Page 9 of Vengeance of Childhood Proportions (Till Death Do Us Part #7)

Chapter Two

Holly

In the constant drizzle that plagued this hemisphere, I watched the flurry of people ambling in and out of my old high school.

I hadn’t stepped foot inside it in fourteen years.

The weasel of a principal had to have put it together by now.

Even he wasn’t that thick. Fifteen years to the day.

Fifteen years since Jason Kadeer, the high school’s former janitor, had found me bloody and bound in the middle of the stage.

I wasn’t sure how I felt. My mission was far from over, but I thought, or maybe hoped, that I would feel something . The first name on my list had been crossed off.

Christopher Harrow. Even his name made him sound like a jerk.

I’d chosen him first, not because of his name or his participation in my attack, but because he lived the furthest away.

It had taken time to get him and the others who no longer lived in Alaska back home.

A reunion, if you will, but with a specific guest list.

My list consisted of twenty-seven names, from the witnesses of my attack to the rapists who forcefully invaded my virgin body to the doctor who had treated me and the police officers who had taken my statement to the principal who had begged everything to “go away”.

I rolled my neck around my shoulders, remembering the weasel’s words as if he was speaking in my ear right that moment. “…you don’t understand. If they press charges, we’ll never make it to the finals. We’ll be disqualified…”

Did Principal Hagley even know I was awake in my hospital bed? That I had heard him and former Sheriff Renfrew make a deal that not only protected the sheriff’s son, but also gave him the title of State Champion?

I was not so twisted that I would harm those indirectly related to my crime.

The teachers who had stood back and done nothing had to think about their lives and jobs.

I understood that. Unlike Hagley, they were not in a position of power to have done something.

In my condition, it was still unclear to me how something as monumentous as my attack had been covered up.

There’d been videos and photos taken. I remembered seeing the lights from the cell phones.

It wasn’t until over a decade after my rape that I got some of those answers.

Atelihai Valley believed me to be dead. A misprint in a newspaper article claimed I had been revived in the ambulance on my way to the hospital after attempting suicide on the one-year anniversary of my assault.

Those who knew differently either chose not to believe or to willingly forget.

That was fine with me. I wasn’t ready to be remembered yet.

Jason Kadeer, however, had been the only person to track me down.

He knew of the injustice done to me and wanted to help me find my path.

“Tell me how I can help you,” he’d pleaded with me.

My own parents had put me in a mental institution before moving out of Atelihai Valley. I was forgotten by them, but not by Jason. He’d walked me out of that place when I’d turned eighteen.

“I want them dead. All of them. Help me kill them .”

It had taken nearly a dozen years since my plea to put things in order, but we were finally making my vengeance happen.

Jason had become like a father to me, my guide and my mentor. I would not be where I was today without him. His own father had taught him how to be a survivalist, so we were easily able to live off the grid until we were ready.

Christopher Harrow had lived with his third wife in Los Angeles, California. He was coaching football at a middle school. From the years of surveillance on him, I also knew that he was sleeping with some of the underage cheerleaders on the high school squad.

Once the FBI agents from Juneau identified Christopher Harrow, they would know he’d been filed as a missing person for over a month by his wife, Madaline.

She was not a concerned wife, however, and seemed to be happy with the freedom her husband’s absence provided her.

Though, technically, she was now a widow.

Drugged into a paralyzed, near-death state, Jason and I had driven Christopher up the west coast, through Canada, and into Alaska. He had been in a coffin with forged papers under a false name proclaiming his death. Jason and I had posed as the delivery drivers the family had ‘hired’.

Slowly, we brought the other four on my list who had moved out of Alaska up north.

About ten miles from the high school was a plot of land with an underground bunker that Jason had inherited many years ago and we started reconstructing in anticipation of our crimes.

Yes, I was very aware that what we were doing was illegal and morally wrong—I just didn’t care.

The law had not given me justice, so I would seek my own vengeance.

The plot of land looked unassuming to the naked eye. Just grass and an old, rundown barn that was a single winter away from being nothing more than fallen timber. Underneath was a completely different story.

Using the skills Jason had been taught by his survivalist father, we transformed the underground bomb shelter into a bunker that suited our needs perfectly. Individual cells, MREs, chemical toilets, a fish pond, plants…

I wanted to make my victims suffer as they had made me suffer.

To humiliate and dehumanize them to the point where they begged for death.

I did not hide my face from them. Even if they overpowered Jason and me, there was no escaping the underground bunker.

They would eventually starve to death. I wanted them to know exactly why they were in my bunker.

Christopher was my first abductee. He didn’t have to be my first death, but his heart attack had forced my hand. I was fine with that. It timed itself perfectly with the anniversary of my rape.

The bunker was not outfitted with fancy devices like a St. Andrew’s cross or dungeon chains. There were other ways to torture a man.

For example, I knew that Christopher had a fear of spiders.

Every day for the weeks he was in my bunker, he was surrounded by Goliath bird eater tarantulas.

They were the largest nonpoisonous spider in the world, though they still had fangs and could bite.

He had a choice: remain in his cell with his spiders or be subjected to my torture cell.

They all took my torture cell the first couple of times they received the offer. It made me wonder if the four currently in my bunker were looking for me, praying I would come and rescue them from their individualized hells. I had no plans of being back today or tomorrow.

Jason stood silently next to me. I wondered what was going through his mind. Did he feel as numb as I felt?

Due to my attack, I was what psychologists referred to as ‘sexually stunted’.

It meant I needed to have something additional to stimulate my biological desires.

I’d tried many different things over the years.

Despite Jason being my mentor and father-figure, he’d helped me more than once to safely achieve an orgasm—though never directly by his touch.

It was through Jason that I learned how to explore my submissive nature and nurture it. Being submissive was not a weakness.

I was not sexually attracted to Jason or him to me. We had never had intercourse, but there had been a time in my early twenties when I’d needed him with me to feel safe enough to allow a stranger to touch me. He was not and never would be my lover.

Jason was bisexual, though he claimed to be straight. He had a kink that I found peculiar, though I discouraged for the sake of my own vengeance. That might seem like a selfish thing to say, but Jason got what he needed from the arrangement too.

Jason’s kink was forcing straight men into performing homosexual acts with him.

Jason never touched their cocks or balls.

He never did anything that was considered ‘gay’.

He got off on the reluctance of his sexual partner.

Whether through force, blackmail, or even gambling, Jason loved to make straight men suck him off or to let him fuck them.

Though a fine line, Jason repeatedly told me what he did was not rape.

He needed that permission to get off and he needed his partner to hate himself for giving it.

Psychiatrists would have a field day if they ever got Jason onto their couch.

I had once walked in on him sitting in the living room of the apartment we were renting to do surveillance on one from my list. A man—who he was, I’ll never know—was on his knees between Jason’s legs with his cock in his mouth.

Upon my entering, the man tried to get up, but Jason slapped him on the top of head and reminded the man that he had eleven minutes left of being his cock warmer.

The man settled back down, though clearly uncomfortable with my presence.

I raised an eyebrow at Jason. I wasn’t really surprised by this, but also a bit curious. I’d only been gone for an hour and had no idea where Jason had picked the guy up at.

Jason had only shrugged. “He dropped the pizza I’d ordered on the stairs. He begged me not to call his boss and report him, so he gets to be my cock warmer until my next pizza arrives.”

Unlike Jason’s dominance, my submissive sexuality did not portray itself in my everyday life.

Jason had trained me hard over the years.

I was proficient in knife fighting, hand-to-hand combat, could shoot semi-automatic and automatic guns with military grade accuracy, and I was a master of disguise.

I wore wigs, colored contacts, and knew how to change my walking patterns if ever pursued. I would never be a victim again.

I was every bit the dominant in the bunker as Jason was. Actually, more so. Jason referred to me when it came to my victims and only lent a hand as needed or when muscle was required. I was strong, but I was still only five foot-three.