Death’s New Pet: Love after Life
Death’s New Pet: Chapter 2

Present day.

(Six months after escaping the Prison)

If looks could kill, the person in front of me would be dead.

Trust me, I’ve been trying for a solid twenty minutes, burning daggers into that matted mud-coloured hair which looks like a twisted heaven for lice. I can even feel the little creatures crawling over my own head as I stare at the rivers of grease on her scalp.

She shakes her head and hits it a couple of times with her bony hand. As she turns her head, she flashes her pale skin with blotches of red spots burning her skin. Her eyes dart around in paranoia as she frantically scans her surroundings. They bulge out of the veiny sockets but a washed-out, distant look in her pupils makes it very clear that her frantic movements are the only thing alert about her.

In simple terms, she is off her fucking head on drugs. And to make matters worse, I am three bus seats behind her and can still smell her. Rotting. Decaying. About to die.

I don’t know Miss Skanky. She got on the bus a couple of stops after me. At first, she provided a good distraction from the concealed weapon in my lap and the impatient bouncing of my leg. It was something interesting to look. It made a nice change from staring at each of the corners the bus hits, and impatiently counting them down until I reach my destination. But I’m fucking jealous that she gets to be high, and I haven’t been able to replace the sweet drugs that used to be fed to me. I don’t miss the irony that I used to fear those little white pills but now I dream of them. It’s been six months but it feels like an eternity. Everything longs to taste mummy’s little helpers again.

Apart from her, nobody sits near me. It’s like they are too afraid. Perhaps, if they creep closer to the dark-haired lady with swollen red eyes and puffy lips— lips that have forgotten how to smile, skin paler than ice, icy expression stained onto her broken face— they might grow miserable too. Even the way I’m hunched over is unnatural. My back throbs a dull ache and I know I should just straighten my posture, and keep my gaze high and firmly ahead, but he’s so close; I can almost smell him.

I cannot risk lifting my chin from my chest in case he spots me when he boards the bus. I must be incognito; nothing more than a twisted shadow sticking to the bus walls.

I catch my reflection in the bus window and cringe. Underneath all the dark, baggy clothes which hide my identity, is still the same woman he touched, tasted, and owned. It’s been months since I last saw him and yet I haven’t been able to look at myself in the mirror without seeing a dark cast behind me. It’s like he’s always there, leering in every reflective glass, waiting for me to acknowledge him. Only then, can he lurch out and drag me back to that horrifying prison, kicking and screaming, but ultimately, unable to escape. Nobody ever truly escapes from Maximo.

Even his wife’s days are numbered.

Maximo used to describe me as deer coloured to mock my ridiculously pale skin. A colour only the most imprisoned person could get to. A colour that screams endless nights of dreaming what the sun actually feels like on your skin. That whispers the promise of blending into the icy snow during your rare trips outside of the house. I never remained wholly pale though, much to his amusement. Maximo would paint me in a harsh variety of blacks, blues and reds and I’d look more like the leopard that kills the deer. Beautifully ironic that I’m both the predator and prey.

“Deer-coloured skin, raven locks of hair, lips redder than fire,” he would croak as his rough hand clawed at my cheek, pulling my soft skin between his oily fingers. “Cheekbones sharper than stone, a body carved from sin’s wet dreams…”

Maximo was all types of twisted, cruel and perverse. No matter how hard I try, I can never replace the words to fully describe that pathetic excuse of a man. The kind of beast to roar with laughter when he made you bleed. Cackles when the tears pricked your eyes. Smirks when you are being held down and even then, those statements don’t fully describe his wickedness. The fucking irony of it is that I bet he would be able to describe himself perfectly.

If nothing else, Maximo had a way with words. I fucking despise that man but deep down, I was always strangely mesmerised by his secret poetic nature. At least he’d give you something mournfully beautiful to listen to before ripping your heart out. Whilst chained to the bed, I’d spend hours at a time trying to recreate poetry as stunning as his. There is a certain attractiveness to how words can be chained together to create such awful beauty, full of meaning and yet drowning with nonsense.

The bus lurches to a halt to allow more passengers to file on. I don’t need to look up to know that he is climbing on board. Well, not exactly my husband, but his cunt of a twin brother, Leonardo Gownes.

I’ve counted the minutes down and rehearsed this exact bus journey more times than I care to admit. It’s been a twisted fantasy that has gotten me through the sleepless, tormented nights. Burnt into the back of my mind, is my husband’s insane brother, in all his fucked-up glory. An ugly motherfucker who would stain the house with that awful pang of ammonia at least once a week.

Despite his near-clean-shaven head, he let a short mohawk grow out in the middle. It’s crisp and too damaged beyond repair from bleaching it regularly. One of his fucked-up habits was to rub the blood of his victims on that pale streak to get the most vibrant red. It was difficult for him to wash it all out before his next kill. There was always a faint stain of murder latched onto him.

Just thinking about it reminds me of a particularly haunting line Maximo sang to me one night as he forced my feet into the restraints.

“Beware of the pale-haired man with a landing strip of crimson, for he will sell your soul to the devil for a taste of your sweet demise.”

Beautiful, fucked-up words.

I hear the beep of the ticket machine and feel him move closer to me. My heart thumps in my chest, and everything around me drowns out into a low hum. I risk a peek at him— I can’t help it. Endless months of planning are finally proving worth it.

The huge man stalks his way to the closest seat to the front of the bus, fed-up eyes glued to his phone. His thumbs move fast as he frantically types something, a deep frown etched on his face. It steals my breath away. Fuck does he look a lot like Maximo with the same papery skin, crinkled with wrinkles, small beady eyes and thin cracked lips. Even though his eyes are firmly locked on the device in his hands, I can still remember the icy blue orbs that see through things. Hauntingly blue, almost white, eyes that I aptly named cameras for they see fucking everything. Nothing gets past Leonardo nor his brother, Maximo.

He never takes the bus. He would rather walk the two hours than take a twenty-minute bus journey, but this morning something unusual happened: his car tires were sliced ahead of a big meeting.

I wonder who did that? A dirty, knowing smile paints my face.

The gun in my lap suddenly feels heavy. A dull throb vibrates around my body, and I can’t tell if it’s painful or pleasurable. Despite the endless planning, I never truly thought this day would come. The day when my abusive husband’s brother died. One step closer to avenging the broken women they skilfully created.

The drugged-up lady in front of me bristles and then shoves her hand into her pocket before digging around. Eventually, she replaces a little white pill wrapped in clingfilm. My eyes latch onto it as she tries to unwrap it discreetly, but it doesn’t matter, my eyes are firmly fixed upon it. My mouth waters and my fingers twitch. What is it? Paracetamol? Ecstasy? Ketamine? Something better? Something worse?

And then the usual spike of chaos pushes through me, making me hold my breath to avoid throwing up everywhere.

No! No! Not now! Fuck!

Around me, the world blurs and I’m forced to grab the seat in front of me to stop myself from tumbling to the floor. My heart races faster and the sweat clings to my skin. Even my eyes feel hazy, and my breaths are too shallow.

Deep breaths. Ride it out. It will fade soon.

The irritability of my mood increases and my skin screams for me to scratch at it until it bleeds. I muffle the yawn in my sleeve. It makes my head hurt worse and it takes everything in me not to groan out as if that will relieve the pain.

I count to ten, and then to twenty, waiting for the withdrawal symptoms to leave but the image of that white little pill never leaves my mind. It’s so fucking close that I could quite easily leap across the bus and steal it from her.

The episodes come less frequently nowadays but it doesn’t stop the overwhelming hunger and need that rocks through my world too regularly for my liking. I sink my nails into my thigh until the pain is too much. This usually drags me from a withdrawal episode. It slowly reduces the feeling of attacking the lady in front of me.

Once my eyes stop watering and my jaw unclenches from its yawning position, I frantically cast my gaze back to Leonardo to check that he hasn’t noticed me. Like before, he remains fixated on his phone.

With a bitter reminder about what he created, I grind my teeth together.

That’s it. The fucker dies now!

My heartbeat spikes for a different reason, adrenaline for what I’m about to do. I lick my lips in anticipation. My fingers curl around the fully loaded weapon and I try to regulate my breathing like I do every time before I make a kill. This time, though, it feels different. This isn’t just some dirty man that touched me or hurt me once or twice that I could put a bullet in the back of his head and be done with it. No. This one I need to see the recognition on his face when he realises that he’s going to die at the hands of someone he swore to tear apart.

Cautious not to alert him, I shuffle over to the next seat to get a better aim. He never once looks up from his phone and I almost laugh. The man is a trained assassin and used to preach to me the skill of danger awareness as he dragged knives down my body. Whatever has him hooked to that phone must really be something of value. I almost want to take credit for the distraction. But, this just happens to be a happy coincidence to help me avenge the broken woman inside.

Holding my breath, I wipe my sweaty hands on my leggings before switching the safety button off. I scan the bus one last time to make sure nobody is looking who could perhaps alert him before my first bullet tears through his disgusting body. I gulp down the lump in my throat and then aim at his thigh. I want to demobilise him before showing my face. I might be much stronger since leaving the prison six months ago, but this man was born to kill. He could still easily overpower me. A shiver wracks through me at the thought of being dragged back to that prison.

I force a deep breath to clear the horrifying thoughts. I aim again before pulling the trigger.

Bang—

Crash!

Suddenly, I’m flying left. My entire world is disorientated as the bus spins and the shrieks of tires on the tarmac tear through the bus. A terrible pain slams into my back and I realise I’m pressed up against the ceiling of the bus before gravity slams me back into the floor. It completely snatches my breath, taking me by absolute surprise.

Cries of horror and agony ring out around me from the other crash victims but it’s the high-pitched noise haunting my ears which pulls me back into the moment. Gasping and spluttering, I clumsily stumble to my feet, falling into the bus window as I do so. I reach up to the ceiling where the bus seats are hanging in the air to steady myself.

Slowly, my vision restores, and I see the utter chaos of where a truck has slammed into the side of the bus, completely tearing it in two.

My heart drops as I realise Leonardo is nowhere to be seen. Panickily, I race over to the shattered window which gives me my only exit. As I climb out, I catch sight of the lady from earlier. Or what’s left of her anyway. I don’t bother making sense of the body parts. It looks as though she has exploded on impact. As does the old man who sat opposite her. And the man in his forties who spoke on the phone a little too loudly for my liking for the majority of the bus journey.

For a split second, it strikes me as weird that I’m able to stand when the other victims have been fucking obliterated. But I’m quickly distracted by what remains in a pale hand next to my feet. The little white pill wrapped in cling film seems to have made it in one piece.

I know I shouldn’t, but instinct is a bitch. I swipe it up and slip it into my pocket before climbing out of the mutilated bus. As fast as I can force my stinging body to move, I charge around the huge lorry which sticks outside of the bus. I hurry to the other side where Leonardo will be, praying that he is still alive.

However, as I stumble around, the heat hits me. The front half of the bus is alight with wild flames and only growing larger.

My heart drops in my chest. Fuck. Leonardo! He is dead and it’s not by me. My revenge! It’s gone! Fuck!

The bubbling sense of fury slams through me, and I release a blood-curdling cry. Half a dozen people leap out of their vehicles to try and search for survivors but it all blurs around me. Strangely, nobody checks on me despite the steady stream of blood pouring down my leg and a loose shard of glass firmly wedged in my chest. They don’t even react to the gun in my hand. I should care for why, but the feeling of helplessness and misery pulls around me and I scream again. It’s agonising— twenty-two years of pent-up rage and suffering without suitable vengeance.

“Actions have consequences.” A sudden female voice cries out amongst the chaos of the crash.

Startled, I tear around, gun at the ready-to-attack in my adrenaline-filled state. A shadowy figure emerges from behind a parked car, wearing a crimson cloak which floats majestically around her. She stands far too close to the fiery wreckage as if she cannot feel the heat.

“What?” I splutter. “Who are you? What the fuck are you saying?”

My whole body trembles as I raise the gun to the oddly dressed lady with a dress that seems to defy the laws of gravity. Yet, I’m not brave enough to make the shot. After what feels like an eternity, she lifts her large red hood. I recognised her instantly.

The woman who saved me that night.

“You!” I cry out in horror. The questions blurt out of my mouth just as quickly as they plague my mind. “What the fuck? Who are you? How do you keep replaceing me? Why are you always here when something bad happens—”

“I won’t answer your questions, so don’t bother asking.”

Frightened, I try to put more distance between us, but she effortlessly closes the gap as if she’s floating towards me.

“Don’t run from me, Scarlet,” the velvety voice coos. It’s as if the whole world collapses around me and I choke on a breath. Her stern face suddenly melts into the weirdest smile I’ve ever seen— her lips curve downwards and yet it’s clear that she’s trying to look happy.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everyone’s name, silly.” She almost giggles before turning her attention to the bus. “Rossa Minta, Miles Glen, Alisha Treng, Thomas Isabel, Maxie DeGeneres, Amy Macdonald, Christopher Jeng —”

“What? Who are they?” I cut her off. “Why are you listing—”

“Taylor Green, Charlie Catch, Amanda Miles, Katie Miles, John Carlise, and of course, Leonardo Gownes. The victims of the crash.” She smiles happily as if it’s the best news in the world. The feeling of nausea races through me and I vibrate with adrenaline.

“What? How did you—”

“It’s funny how one bullet cost thirteen lives.”

“What!” my eyes pop out of my head. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“Was it worth it?” She takes a swift step toward me, and I take one back, but I’m suddenly trapped by a carelessly parked car behind me. “Was it worth it? Thirteen lives for justice? Did you enjoy it?”

Frightened, I tear my gaze around to the large crowd gathering around the atrocity. I desperately search for someone to help me but it’s as though I’m completely invisible. Defensively, I hold my weapon up and point it at the strange lady, more inclined to use the weapon now.

“Leave me alone! I swear to God I’ll—”

“Leave him out of this.” She suddenly hisses, that happy demeanour suddenly vanishing. An overwhelming sense of misery fills me and my body collapses to the floor as though it can’t hold its own weight any further. It completely takes me by surprise, and I will myself jump up again, but I’m stuck. A frightened cry leaves at the realisation I can’t escape.

“What do you want from me? Leave me alone! Who are you? How are you doing this?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she says, almost matter-of-factly. Then, she twists slightly to watch the horrified screams and cries of people as they desperately try to put out the fire behind us. A noise nothing short of a chuckle escapes her. “It’s actually what I can do for you.”

“What?”

“I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help! You’re crazy!” I shriek. I will myself to move, but again, my body feels too full of misery to move. Even tears start to burn my eyes.

“Yes, you do. You are dead. You killed yourself and other innocent people trying to get some feeble little revenge.”

“What?” I choke on a breath. “I’m de—”

“Oh, come on now, nobody could survive that.”

Horrified, I stare over at the mangled bus which is now fully alight in flames. Absolute terror rocks through me. “But I’m still breathing, I’m still conscious—”

“Your body has died, but your soul lives on. And trust me, you’re not going to like where you’re about to end up because of how many lives you’ve claimed.”

My voice is small and timid, “You mean Hell?”

“Yes, I mean Hell. Oh, come on, don’t look so sad, it’s not the worst place in the world— oh, my bad, of course, it is!” She takes delight in my despair.

“But if I’m dead that means that I can’t get my revenge on Maximo.” I don’t know why the words tumble from my lips. I must be insane. My main priority is still extracting torture on my husband rather than fearing for my safety in Hell, but then again, my whole life has been one long, never-ending hellish event of torture and pain.

What could possibly be worse than that?

Living through it all for nothing.

“Now, we are going to agree,” she grins, turning to face me fully. “Come with me and there will be no repercussions for your slaughter of thirteen lives.”

“I didn’t kill them, I didn’t mean to, I jus—”

She frowns. “Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t! I only shot—”

“Actions have consequences.” She suddenly snaps. “The quicker you get that in your head, the easier this will be. Shooting Leonardo caused a bang, which in turn startled the lorry driver in the lane next to you, he lost control of the vehicle and now thirteen people are dead. It’s quite simple actually.”

“That’s not true!” I scream out.

Disbelief fills me and then anger. I throw myself up furiously and suddenly all the sadness dissipates and turns to blind rage. I lunge at the woman and her mouth falls open in shock and fear. She visibly recoils, for the first time, looking taken aback. Before I can connect my fist with her, the sadness returns, and my heavy body falls back to the floor. The rage leaves me and a lump in my throat chokes the violent words I was about to spit.

“How do you know all of that? Who the hell are you? What are you— why are you doing this?” Sobs escape me until I’m fully hunched over, shaking with sadness. My entire body aches and feels heavy, and my eyes sting as the tears merge with the snot pooling out of my nose.

Her frown twitches. “That’s better.”

I can feel her watching me intently as if she’s trying to suss me out. After a long period of silence, she finally answers a question.

“My name is Misery. By the looks of things, I have a bad feeling we are going to get to know each other very well.”