Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

JUSTICE

T he cold, hard concrete beneath me is the first thing I notice when my eyelids flicker open. The second is the fact that I'm not bound or chained. As I blink my tired, gritty eyes, my vision clears, and familiar steel bars come into view.

This cell I'm in is one of four in the cold, dark basement of the abandoned Newhaven Asylum. Like the house Salem bought for me, I know this place well, and have been here many times before.

With a heavy sigh, and every muscle aching in protest, I push myself up to a sitting position and stretch out my legs as I lean back against the cold, stone wall.

On the opposite side of the large, open space, a steel work bench sits against the wall beside a row of steel cabinets and a huge, ornately carved armoire. I've seen the horrors that are kept hidden behind those antique doors, and I'm grateful it's closed. Just the thought of the jars filled with human hearts, organs, and severed body parts, is enough to have bile rising in my throat.

Dropping my head back, I stare up at the damp roof for a few minutes, stretching my neck and wondering how long it will be before Salem returns. When boredom, and the need to stretch my tense muscles overtakes me, I stand, steadying myself against the wall for a minute before I begin my pacing.

The first time I was locked down here, terror coursed through my veins, and I screamed myself hoarse. Now, it's simply another room… another place where Salem can inflict his torture on me and bend me to his will.

And I always fold.

Every. Single. Time.

Anger burns in my chest, at my life, at Salem, but most of all, at my own, pathetic weakness for him.

I stop at the door of the cell and curl my fingers around the cool, steel bars, peering out at the empty mortuary table in the centre of the room. A huge, silver light is suspended above and shines down on the table, reflecting off the stainless steel surface.

Dropping my hands, I'm about to turn and begin pacing again when my eyes latch onto the chains looped around the cell door. I gasp aloud and my heart rate increases when I see the lock hooked through the chains, but undone. Just hanging there, taunting me with the promise of freedom.

No. Don't do it. My mind screams at me to step back into the shadows and huddle in the corner. Every time I've escaped, it's because he's allowed it. An unlocked door, an open window, chains and cuffs loose enough for me to free myself.

I weigh my options. Stay and remain a prisoner while subjecting myself to more of Salem's torture. Or escape through the unlocked door and face the consequences when he inevitably captures me again.

"But what if?" I speak the question into the silence, and before I can talk myself out of it, I'm reaching through the bars and unhooking the padlock from the chains.

After dropping it on the floor where it lands with a loud clang, I wait, frozen in place as I listen for the sound of footsteps, for voices, for anything to tell me Salem's close by.

When I don't hear a sound, I begin removing the heavy, rusted chains. Again, I allow them to drop noisily onto the stone, and I wait once more. I pace the cell, scrub my hands over my face and twist my fingers through my hair, tugging on the strands until I wince in pain.

With my heart still pounding, and my hands shaking, desperation fuels my actions and I turn the latch on the cell door to push it open. Ignoring the loud creak of the old, rusted steel, I step, barefoot, out of the cell and head straight towards the workbench.

On the wall, a collection of tools hang. Saws, hammers, axes, drills, and an assortment of screwdrivers. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I reach out to take one of the larger hammers but stop with my hand midair when I notice the blood on the claw.

I shake my head hard before reaching for a smaller hammer. I weigh it in my hand, gripping it against my palm and giving it a few short swings. Satisfied I'll be able to use it as a weapon if the need arises, I shove the handle down the back of my pants and pull my t-shirt over it.

Making my way out of the asylum was too easy, leading me to believe that this was Salem's plan all along.

From where I'm crouched in the bushes, I look up at the asylum's dark, macabre fa?ade, and consider traipsing back through the detritus and down into the bowels of the dank basement.

I bring my hand up to my neck and trail my fingertips along the rough scars that spread across my collarbone and shoulders. Memories of fire, pain, and heat, assaults my senses and the acrid stench of smoke wafts below my nostrils even though there's not a hint of it in sight.

I drop my head back and look up to the star scattered sky. As long as I live and breathe, Salem resides beneath the same sky. He'll come for me again, there is not a shred of doubt in my mind.

The first time he took me, I was fifteen, and stupidly smitten with the confident, older man with dark eyes and a sexy smirk who spoke all the words my teenage self wanted to hear.

Fifteen years later, there's a piece of Salem buried deep inside me. Seared into the very marrow of my bones. And as I stare back at the asylum, I wonder why I cling to those pieces as though I need them more than I need the air I breathe.

Shaking my head, I internally curse myself before I turn and run, putting the asylum and thoughts of Salem at my back.

Somehow, I make it out of Newhaven by sprinting through the dense forest until I reach a steep embankment that leads down to a highway. Tentatively, I make my way down the embankment, the loose rocks and soil slipping beneath my feet as I grip onto tree trunks and sturdy branches. I'm almost at the bottom when my bare feet give way, and I slide down, grasping and flailing as the rocks and debris graze my skin.

My body tumbles until it hits the bitumen and I come to a stop on the side of the road. I push myself up, wincing in pain when my elbow gives way and I slump back to the ground.

Slowly, I lift my arm and feel a warm tickle. Turning it slightly, the streetlights allow me to catch a glimpse of a gash along the back of my arm.

As a car drives by, its headlights light up a truck stop ahead and I get to my feet and start walking, cradling my wounded arm against myself.

At the empty truck stop, I slump down behind a concrete toilet block. Nodding on and off, I'm startled awake by bright lights and the roar of a truck engine.

I attempt to get to my feet but cry out in pain when my muscles seize and the wound in my arm burns.

"Is someone there?" a deep voice calls. "I've got a weapon, and I'm not fuckin' ‘round."

"Help," I call out. "Please, help."

A phone torch shines in my direction, and I raise my hands as much as my wounded arm will allow to show I'm not a threat. "Fuck, you're bleeding mate, what the hell happened to you?"

He raises his phone, to dial an ambulance no doubt, but I call out, "No, please don't call anyone. Please, can you just take me somewhere, anywhere away from here."

He narrows his eyes, suspicious. "You in trouble with the law or somethin'."

"My ex," I choke out. "He—" I stop, wondering if this guy will turn on me if he knows I'm gay. "I need to get away from here, please."

His footsteps come closer, and I prepare myself for a beating, but the guy, around sixty years old with a bald head, and a long, grey beard, reaches out to me. "Come on, let me help you into my truck. Got a first aid kit up there."

"Thank you." I allow him to help me to my feet, hoping I haven't traded one crazed maniac for another.

With my arm cleaned and dressed with gauze and a bandage, I lay in the back of the trucker's cab and close my eyes as I listen to the sound of the road noise.

"Your ex sounds like a fuckin' psychopath mate. You sure you don't wanna go to the cops?"

"I can't," I say. "He knows so many of them."

"Fuckin' dirty cop bastards," the trucker, whose name is Barton says. "I know a few guys. Some real mean ones, you just give me a name and I'll make sure that asshole doesn't lay another hand on ya."

I smile at the conviction in his tone, but it quickly turns into a frown when I realise this man will die if Salem ever discovers he spoke to me, let alone helped me escape.

"Hey, Barton, you can't tell anyone you saw me, okay? My ex, he's dangerous. Please… just when you drop me off, forget you ever saw me."

"Got it, mate. Don't you worry, I can take care of myself," he assures me.

As the sun shines over the horizon, Barton pulls into a 24-hour motel. He hands me a paper bag with a pair of track pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of old, ratty sneakers. "This should do until you get something new." He averts his gaze, but I don't miss his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

I reach out and place my hand over his forearm. "I'll be fine," I say, keeping my tone upbeat. "He won't find me all the way out here."

Barton nods, then hands me a wad of cash and a piece of paper that's folded in half. "Don't say no, just take it. Take it and start out somewhere new."

I take the money, and before I can overthink it, I leap forward and wrap my arms around the man, hugging him. He pats my back, then steps away with a wave of his hand. "Go on then, off you go."

With a smile and a wave, I walk toward the motel, confident that this time, I really have found freedom.

In the motel room, I open the piece of paper and read the messy scrawl.

Justice,

I had a son your age.

Please, do whatever it takes to survive.

I fall asleep thinking about my next stop and contemplating a future without Salem. The thought should have me overjoyed, but apprehension clings to every fibre of my being. I loathe that Salem has been the only constant in my life, but it's time to let go. Nothing good will ever come from the irrational, toxic obsession he has with me.

Later the same evening, after a hot shower and a steaming mug of coffee, I turn on the small television for some background noise as I try to figure out what I'm going to do next.

A news report cuts into an ad break.

brEAKING NEWS

Truck driver found dead after fiery crash. A fiery crash on the Northern Highway has claimed the life of a truck driver early this morning. Motorists are urged to come forward if they were travelling along the highway between 4am and 9am.

F rantic, I swipe the cash from the bedside table and shove it into my pocket. Picking up the phone receiver, I dial the only number I know by heart, and the only person I trust with my life.

"Who is this?" Miles' voice comes over the phone and I sigh in relief.

"It's me, I need your help, can you pick me up?" I rush out.

"Sure, where are you?"

I give him the name of the motel and sit on the floor with my back to the door as I wait for him to arrive.

The knock at my motel door has me releasing a shriek. I slap my hand hard over my mouth. Standing, I peek through the peephole to see Miles standing on the other side of the door. I pull it open and quickly usher him inside.

"What's going on? You look like… Fuck, Justice, what happened?" he asks reaching out to inspect my arm.

"He found me," I admit, averting my gaze.

Miles helps me into his car, and a few minutes later, we're heading towards his house. "You need to report him," Miles says. "This is bullshit. He's been stalking you for fucking years, Justice."

Miles is the only one who knows who Salem really is. Or, as far as we can tell, the only one alive, other than me, who can identify Salem as the boy we went to school with. The boy who set fire to a storage room at school that killed three kids and our teacher.

For years, I—along with everyone else—thought Salem was dead.