Page 40

THIRTY-NINE

NIGHTMARES

MONSTERS UNDER THE BED—MANIC KAZZY

CALISTA

H uddled in the corner of the dimly lit room, I pull my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth like I did on that first night at Five's. A narrow crack in the window allows cold air to rush in, carrying with it delicate snowflakes that dance across the dingy, dark green carpet. The light dims and flickers with each gust of wind as branches hammer against the glass, bending helplessly in the grip of the icy storm.

Below me, plow trucks navigate the snowy streets, their metal blades scraping against the pavement, the sound sending a chill down my spine that makes my hair stand on end. I lower my head between my knees, squeezing them around my ears in a futile attempt to muffle the noise.

Being alone, confined in this outdated, lonely room, brings back haunting memories of my time locked in the attic of my parents’ house. The nightmares that plague my mind worsen with each passing night.

I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even fucking breathe.

I had believed that freedom would improve my mental state, but since moving to this motel on the outskirts of the city, my mind feels fractured. At least when I was living with the guys, I could find solace in sleep. I didn’t feel so isolated; I found myself smiling more than I ever thought possible.

But with the threat of their fathers and my own parents closing in, I fled in search of safety. Now, I don’t even feel safe in my own skin.

My thighs ache, my inner arms sting, and the deep, jagged cuts, now scabbed over, serve as harsh reminders of my struggle with self-harm. In this solitude, I’ve made up for the time I spent with the guys, resisting the urge to cut. My poor arms and legs bear the weight of my pain, etched with scars that throb and burn.

But still, I can’t seem to stop.

"Take your meds, Cali." Addy, stern and demanding, appears suddenly beside me, her crystal eyes glowing in the dark.

"Leave me alone," I snap, not bothering to lift my head from between my knees to look at her.

She only wants to come around when I'm alone; she was absent when I was with the guys, but here she is suddenly, trying to boss me around.

"I won't. You're losing focus, and you're letting your feelings for the guys derail all of the plans we made." I can hear her huff, as if she's pissed, which only pisses me off.

"I'm not losing focus, Addy. I'm working my way down the list," I fire back, deciding to light the joint tucked behind my ear.

"Oh, and where are you with it? How many more do you have left?"

"Seven." I inhale and hold the smoke deep in my lungs, feeling the high spread through my entire body and relaxing me.

She stands up, snatching my medication off the grungy nightstand, determined for me to take them—just like my mother used to. Pouring an assortment into her hand that looks like a bunch of colorful candy.

"I don't care what you say; you're letting them boys get in the way. You're distracted, not thinking clearly, and it's partly because you've been skipping your meds." She holds her hand out, clutching a bottle of vodka for me to wash them down with.

I give in, scooping the pills into my hand and popping them into my mouth. Not a big drinker, I still snatch the bottle out of her other hand and take a giant swig, finding myself chasing the intense burn that coats my throat.

"Good," Addy mutters, her voice laced with a mix of frustration and relief. "Now, can we please talk about what’s next?”

I roll my eyes but know she's right; the last few days have been spent in a haze, alternating between flashes of memories that make my chest tighten and bursts of anger that leave me feeling spent.

“What’s next?” I echo, trying to sound more interested than I actually am.

“First, it’s dangerous out there, and you know that. The last thing we need is for someone to catch wind of what we’re doing," she says, pacing the small space, her energy palpable. “We have to make sure you’re feeling sharp.”

I grip my hair, tugging at the strands. “Right, ‘dangerous out here.’ But what about in here?” I gesture vaguely to the confines of the room. Despite the chill in the air, I begin to sweat, the heat from the vodka mixing with my pills and the weight of Addy's words pushing me down further against the wall. “Nothing feels right anymore.”

Addy softens a bit, letting her shoulders slack. “I know. But we’ve come too far to fall apart now. This isn’t just about us anymore. It’s about finding a way to break free from their control—yours and mine. We fight for our future.” Her eyes lock onto mine, and despite myself, I feel a flicker of hope.

“And what if I can’t fight?” I ask, the truth seeping out like a slow leak.

Her lips press into a line, and for a moment, I see the mask of confidence slip.

“Cali, don’t say that. You’re stronger than you think. You just need to channel that energy. We have a plan, and you have friends who want to help—who care.” Her voice builds around a sense of urgency.

I draw in a shaky breath, stubbing my joint on the corner of a wooden table.

“Yeah, but care can only take you so far,” I mumble, feeling the bitterness twist in my gut. “None of them really understand.”

“Maybe they don’t. But they want to understand. And you have to allow them in, even just a little,” she replies, grabbing a scarf from a hook by the door. “This thing depends on all of us being on the same page. You in?”

I hesitate, a part of me screaming to resist, to stay wrapped in the warm cocoon of bitterness that’s kept me company in the darkness. But another part—a brighter, softer part—whispers that there’s a way through.

“Okay, I’ll try,” I say at last, pushing myself up to stand, feeling unsteady on my feet.

She gives me an affirming nod and heads toward the door, pausing briefly. "And Cali?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself tonight. You’re stronger than your past, but don’t forget to breathe.” Her eyes soften, and with that, she leaves, closing the door with a gentle click that echoes in the silence.

The quiet envelops me again, but this time it feels different. Less oppressive, almost inviting. I take a deep breath, the air cool and bitter, but I hold on to the idea of the future—whatever it may hold. I face the night knowing that I can start piecing things back together. Outside, the wind howls, but I’m no longer simply hiding from it; it's calling to me now, and I'm eager as fuck to embrace it.

Taking a calming breath, I bundle up, dressing in a thick black hoodie with my insulated joggers, knowing I'll need to be warm for my adventure. Sitting down to put my shoes on, my attention is drawn to the same nightstand where my pills were, my heart racing as my gaze catches the crumbled piece of paper containing my famous list. I grab it, holding it in my hands as if it were fragile, gliding the tip of my finger over the next name currently not crossed out.

1. Mother

2. Father

3. Holden Graham

4. Gunnar

5. Adam Moretti (Ash's father)

6. David Blacksburg (Kill's father)

7. Jackson Gray (Dom's father)

8. State Senator Pete Gallagher

9. Mayor Kyle Benjamin

10. City Councilman Marcus Rutherford

11. Judge Hayden Wilson

12. Brockton Chief of Police Robert Bailey

13. City Councilman Mr. Josè Brown

I force myself not to look at the guys' fathers names, instead focusing on the next high-profile figure on my list: State Senator Pete Gallagher.

The fucker dressed me up as a little girl down to the frilly white socks and put my hair in pigtails, grooming me into his "little girl" for the entire time I was with him. He's just another pervert who loves sticking his cock in young kids, and it makes me fucking sick.

I've been keeping an eye on him and recently found out he's been molesting his ten-year-old niece, which is why his time needs to end now.

I tuck the list away, grab my black ski mask, and slip out of the motel room door, intending on trekking into the city and braving the snowstorm, all so I can cross his name off my list.

* * *

It’s not as cold as I had imagined. In fact, I find myself getting really warm in my layers. As I stroll through Dorchester, snowflakes drift down in heavy clusters, and I can feel beads of sweat forming beneath my clothing, creating an uncomfortable sensation. Yet, I keep my focus on the journey ahead, reminding myself that I’m almost there—all the while, my anxiety begins to creep in. Thanks to the considerable amount of medication I’ve taken, I feel completely numb, a grin fixed firmly on my lips as if nothing could possibly phase me.

Thoughts of Dom, Ash, Killian, and even Five flutter through my mind, and as much as I want to deny it, I fucking miss them. Perhaps Addy was right when she said they were a distraction, but regardless, I’m still on the path I’ve envisioned for years—crossing off the names on my list one at a time.

I push aside the joyous memories of the boys and my unpredictable emotions, my breath growing heavier with each step. The streets sparkle with festive cheer—looking like an image straight off a postcard—adorned with Christmas lights strung across trees and lampposts, while decorations grace nearly every house I pass, reminding me that the holiday season is just around the corner.

I’ve never truly experienced a happy Christmas—not that I can recall. Even in my early childhood, long before the trauma began, my home lacked warmth and the "normal" family dynamic. My father was always away, absorbed in work, campaigning, or anything else that would take him away from his family, leaving my mother feeling bitter, miserable, and resentful. While I still got presents, they were never what I wanted. My father would urge me to write my list for Santa, yet his absence on Christmas made those prompts feel hollow.

My mother handled all the shopping, and I found it unsatisfying. I ended up with countless pairs of pajamas and slippers, too many to know what to do with. While other nine-year-old girls excitedly unwrapped Barbies or dollhouses, I was left with flannel pajamas or bottles of shampoo and other mundane items.

To this day, I’ve never experienced a memorable Christmas, and shit, I don’t expect that to change.

Approaching the senator's house, I pull out my black ski mask and slide it over my head, covering my face from the world. Slipping into the darkness that surrounds his house, I prowl the backyard looking for the window I know he keeps open. Luckily, it's on the bottom floor, so I don't have to risk slipping on the ice coating the side of the house.

I quietly draw my knife, biting the handle as I slip into the open window, entering a pitch-black room. I brush the snow off of me and tip toe towards the door, hearing the faint sound of the TV on somewhere in the house. Carefully opening the door, I peek my head out to make sure the cost is clear, and when I see that it is, I sneak down the long, carpeted hallway, distracted by the assortment of odd paintings hanging on the walls. I didn't peg him for an art collector, but everyone has their secrets.

Gripping my knife down by my side, I follow the stream of light shining in the hallway at the end, coming from underneath a closed bedroom door. With no way to know if he's asleep or not, I hold my breath and turn the knob, praying for the best.

Luckily, the Senator is passed out in bed, snoring loudly, with the window beside him wide open, a refreshing breeze steady blowing in. I take off my hoodie, feeling the cold grace my skin, cooling me off immediately.

As I turn to look at him, I shiver, a chill trickling down my spine and making all the hair on my arms stand. I feel sick. Flashbacks of my time with him attack my mind, threatening to break me. But I try to breathe through the discomfort as I approach the side of his bed, clutching my knife like a lifeline.

I can't do anything but stand here and look at him, my eyes glued to his sleeping body. Dark, curly hair covers his bare chest, making it look like he's wearing a sweater. His glasses are off, folded on top of a book beside him, as if he fell asleep before he could put them away. A pair of flannel pajama pants covers his lower half, reminding me of the ones my father used to wear. Another shiver. Another chill. Another surge of nausea consumes my belly.

Suddenly, as I'm least expecting it, Pete's eyes open slowly, and he looks directly into mine. He doesn't move. He doesn't scream. And he doesn't seem to panic; it's as if he was expecting me, which takes a little of the pleasure out of this entire plan of mine.

His eyes dart to the knife in my hand, and he sits up slowly, reaching for his glasses. "You can take the mask off, Calista. I know it's you," he says nonchalantly, resting his head against the cushioned headboard, sighing. His shoulders slump and his demeanor shifts, as if he's giving up—accepting his fate at my hands.

"Is that right?" I play coy, twirling the knife in my hand.

"I knew you'd be coming for me," he says, lighting a cigarette. And much to my surprise, he holds the pack out to me, offering me one. "Do you smoke?"

"I do," I tell him, keeping my guard up. "But I brought my own." I reach into my pocket and pull out my pack, lighting one.

I don't know if he poisoned his or fucked with them in anyway, and I'll be dammed if I take one and get fucked over it. Better safe than sorry.

I take a deliberate drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke billow out into the dimly lit room. The faint light from the streetlamp filters through the open window, casting a soft glow over his face. There’s something surreal about this moment. Here we are, two enemies locked in a standoff of sorts, both unflinching yet guarded in our own ways.

“What do you want, Calista?” he asks, a hint of amusement lacing his words.

The calmness in his tone unnerves me, like a predator playing with its prey. He knows exactly what I fucking want.

I respond with silence, letting the weight of the question hang in the space between us. My heart beats loudly in my chest, threatening to betray my icy demeanor, and I remind myself why I’m here. My mind races through the scenarios—the battles I’ve had with myself leading up to this moment, all the reasons I thought I could conquer my past by confronting him now.

“I think you know exactly what I fucking want,” I finally say, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I don’t quite feel. “You took everything from me, and I’m here to return the fucking favor.”

He leans back, chuckling softly. “Ah, the righteous revenge angle. It’s a classic,” he muses, taking another drag from his cigarette. “But coming here—this? This isn’t about vengeance for you, Calista. It’s about closure.”

Closure.

The word reverberates in my mind; it’s rich with expectation and weighed down by the scars of the past. I take a step closer, the knife held firm.

“I’m not here to get closure,” I retort, my voice sharpening. “I’m here to make you feel what I felt. To take back a piece of me that you thought you could steal so easily.”

He shrugs, as if sitting here with my knife poised above him was a casual conversation and not the confrontation it truly was.

“You think hurting me will ease your pain? It won’t. You can take my life, but you’ll never get back what I’ve taken from you.” He looks into my eyes, a smug expression on his tired face.

Something in his critique strikes a nerve. A mix of anger and helplessness surges within me. The charge in the air thickens, and I can feel my grip tightening around the knife.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” I hiss, remembering the years of psychological torment I went through and the week of horror he put me through, how I fought tooth and nail just to break free.

“And yet here you are,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, his casual demeanor maddening. “With a knife in hand, thinking you’re the avenger. But tell me, what happens next? You stab me? And then what? You’re left with nothing but a corpse and more questions. You’ll still be that girl searching for warmth from a father who never protected you.”

“Shut the fuck up!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can harness them—a primal scream born from sheer frustration. I take an unsteady breath, my heart thudding wildly as emotions I thought I had locked away come crashing down. “I’m not the child you knew. I’m not fucking weak like you think. I’m not going to let you get into my head any fucking more!”

He chuckles, a slow, deliberate sound that gnaws at my patience. “But you will. You always do. Because this is who you are, Calista. All that resentment, all that rage... it’s nothing more than a sad mask—a facade—and you’re still lost in the fucking dark.”

His words slice through the air like my knife will slice through flesh if I make the choice. With every accusation, he’s peeling back layers of my resolve, laying bare the fears I’ve so carefully tucked away. I take a step back, the knife quivering in my grip, and I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

“You are not going to control this,” I say, my voice steadier now, though inside I'm still brimming with fury. “You’re not going to fucking twist this into your game.”

Infuriatingly relaxed, he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Then let’s flip the script. If you want to take your revenge, how about a deal? You take my life, but in return, I’ll tell you my story—everything I did, every choice I made that led to this moment. No secrets left between us.”

“Why would I believe anything you say?” I spit. “You’ll just twist the truth like you guys always do. You're all the fucking same.”

“True,” he admits, “but wouldn’t it be more satisfying to hear it from my lips? After all, if you’re going to rob me of my life, wouldn’t you like to know every dirty detail before you do?”

The absurdity of his proposition lingers in the air, but curiosity sparks within me. Maybe there is something to gain from this mess. My mind races, weighing the options: the thrill of revenge or this twisted confessional.

I take another step towards him, lowering my knife slightly. Despite the cloud of anger and pain enveloping me, I can’t shake the feeling that the real victory lies not just in killing him but in understanding everything he took from me.

“Talk,” I say, my voice steadier as I prepare to listen. “But remember, this shit ends with you.”

He grins—the kind of grin that makes my skin crawl. “Then let's make this a story worth telling.” He exhales slowly, the smoke swirling toward the ceiling in a languid dance. "You want to know how it all began?" he says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, as if we’re sitting in a café and not on the brink of murder.

A part of me still curses my wavering resolve, but I force myself to remain in control. "Yes," I respond, my voice clipped. "Get on with it."

He leans straighter against the headboard, appearing to relish the opportunity to amuse me with his narrative. "It started long before your father became a senator. It's always about the family, isn't it? The image they project to the world, especially to voters. Thomas took me under his wing and guided me through the shadows of our political landscape. He taught me that the ends justify the means, that morality is a game made by those who can afford to ignore it." There’s a twisted gleam in his eyes, a nostalgic hunger for power that sends a shudder running through me.

"And what about me?" I interject, desperate to steer the story back to how it involved me and how it unraveled the threads of my life. "Where do I fit into your whimsical tale of politics and corruption?"

He synchronizes his gaze with mine, a fake seriousness resting on his features that makes my stomach churn again. "You, my dear Calista, were just an unfortunate participant. A loose end that needed to be tied up for the greater good of Elaine's ambitions and Thomas's ideal legacy. You see, it was never personal. Your mother is a sick woman, first. She was the brains behind the secret society. Hurting you was a way for her to make money, and praying on so many men's weaknesses was her specialty. Your father wanted nothing to do with it, but your mother can be very... persuasive, and he eventually caved. You weren't my first little girl, and definitely not my last, but you were my favorite," he says, grinning, making me feel sick to my stomach.

"You're fucked," I spit, shaking my head, not knowing if I can stomach anymore of what he has to say. But he continues, and of course, I let him.

"Your mother realized that she could come out on top if she catered to what the community wanted, and when she found out so many men had secrets involving children and twisted fantasies, she knew that with you, she had her meal ticket. It was all about money, Calista, all about the thrill of being on top, being sought after; even if it wasn't her they were wanting, it was you. It was always you, Calista. And we were all promised you if we stepped aside so your father could climb the ranks in the political world, but she fucking played us all."

Those words strike harder than I expect, the raw, cold truth unfolding before me. I had always known, deep down, that I was nothing more than a pawn in their sordid game—their favorite puppet—but hearing it vocalized sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through me.

"So, what? You think I'm here to listen to you justify your fucking actions?" I spit, tightening my grip on the knife, but he holds up a hand, the cigarette still clinging to his fingers.

"Not justify," he says. "Understand. There’s a difference." He breathes in deep, sucking the smoke from the cigarette before blowing it out lazily. "In this world, sentimentality is a weakness. I found my strength in detachment. In learning to do what was necessary rather than what was right. Ah, but you’ll learn in time—if they let you live long enough."

"You really are a piece of fucking work," I mutter, baffled. "You think you’re so fucking clever, Pete, don’t you?"

He shrugs, his casual attitude infuriating me further. "I think the clever ones are the survivors. Those are the real winners in this game, like you... at least for now, until they find you and sink their poisoned claws into you again, because they will, Calista. Mark my fucking words."

My heart races, anticipation mingling with rage. I had thought confronting him would clear the demons of my past, but he’s only reconstructing the cage I thought I had broken free from.

“Enough with the philosophical bullshit. You may have thought it was all a game, but it was real to me. You all fucking destroyed my life.” My voice wavers as I say it, but I press on, hands trembling, holding back burning tears. “It wasn’t just a political move for me; it was everything; it was my fucking innocence, my fucking life."

He savors the last of his cigarette before snuffing it out in an ashtray beside him. “You say that as if you were the only one affected. Your mother and father made choices for their own gain, and in that sense, you were just collateral damage, just as I was.”

For a moment, I lose myself in the confusion of his words. There’s no denying that my father had his part in everything—that his ambitions had dragged me into this twisted world. Yet, I refuse to let him shift the blame off his shoulders.

“No. This shit is about you. You and the fucking choices you made.” My voice rises again, sharper than before. “You made those decisions; you made the choice to hurt me. My father may have been a damn coward, but I won’t fucking cower before you.”

A spark of something flashes in his eyes, realization mixed with something darker—perhaps respect. “Fascinating. You think you can tear down the walls I built with your words? I’m impressed. But you need to realize that every layer you strip away won’t change what has been done.”

“Then why are you giving this to me?” I ask, the tension in the air shifting like the tide. “Why confess anything at all? You could easily dismiss me, swallow your pride, and end it with a laugh. You know, take the coward's way out.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing, shrouding the space between us in a heavy cloak of unspoken truths. “Because, Calista, deep down, I know what you really want. You're not just after revenge; you crave understanding. You want to know why you were chosen to suffer in ways you will never forget. You want answers so that you can reclaim yourself in a world that took so much from you.”

His words strike a chord, and I feel the wall of composure I’ve built for myself begin to crack. “You’re wrong,” I say, but the conviction behind my words feels shallow even to me.

“Yes, the darkness feels sweet when it whispers to you, doesn’t it?” He smiles, not a hint of remorse. “But here’s the kicker, my dear. The longer you dance with me—playing this grim little game—the deeper you sink into the very chaos that holds you captive. You may be here seeking control, but I promise you, it will slip through your fingers before you know it.”

With the knife trembling in my grip, I can feel the distinct weight of his words wrapping around me. The truth feels heavier than the steel in my hand, and I know what he says resonates louder than I care to acknowledge.

I look into his eyes—a storm swelling with the twisted remnants of a past that has defined me thus far—and feel the fog of uncertainty close in.

Then it’s time to cut through that fog.

The finality of my words unnerves even me, but with each moment spent in his presence, I feel the growing control of fear I thought I commanded slip further away.

His eyebrow arches, intrigued. “And how do you propose to do that?"

“By ending it for good.” I bring the knife closer to his throat, a reminder that I’m still holding the power, even as my own resolve wavers. “I’ll make sure you regret every second of what you did to me.”

His laugh is low, rich with an almost sadistic delight, echoing in the tension of the moment.

"Put me out of my misery then, Calista." His diabolical gaze urges me on, his resolve hardening before my eyes. "Go on, kill me. But I can promise you, once you do kill me, you're not going to feel better. Things aren't going to be better. You'll still have nightmares, except these ones will be of the men you've murdered just to prove a fucking point. You'll still be lost, broken, and?—"

I sharply stab the knife directly into his adam's apple, silencing him. Not wanting to hear another word, I look into his eyes and keep stabbing him, feeling myself losing control with each slash.

I don't know why tonight is any different than the others; they all did something vile to me. But Pete's words stay in my head, taunting me and making me go overboard with the knife. I end up stabbing and slicing him so much that his head eventually falls off, rolling to the bloody mattress beside him, and I still can't stop stabbing him.

I don't know what makes me stop, but the next thing I know, I'm slumped on the bedroom floor, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth, my eyes glued to the headless dead body on the bed.

I'm losing it.

I'm going fucking crazy

He was right, and I let him get inside my head.

And shit, now I don't know how I'm going to fucking get him out of it.