Unhinged

Author

Prologue

Holly

His sour smell drifted into my nostrils, and I fought the urge to crinkle my nose. Six years with this man, and he still managed to repulse me.

Rose.

I glanced down at my husband, Richard, and shook away my thoughts before handing him his routine glass of gin and tonic. My apologies, I said before perching on the couch opposite his chair.

I stared over his left shoulder at the ten-thousand dollar painting he’d bought last year at a gallery opening. It was ugly as sin, but better allowed me to ignore the animalistic way he raked his gaze over my body. I knew better than to think it was admiration or even lust that shone in those dark eyes I refused to peer into. He was searching for a flaw, no matter how small or insignificant. A stray hair, a wrinkle in my dress, a hunch of my shoulders. If it were there, he’d have found it.

You look beautiful this evening, he said, bringing the glass to his lips.

I’d wanted to poison the drink. When I’d made it, I’d had visions of watching it slip from his grasp and staining the Louis XV sofa. The ice would clink, but I wouldn’t hear it. My focus would be on Richard’s breathing and the choking sounds that would bubble from his throat.

But I hadn’t poisoned it.

Most ingestible poisons could be found in an autopsy if one were looking for it, and his children would without a doubt demand it. They were in their late twenties, both older than my twenty-four years. The young trophy wife killing her older husband for his money wasn’t a new concept, and with Richard’s son and daughter’s hatred of me, it wouldn’t slip their minds.

Thank you, I said too late. I’d been so busy imagining his death, I’d forgotten he’d complimented me. Or at least to the outside world, it would’ve seemed like a compliment. To me, it was a relief, confirmation that I’d done something right.

You’re welcome, Rose.

I made the mistake of moving my gaze to his face for a moment before returning to stare just behind him. He was smirking. Something had flickered in his dark eyes, and whatever he’d planned, it wouldn’t be good.

Richard lifted his wrist to glance at his watch. We still have twenty minutes before dinner. How shall we spend the time?

He was baiting me. He didn’t care what I wanted, and he never had. I wasn’t foolish enough to answer the rhetorical question so, with my silence, he stood and made his way to the vintage record player. He put on a song from the seventies that I couldn’t remember the name of.

You like this one, don’t you? he asked, as if I gave a shit. As if we danced and listened to music before dinner on a regular basis.

I do, I said, standing. I expected him to step up to me, put one hand on my waist while the other threaded through my fingers. All an act to get me to put down my guard until he could find a reason to punish me.

Instead, he sat on his throne and spread his knees wide before settling into the chair. Dance for me.

Confusion may have covered my features, but only for a brief moment before I understood his meaning. I forced myself to look into his eyes, and I focused on the evil that hid underneath. I wouldn’t look away this time because after six miserable years, I was no longer afraid. Not of him.

I allowed my hips to sway as I sauntered up to his chair, stopping just out of his reach. You’d like me to dance for you? I asked, tilting my head.

His brows furrowed at the sound of my dry voice, but he nodded. What did he expect from me? For my cheeks to blush? For my throat to ripple with my swallow? I was a twenty-four-year-old whore to a man twice my age. There was no innocence or meekness left. He’d already stolen those things. No more shy smiles or genuine whimpers. I’d faked those responses because it’d pacified him, but I wouldn’t be faking them tonight.

I parted my lips and leaned my head back as I rolled my hips to the beat of the song. My fingertips trailed the length of my dress from the hem, to my waist, to the V that exposed a generous amount of cleavage. I traced the edge of the lacy material and arched my spine, poking my breasts out for my husband’s hungry gaze, but it wasn’t the part I knew he wanted to see. With a smirk of my own, I reached my hand behind my back and tugged at the zipper, all the while not looking away from the face of depravity.

Is this what you wanted? The dress slid off my shoulders and to the floor. I’d stopped moving to the rhythm, and neither of us seemed to notice as the song replayed. Richard’s eyes roamed my flesh, pausing at each blotch of color and scar. The bruises differed in color from dark purple to yellow with their various stages of healing. Most were in the shape of my husband’s fist, some matched the soles of his leather shoes, but all were his doing.

One might expect to see remorse flash across his face. Maybe for him to shift in his seat in discomfort, anything to show his humanity. Not from Richard. Never from Richard. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his pupils dilated to where his eyes were black enough to match his soul.

I dropped to my knees and crawled until I was between his legs. Or maybe you want something else.

He straightened and gripped my wrist as I went to reach for the button on his slacks. What the fuck are you doing?

I grinned. His rage was almost palpable, and I wanted to reach out and grab it. Shove it in a bag and laugh at it in the years to come.

I rubbed the seam of his slacks where his flaccid cock rested and wondered if it was the only part of him that didn’t receive the heated blood. The same blood that caused the vein in his forehead to throb.

Would you like for me to get your pill, dear?

I knew the hit was coming before his arm even raised. The back of his hand connected with my cheek, whipping my head to the side. This was the part where I would force myself to cry. I’d lay on the ground with my face in my hands and whimper while he screamed. He’d remove his belt, and he’d beat me until all that pent-up tension was gone. He couldn’t fuck me, so this was his compensation, and it didn’t matter what it’d cost me. It was worse if I fought back, and even worse if I appeared unaffected. The best strategy was to cry, beg, apologize, and wait for it to be over.

Only that night I didn’t care.

I turned back to face him and dug my fingers into his legs before deepening my grin. His eyes widened and this time he hit me with a closed fist, right in the mouth. I fell backward and hit my head on the carpet. My lip swelled and iron coated my tongue as I lay flat. It ached, but I barely registered the pain as a negative. It was a known companion of mine and held no strength over my resolve.

Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? He stood and worked to undo his belt. The tremble in his voice had laughter bubbling out of me. Loud and manically. Blood oozed over my teeth and I spit onto the carpet, staining the pristine rug red.

I stared up at him and laughed harder when I spotted the uncertainty, the fear. He thought I was crazy, and I guess I was. In a way, this was the greatest day of my life, and I couldn’t keep the joy from erupting from me.

Shut up! He lifted the belt and brought it down on my midsection. A red angry strip spread across my belly, fitting in nicely with the other marks he’d left. I rolled onto my stomach and attempted to crawl away, but my laughing never ceased. To my amazement, the hits did, and only then did I quiet myself. I turned and peered back at Richard, my grin never wavering. Challenge remained in my eyes, but the only noise coming from me was my heavy breathing. He held the belt in the air, confusion taking full control over the rage.

What’s wrong with you?

Beatrice, the cook, appeared before I got the chance to answer. I was naked, sitting on the floor with blood running down my chin, but Beatrice was hardly fazed. My husband’s depravity was known in this house. It was only the outside world he hid it from, and he hid me along with it. The only role I had with civilization was when a colleague would come to the house and I’d have to play the obedient wife.

Dinner is served, sir. Beatrice’s back was ramrod straight and her long nose was pointed in the air. She was as ugly on the outside as she was on the inside.

Thank you, Beatrice, Richard said in between deep breaths. He turned back to me as she left. Have you learned your lesson?

I wanted to scowl, but instead I peered down at the floor and nodded. I noted the hesitation in his voice. I’d surprised him, maybe even worried him, and I’d treasure that memory for the rest of my life. But there was one memory I craved more, and I wouldn’t prolong it.

Yes, Richard, I whispered in my practiced, defeated voice.

He sighed in relief and kicked my dress toward me. I quickly put it on and stood, wondering if he’d expect me to clean the blood off my face. No. He’d plan for more later. I’d challenged him this time, mocked him even. The need to punish me covered him like another layer of skin, but he wouldn’t break routine. Dinner was at seven every night and had been since I’d met him.

We locked arms as if he hadn’t just beaten me, and I allowed him to lead me into the dining hall. My spine was straight, but each step reminded me of places I didn’t know I’d been hurt and made me cringe on a microscopic level. Beatrice stood waiting to serve us, and after pulling out my chair for me, Richard took his place at the opposite end of the table.

Beatrice lifted the lid off the dish. It was Wednesday, so I already knew it was roast beef before the juice-filled steam clouded the room.

Should I get her a washcloth? Beatrice spoke to Richard, ignoring my presence completely, as if I wasn’t a human being who could hear and speak for myself. I had the urge to spit on the tablecloth and laugh as her already disgusted expression deepened. But instead of reacting, I sat in my seat and stared at the entrance. I’d been waiting for this night the majority of my adult life.

And then the housekeeper arrived.

She almost stumbled and dropped the orange insulin pen as she spotted me, but quickly regained her composure. She was a sweet girl. Young, only twenty-two I believe. I didn’t have anything against her, but if she’d dropped that pen I might’ve attacked. I glanced toward the steak knife that sat in front of me and had a brief vision of using it to stab everyone in the house. After tonight, I’d be a free woman, and nothing would change that.

I shook my head and peered at Richard as she sat the pen down in front of him before curtsying like the adorable, innocent young woman she was.

Thank you, Monica. Richard’s smile was flirtatious, and I wondered if he would’ve slept with her had he not been impotent. She smiled back, but it was forced.

I leaned farther on the table as he injected himself with his insulin, along with the potassium chloride I added this morning. It wasn’t supposed to take long, but the seconds that ticked by with him still breathing seemed like an eternity. He must’ve noticed my intense stare because he glanced at me and narrowed his eyes.

What? he asked, exasperated. His lips twitched and he coughed. I watched with fascination as his face grew red and his hand went to his chest. His eyes began to bulge. It looked almost as if he were choking, but I knew better. His heart was shutting down, which was the reason I chose a substance occurring naturally in the body. It’d mimic a heart attack.

Mr. Kirkhill! Beatrice screamed as he toppled to the floor. I rose from the chair and walked to stand over his dying body as Beatrice screamed for help and knelt at his side. People appeared in the room, all panicking, but I blocked out most of the noise. I was too busy imprinting my husband’s last breaths into memory.

Rose, call an ambulance! Beatrice pleaded, Richard’s head in her hands. My head tilted as the life drained from those dark eyes. No more evil existed. No more cruelty could touch me.

I was free.

Rose? Beatrice’s expression was fearful, and her gaze darted between the insulin pen and me.

Don’t worry, Beatrice. I gave her what I thought would be a comforting smile, but with the way she reacted, I supposed it was rather frightening. I’m sure you’ll find another job.

I snatched the pen from the table before strolling into the kitchen and tossing it into the oven with the baking souffle. Sure, it was suspicious, but it hardly mattered. There would be no evidence, and there would be no confession.

I was free.

I smiled as I passed through the small crowd of my late husband’s concerned servants. They jerked to get out of my way as if they’d drop over dead if they touched me. I’d made it all the way to the front door, drunk with joy, relief, and hope for a brighter future.

But there was one problem.

As I opened the door and the cool night air kissed my face dampened with blood, the world around me spun. My lungs had shrunk to the size of a softball, so even with my panting I couldn’t breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

But still, not enough air entered my lungs.

It was as if the bastard’s hands were still wrapped around my neck.

I placed my palm to my aching chest, and if I hadn’t had plenty of panic attacks over the duration of my marriage, I would’ve thought I was joining Richard in death.

I slammed the door closed and pressed my back into the wall, pulling at the strands of my hair until my heartbeat no longer thudded in my ears. I thought Richard had been my source of panic, and with him gone it’d have dissipated.

I’d been wrong.

1

Two years later

James

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I concentrated on the pen hitting the documents in front of me instead of the man droning on. It was Mr. Vaun, and hurray for him, he was getting married… again. I considered throwing the documents at his mouth that wouldn’t stop twisting with whatever words he spewed. He could get a new estate attorney, I didn’t care. I had enough of my own problems.

A few of his words registered and I craned my neck as I loosened my tie. Sweat coated my fingertips as I touched skin.

I’m not a prenuptial lawyer, Mr. Vaun. I’m an estate attorney. In the state of Florida, a spouse cannot be disinherited. We can put whatever you’d like in the will, but upon your passing, your wife will be entitled to a minimum of one third of the estate.

He stopped breathing long enough for his face to go red. What the fuck was wrong with these men and their trophy wives? If you don’t want her taking your shit, don’t marry her.

I see. He straightened his lapels before standing. I’ll have a talk with the prenuptial lawyer and get back with you, then. He had a stammer that made me wonder what sort of vibe I was putting off. Could he tell?

Of course. I stood and extended my hand, studying him as we shook. Yes, he was nervous, but it could’ve had more to do with his not being able to remove his new lover from his assets than me.

Good day, Mr. Oliver. He nodded before leaving my office.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I sighed. It was only two o’clock, which meant I had three and a half hours before I could go home. I deflated into my chair and closed my eyes. A bead of sweat collected on my forehead and traveled down the bridge of my nose until it dropped onto my button-down. The back of the shirt was drenched, so I kept the suit jacket on to hide it. Not that it was abnormal to sweat with how humid it was in this fucking swamp.

Mr. Oliver?

I opened my eyes and jerked upright. Teresa, my secretary, stood in my office entryway.

Yes, Teresa? I asked, trying to appear as put-together as I could. I don’t think I’d fooled her. I was a mess and had been the past week. I’d waited too long between purges.

Judge Oliver called, sir. He wants to know about dinner.

Judge Oliver, my grandfather. We had dinner at his house, my childhood home, the same time every week, yet he still felt the need to call my secretary to confirm. This time I was glad he did. My mind was too jumbled to call myself and cancel.

Tell him I won’t be able to make it. I went back to tapping my pen. I have some work to do this evening.

Teresa raised her brows in surprise, but then collected herself and nodded. She gave a tight smile before closing the door. I wondered what demons she had. She appeared so normal. Like tonight she’d go home, cook a turkey for her family, and subtly bitch about her lunatic boss. But maybe not… we all had our vices, didn’t we? Just some more unusual than others.

My heart rate picked up as the memories replayed in my head. Screams, they were always screams, but this particular one was unwelcome. My head clouded as the voice grew louder, taunting me, begging me, until the tapping of my pen no longer registered, and my arms went numb.

Stop! I yelled, pounding my fist on my desk with a force that tipped my pen holder over. Five black, ballpoint pens with my initials engraved on the side rolled from my desk and dropped to the floor one by one, and to my relief, the screams ceased.

They’d be back.

I jerked from my chair and stormed from the office. Teresa glanced up as I exited, the question obvious in her expression.

I have to leave for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Of course, sir, she said, again with that tight smile.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe we didn’t all have demons.

Maybe it was just me.

I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath as I stood outside my vault. Titanium steel surrounded its walls, making it soundproof, but it didn’t stop me from imagining the noise that went on inside. A delicious shudder ran over the back of my neck.

I punched in the code for the door, unable to contain my excitement any longer. It creaked as I pushed it open and stepped into the room, locking eyes with the man strapped to the metal table. His shirt was ripped open and dried blood coated his midsection from our last session. Normally, it was enough to hold me over, but I’d gone four months thinking that if I held out long enough, the darkness would go away. I’d been wrong, and now it was insatiable.

Hello, George, I said, stepping into