Page 19 of Cruel Pleasures

What the fuck is wrong with these people?!?

The second death happens in a solitary stroke to the chest, leaving the woman gripping the machete as the only survivor.

As the kind-faced woman flops lifelessly to the ground, silence settles in the aftermath.

Everyone seated comfortably in the formal dining room watches on like it’s a live movie. In a way, to people so out of touch with the real world, it is. They’re deriving a sense of entertainment from what they’ve just witnessed.

And then there’s me. Sick to my stomach. Eyes glossed with tears. Heart pounding painfully hard.

I’ve half risen out of my chair, fully aware of how I’m giving myself away. But in the moment, I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve lived in some of the worst neighborhoods in Easton, occasionally overheard gunshots fired in the middle of the night, and yet I’ve never seen someone die.

I’ve never watched as blood decorates the walls, the fucking glass through which I just witnessed two defenseless people be slain…

This is sick. This is twisted.

I can’t do this. I have to get the fuck out of here!

My chair scrapes obscenely against the hardwood floor as I push it back and rush for the door. Someone yells at me. Another person attempts to stop me at the doorway. I knee him in the groin and race off down the hall.

Panic beats inside me, its own accelerated pulse.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The only sound I hear in my ears as I dash across the huge black-and-white checkered tiles of the main entrance hall.

Do I try to make it upstairs to grab my things? Do I run blindly into the night as I am? What are my chances of finding a safe haven on a small piece of land that’s supposedly shut down for the season?

Fuck. FUCK!

I’m panting as I cut straight for the massive oak doors. One of the staff members takes a wide step to the side, blocking my path forward. Where he’s come from and who he is, I’m not sure.

I’ve never seen him before, though he’s dressed in all black attire and wears an earpiece like the men Jerome had called wardens.

Guards to keep the patients in the insane asylum. It sure feels that way as he blocks my path and another practically pops in out of thin air. His arms band around me from behind and he easily sweeps me off my feet, proving he has zero issue with carrying me.

“Get your damn hands off me!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “GET THEM OFF ME!”

The longer he holds onto me, the harder I struggle. I thrash against him, kicking out my legs and trying to twist my arms to smack him in the face. I’m not going down without a fight. That’s the first thing they need to recognize about me.

Imani Makune is not someone to fuck with. She will scratch. She will bite. She will knee you in the fucking balls the first chance she gets.

Though it’s not like it makes much of a difference.

I’m hauled off from the main entrance hall down a narrower side hall that’s as sparsely lit as the formal dining room was. I’m so busy fighting against the guard gripping me in an unbreakable bear hug that it doesn’t dawn on me I’ve been carried into a room until he’s tossing me down.

“Ooofff!”

The wind’s knocked out of me as my body collides with the ground. I roll over once, coming to my hands and knees, trying to breathe but sputtering instead.

Their boots clack on their way out and the door slams shut.

I’m alone… or so I think.

Sitting up on my knees and peering around what looks like a parlor of some kind, I flinch at the other pair of eyes I meet.

Eyes that are hidden behind a ghostly white venetian mask. Heart-shaped lips that are painted a scarlet red and an upper half that’s decorated with exquisite gold-leaf detailing. The mask is expressionless and vacant. Unnerving.

It’s the mask I’d seen earlier this evening. The same one the Hostess had been wearing.