Chapter 1 - The Echoes On The Line
The phone rang,
and rang,
each electronic pulse vibrating through the quiet,
suffocating air of the kitchen.
I lay there on the cold granite floor,
my cheek pressed against the hard surface,
tasting the metallic tang of my own blood.
The pain in my abdomen was a living,
breathing monster,
clawing at my insides,
threatening to take away the only pure thing left in my life.
Carter stood above me,
his expensive leather shoes polished to a mirror shine,
reflecting the horrific scene beneath him.
He held my cracked phone loosely in his hand,
a sneer playing on his perfectly structured,
cruel face.
He expected to hear a broken,
tired old man on the other end of the line,
a man who would weep,
beg,
and ultimately do nothing.
Eleanor,
his mother,
sat wrapped in her cashmere throw,
her eyes glittering with malicious delight.
She took another sip of her expensive red wine,
savoring the moment,
relishing in my absolute humiliation.
For two years,
I had endured this torment,
hiding my true identity,
praying that my love would be enough to change him,
enough to soften his heart.
But as the blood pooled beneath me,
I finally realized the devastating truth.
Monsters do not change,
they only grow bolder,
and Carter was a monster cloaked in a designer suit.
The line connected with a sharp click,
followed by a deep,
impenetrable silence.
"Hello,"
Carter said,
his voice dripping with arrogance,
"is this the pathetic dirt farmer?"
The silence stretched on,
heavy,
suffocating,
and utterly terrifying.
Carter chuckled,
glancing back at his mother,
who offered him a wicked,
encouraging smile.
"Your useless daughter is currently bleeding all over my floor,"
Carter continued,
his tone conversational,
as if he were discussing the weather.
"She seems to think you can somehow come down here,"
"in your little pickup truck,"
"and save her."
Still,
there was no response from the other end.
Carter frowned,
his irritation rising,
hating to be ignored.
"Did you hear me, old man?"
Carter snapped,
"I am Carter Davis,"
"and you need to come collect your garbage."
Then,
the voice spoke.
It was not a weak,
trembling voice of a defeated man.
It was low,
gravelly,
and hummed with an authority that seemed to alter the air pressure in the room.
"Identify yourself,"
my father demanded.
The words were spoken softly,
yet they carried the weight of a falling mountain.
Carter blinked,
momentarily stunned by the sheer power behind the voice,
but his inflated ego quickly recovered.
"I just told you,"
Carter scoffed,
"I am her husband,"
"and I am sick of dealing with her incompetence."
"She tripped,"
he lied,
the falsehood rolling off his tongue with practiced ease,
"and now she is putting on a show."
"Put her on,"
my father commanded,
the ice in his tone freezing the blood in my veins.
Carter hesitated,
a flicker of unease crossing his face,
but he quickly masked it with a cruel laugh.
He squatted down,
bringing the cracked screen closer to my bleeding lips.
"Speak to daddy,"
Carter mocked,
"tell him what a clumsy idiot you are."
I gasped for air,
the pain searing through my nerves,
blinding me for a fraction of a second.
"Dad,"
I whispered,
my voice breaking,
shattering into a thousand pieces.
"I am bleeding,"
I sobbed,
"my baby,"
"they hurt me,"
"and they will not let me call for help."
The silence that followed was not just heavy,
it was apocalyptic.
I could hear my father breathing,
a slow,
rhythmic intake of air,
the sound of a sleeping dragon opening its eyes.
"Hold on, my beautiful girl,"
my father said,
his voice suddenly gentle,
filled with an agonizing,
desperate love.
Then,
the gentleness vanished,
replaced by a terrifying,
lethal calm.
"Carter Davis,"
my father stated,
pronouncing the name as if writing it on a tombstone.
"I am pulling your exact coordinates now,"
he said,
"and you have exactly three minutes to pray to whatever god you believe in."
The call ended,
May you like
leaving a dial tone that echoed in the silent,
blood-stained kitchen.
