gaze. “Of course not, sweetheart. We’ll get you cleaned up, toss the place, and call the police. They’ll think it was a break in.”

“Okay.” I agree, squeezing my eyes closed to ease the throbbing against my skull. This war with myself is exhausting. I’m so fucking tired from the back and forth within my mind. I just want to be normal.

He leads me into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes, his hungry gaze roaming every inch of my body.

I let him look his fill, fighting the urge to reach for my toothbrush, and shove it through his eye socket.

After removing his own clothes, he turns on the spray, leading me into the shower once the water is warm.

“It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. ”

My mind screams to rip the shower head off the wall, and use it to cave in his skull but I dismiss the idea.

For now.

Staring at the floor as he scrubs my body, I hyperfocus on the bloody water trailing down my legs, circling the drain. My vision dims once more as he pushes the cloth between my legs, sweeping back and forth, applying pressure against my core.

“Hold on! Not yet!” I scream internally as my body begins to tremble.

He reaches around, sliding the cloth between my ass cheeks and my jaw clenches, my skin burning like molten lava.

“Do it!” The voice screams, and I’m powerless against the explosion behind my eyes, the loss of control over my body. It’s as if I’m watching from the sidelines as I become the apex predator, my sights locked on the weak, pathetic prey.

Raising my hand to his cheek, he mistakes the move as an affectionate gesture. My palm slides to the center of his face, and I shove him hard, pure hate and adrenaline fueling what happens next.

The back of his head crashes into the glass door of the shower, the frosted pane shattering from the impact.

He bellows, cursing as he reaches for me, and I plaster myself against the wall, gripping the metal bar tightly.

Time slows, his arms flailing wildly, desperately searching for anything to grab onto as he falls through the frame, crashing onto the tile floor.

My shoulders shake with laughter at the sight of blood trickling from his body, filling the grout lines beneath him.

Tiny shards of glass penetrate the majority of his skin, resembling a human pin cushion.

He screams my name, pleading for help through his tears, but the focal point of my attention is a piece of glass lying next to the toilet.

It’s size and shape remind me of a slice of pizza, and I know exactly what I want to do with it.

Stepping out of the shower, I bend down and pick it up, the sharp edge nicking my palm.

Crimson seeps from the cut, but I don’t feel any pain.

Slowly, I squat down beside him, my gaze running the length of his form, halting where his flaccid cock lies against his thigh.

My uninjured hand slides down his abdomen, over his pelvis, circling his length firmly with my fingers.

He shouts obscenities, attempting to get up, but every time he moves, it drives the glass deeper inside his skin, blood gushing from the wounds where the larger pieces are embedded.

It’s not until his gaze clashes with mine; he falls silent.

He takes notice.

I’m no longer myself. I’m simply a vessel filled with hate and fury. I’m the abused, little stepsister about to take his life.

Blood trickles down my arm as I lift the glass to his cock, jaggedly sawing through the weapon he’s abused me with for months. His lifeforce sprays from the appendage, coating me in slickness. His mouth is moving, but the ringing in my ears prevents me from hearing whatever he’s saying.

As I slice through the last shred of skin connecting his cock to his body, the bleeding slows to a thick stream, oozing down his thighs, staining the bright, white tile. Lifting his dick in my hand, our blood mingles, our bodily fluids merging together for the last time.

I bet he’s not turned on now.

His face pales and his body trembles as I hover over him, tracking the tears leaking from his eyes. His suffering brings me peace, and I feel nothing as he silently pleads for this torment to end.

Lifting my hand, I hold his cock in front of his face as if in offering.

He whimpers, and I realize my intimidating abuser is nothing more than a terrified child.

Gripping his jaw, I force his mouth open, shoving his limp cock between his lips.

Using my fingertips, I press it as far as I can, ensuring it fills every inch of space in his throat.

“Our blood looks so beautiful on your cock, big brother.” I giggle, throwing his words back at him from the night he stole my virginity.

He gags, trying to dislodge the mangled organ from his throat, but I cover his mouth with my hand, holding it in place.

His hands fly up, his fists delivering weakened blows to my chest. He struggles as I hold my position, unwilling to give him the tiniest sliver of mercy.

He’s choking, and every time his body jerks, tears leak from his eyes, a burst of blood shooting from the wound where his cock used to be.

His body begins convulsing, and I roll my eyes, patiently waiting for him to fucking die already.

This goes on for what seems like forever, but finally, his body goes slack, his eyes rolling back in his head. Removing my hand from his mouth, I’m met with stillness and silence as I check his pulse.

He’s dead.

They say when you enter hell, you relive the worst moment of your life every single day. The thought brings a smile to my face, knowing he’ll live in this moment forever, always seeing me, unable to touch me.

My knees ache as I stand up after being in a squatting position for so long.

I wait for the feeling to return to my legs, the pins and needles sensation making me chuckle and curse.

Stepping over his body, I leave the bathroom naked, covered in blood.

As I enter my bedroom, the sound of sirens in the distance has me halting.

I guess the neighbors heard the screams.

I make my way over to my bed, sitting on the edge, tapping my fingers against my knees as the sirens get closer. My heart rate slows, and I breathe deeply as my mind becomes my own again. Two words replay in my head over and over.

I’m fucked. I’m fucked.

Anxiety slams into me, and I begin counting the letters of the words I’m reciting, including the apostrophe and the period. It equals an even number. Ten. A deep breath of relief leaves my chest, and I feel a little better.

Standing from the bed, I slide on a t-shirt and shorts, heading for the living room.

As I pass through the doorway, I flip the light switch off and on four times.

Closing the door behind me, I’m sure to push on it four times, ensuring it’s latched before continuing down the hall.

I count each footfall as I gaze at my feet, coming to stop at the edge of the room on the sixteenth step.

The front door crashes open, police entering the house with guns drawn, trained on me. “Get down on the floor!” They all scream, and I drop to the floor, lying on my stomach, hands above my head.

I’m so fucked.

Everything will be okay. I still have my even number. Twelve.