World for the Broken

The Wolf shoves Tate toward the bed, and my heart falters. He takes a few steps, but his footing is unsteady. He nearly slips, drawing my attention to the blood trail leading over the edge of the bed to the floor just behind The Wolf. Billy lies in shadow, eyes wide and vacant, in the floor. Tate hesitates, and I try to reassure him. My attempts come out muffled. Another shove knocks Tate into the bed, and my face contorts with rage as I try to scream at The Wolf. All my threats come out like so much garbled nonsense thanks to the disgusting cloth in my mouth, held firmly in place by a musty, silk tie. My hands ball up into useless fists. Stooping to hiss in Tate’s ear, The Wolf says, “Do you want to be pathetic like her? Do you want to be weak?” Grabbing Tate’s tiny hand, he lifts it to poise the blade over my thigh. “Or do you want to be strong? To get what you want?” His voice drops lower, and he spits, “Do you want to live?” Panic spills from Tate on frantic cries as he faces a dilemma far beyond his meager years. Lamenting the carefree boy he once was, I try to tell him to go ahead. Anything so that he lives. But the gag stops me. Little, blue eyes disappear behind lids, and he tries to turn away. Strong hands hold him in place, forcing his little fist to press the knife into my flesh. It bites hard, pulling tears to my eyes instantly, but I clamp my lips shut, determined not to scream. I won’t fill his nightmares with my pain any more than The Wolf already has. The knife slices through my skin easily and catches muscle as The Wolf uses Tate’s hand to drag it down toward my knee.