Page 12 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

HENDRIX

“ D on’t do anything stupid, Hen,” Archer demands as we wait impatiently for EMS to arrive.

“I’m not gonna stand by and allow him to get away with this!” I yell back at him, with a finger pointed behind me where I can feel Saint watching.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him react this harshly, and a lot has happened in our friend group that forced a toxic yet cordial relationship between us.

After our best friends got together, a silent vow took place between Saint and I, neither wanting to risk fucking up friendships or Bex and Crayton’s relationship.

But they’re no longer here.

And their relationship is as solid as my anger toward Saint.

Okay, fine I crossed a line and rubbed the win in his face, but he crossed a border of no return.

He hurt Stevenson, again , knowing damn well he didn’t deserve it.

The same way he didn’t deserve it at the homecoming dance.

A “misunderstanding” is what the asshole was smug enough to call a punch to the face, and since Stevenson has the patience of an actual Saint, he insisted we let it go.

I will not let it go this time.

“How long until EMS arrives?” I shout for the umpteenth time at the 9-1-1 dispatcher.

She continues with her attempts to both calm me down and retrieve information. So I give it to her the best I can without biting her head off.

School name.

Address.

Answer whether or not he’s conscious.

“He is, but groggy and in pain.”

A lot of pain. As he should be after nearly getting fried like a damn chicken cutlet.

Even though the dispatcher reassured me help is on the way, I can’t stop myself from answering her questions like a frantic animal.

I’m mid screech when Archer taps me on the shoulder.

“Pipe the fuck down and save the guy from more embarrassment.” He gestures behind him, the remorse on his face telling me all I need to know about Saint’s lack of such things.

Fuck. This. Asshole.

Archer’s right. Saint doesn’t get to laugh at us any more than he already has.

I turn the drama down several notches as I respond to the dispatcher, listening intently while she shoots out the information I told her over a radio.

In one fell swoop, Archer lifts Stevenson to sitting, at the same time I’m fighting the urge to launch a football at Saint’s stupid fucking perfect head.

As if sensing my thoughts, Stevenson puts on his best brave face and says, “Hendrix, just let it go. I’m fine.”

I ignore his request and wait until we’re out of Saint’s sight to let out an exacerbated groan.

One that sparks even more questions from the dispatcher, so I do the responsible thing and hang up on her.

I’m pacing back and forth like a caged lion when Stevenson attempts to reassure me again that he’s fine.

Throwing my hands in the air, I yell, “No, you are not fine! You were electrocuted!”

Any smart person would know Stevenson is the last one who deserves the receiving end of my frustration, but I care about the guy, and Saint hurt him because of me. Which is precisely why I can’t decide whether to feel stupid, murderous, or guilty.

I go with the only option that can tackle all three—and the execution begins the moment two EMS workers appear, rushing down the tunnel with a stretcher.

Saint

I was nine years old the first time it happened.

Me and my little sister were sitting on the floor in our home library, the usual spot where we'd bring all our toys to make a mess.

My father hated us playing in there, but the library was Theory’s favorite spot in the house.

We’d play Hide-and-Seek, Barbies, Cops-and-Robbers.

This time she chose a game of Connect 4.

Contrary to belief, Theory wasn’t as quick to develop like most girls are expected to. She was tiny for seven and played the part well with hints of a toddler-like lisp and mispronunciations.

Even though I was only two years older, I had this fierce instinct to protect her, especially after our cunt mother divorced our father and took off to live in Ibiza.

It wasn’t a surprise. She didn’t love us.

She told us, well, mostly me, on several occasions.

Alongside suggesting our dad just sending us to a boarding school.

Throughout the years, they had a fuck ton of arguments, but the only time I cared was when the shouts were loud enough for Theory to hear.

Games. Music. Her favorite shows.

Impersonating her favorite characters.

I did anything to ensure Theory wouldn’t fall victim to a religious man’s goal to turn a whore into a housewife.

In all attempts to shut out my mother’s hatred, one remark still managed to leave a scar beneath my skin.

Call it a symptom of genetic programming.

It was three A.M. the Sunday before she left, and I was in the kitchen sneaking a candy bar.

I heard them in the living room, my father, as usual, trying to appeal to the woman’s humanity about abandoning her children.

Talking Bible verses and the glory of God to fix what’s broken between them.

Bitch all but told him she’d rather suck some dick than go to Sunday mass.

I was naive at that age, but when I got older, my mother was already so dead to me I didn’t care.

In fact, I didn’t care much about anything after that night.

My mind went numb to both deep and trivial emotions, and as a broken kid I chose to allow it.

In spite of my efforts, Theory took the divorce even harder, and a part of me felt like her maturity hit a standstill when our mom was gone for good. Dad had the same suspicions, which is why she became his favorite by default.

It never bothered me knowing he had a softer spot for his baby girl—because Theory was my baby girl, too, and I made it my job to protect her.

I just never thought it’d end up having to be from me.

Clanging metal sings for me like forgotten music, along with the steady rhythm of water dripping off the concrete walls around us.

Clang. Plop. Clang. Plop.

A dead man’s melody.

I indulge in the familiar sounds of The Pit, and when my gaze stretches across one of the many rooms of Riverside’s underground tunnel, the vision has me letting out a sigh so deep I can see my breath in the cold air.

Four metal chairs. One table. Seven toys.

All arranged in a perfect line on top of it.

Hammer. Mallet.

Pliers. Wrench.

Hacksaw. Vise.

What was beautiful, sharp, and unsullied for seven months, has turned into a crimson so bright you can see it glistening against the hue of yellow from the lanterns.

The sense of past and present dread thickens the air—large and heavy—making my eyes twitch as I take in the faceless bodies before me. No souls. No identity. No heart beating with life. Just two blurry vessels filled to the brim with blood and my pent up fury.

Seven months is a long time to starve a monster.

So it’ll take a lot more than eight hours to fill him up.

Ravage. Ruin.

His voice appears again without warning, like the possession of an evil spirit.

Paint them red.

“Shut the fuck up!” I curse, shaking my head.

The vessels before me wiggle in the chairs, muffled cries undoing my attempt to dehumanize.

Justify my actions.

I said…paint them red.

With a roar loud enough to sear my throat, I slap a palm repeatedly against the side of my head, not stopping until the entire room is as blurry as the vessels’ faces.

Then, when the slapping proves useless to rid myself of him, I up the ante and resort to punching. So hard my face swells against my fist and I think I may pass out.

Paint.

Punch.

Them.

Punch.

Red.

A noise comes from one of the chairs, not sure what is said but it’s enough to garner my monster’s attention—and more than enough for him to continue using my body as a weapon.

His very own vessel.

“What was that?” I seethe, saliva shooting past my lips like a rabid dog as I stomp over to where they’re tied up next to each other. I squeeze a neck, not even sure it’s the right one. “You dare to fucking speak? To breathe after putting hands on Theory Lavell?”

Distorted apologies add fuel to the inferno, melting away my justification, along with the need for any more vessels.

I take in the sight of bloody, bruised, and swollen faces, even more unrecognizable now than when they were blurry. Then my eyes trail to the fingers I broke for touching my sister.

It’s not enough.

It’s never fucking enough.

With two hands plastered against the side of their heads, I bash them together, then dig my thumbs into a left and right eye, pressing down until their tears run red.

My veins pulse wildly beneath my skin as I listen to the screams and cries filtered behind gags. Another dose of nostalgia hits, then sinks into my system, and it’s like coming up for air after suffocating for months.

I enjoy the torture, yeah, but I have limits.

My monster doesn’t.

And right now his desire for death is burning my insides.

I’m slowly satisfying this craving, which is why I know he won’t return unless I ease up.

So he can provoke me again.

Blind me again.

Force me to keep doing his bidding.

My arms and legs are rocks as I back away from the JV’s, gathering my strength for the next round of psychological warfare.

Like clockwork, my monster enters, but this time it’s not in my head. He’s in the room, lurking in the darkness of every corner like a venomous snake hissing threats until it’s ready to strike.

Paint…them…red…

His voice is hushed, but no less vicious.

Vicious.

Vicious.

Vicious.

The name given to my monster by all those who fear him.

Including those who I never wanted to see him.

“Get out of my fucking head!”

Vicious lets out a callous laugh.

Saint Matthias Lavell…when will you learn?

I cover my ears and rock violently back and forth, shooting out a frenzied, “Learn what?!”

My monster emerges before me as a shadow, shaped like the very snake he heard me call him.

That you are never getting rid of me.

I swing, but Vicious poofs into thin air right before I can make contact.