Into the Wolves' Den

by Jon Athan

The girls couldn’t see the men’s faces because of the masks, but they could feel their emotions. They knew when they were happy, smiling and amused. They also knew when they were angry, scowling and growling. Brooke’s defiance—her insolence—infuriated Mr. Wolf.

Rape—it was like taking a person’s life away without killing them.

“Why are you acting like this? They’re my babies, Keith. I kept them here, in my body, for nine months each. They’re a part of me. They’re the most important part of me. Without them, I’m… I’m nothing. I’m dead. Let me help.”

Gerald saw his friend falling into a rabbit hole. His desperation was worrisome—desperate people did desperate things after all—but it was understandable. He sat there and watched the shop, thinking about Keith’s limits. How far is too far?

Some people weren’t capable of murder, no matter the circumstances.

The French called it: tache noir de la sclerotique. Death extinguished the bright, hopeful glimmer from her eyes.

He entered the house as an honest, honorable, and kind private investigator. He left the house as a deceitful, cowardly, and violent killer. He drove off, unable to look at himself in the reflections of his mirrors.

She lost everything already, so she couldn’t lose again. She was broken until there was nothing left to break. She was unbreakable.