Page 65 of Hunt You Down

“What are you doing?”

“I-I had to go. I got dizzy.”

Regan’s hand latched onto my hair, and he pulled me from the room. As he did, a glow from the corner of the shower caught my eye, and I hoped that he hadn’t seen it.

The only thing I remember after that is pain. Pain from his fist, his foot, pain from… God, I didn’t even want to say—but everything hurt. Every time, I slipped further toward unconsciousness—but I fought it tooth and nail. If I could just stay awake long enough for someone to find me, I would be okay.

The last time I opened my eyes, Regan sat next to me on the bed in nothing but undone jeans. He’d forgone a glass in favor of sipping from the bottle of scotch. Clicking and whooshing sounded throughout the room, and I searched for the source. The simple act of looking around the empty space sent pain shooting through my temples.

A glint of light, and I found it: Regan’s vintage Italian stiletto knife. It had been his grandfather’s, and was his prize possession.

My breathing hitched, capturing Regan’s attention. He set the bottle of scotch on the floor. A chill ran down my spine. The most sinister sneer I’d ever seen spread across his face as he sat up, throwing one leg over me. The knife spun around in his hand. With every rotation, the blade reflected the moonlight. It was the brightest thing I’d seen in days.

Pressure, and the stiletto was pressed against my carotid. I tried my best to kick him off me, but he was too strong. He leaned over, making sure I felt his laugh vibrate my cheek. “There’s no way you’re getting out of this in your state, baby boy,” he growled. He ground his hips into mine, pinning me in place. I cried out in pain.

Regan continued to trace the blade over my neck. The sharp tip painted a path from my ear, down to my collarbone and back again. Over and over, more pressure each time. I closed my eyes tight and gritted my teeth in an attempt to stifle my screams, but that only resulted in them turning into pathetic whimpers. The pressure grew more intense until my skin broke. Tears fell from my eyes, as hot as the blood pooling beneath my head.

“It would be nothing for me to plunge this knife right into your jugular,” Regan threatened. “The question is: How long do I want to enjoy this?”

Something pinched as Regan bore down, but he was distracted by light through the bedroom window. Were those… headlights?

Doubtful. There was no stumbling upon this house by mistake.

Still, it was enough for Regan to shove off me and investigate. Whether it was from the head injuries or the blood loss I wasn’t sure, but I began to fade in and out of consciousness.

The sound of wood splintering came first, then the voices. Did they sound familiar? I couldn’t have picked them out of a crowd if I tried. There was so much shouting, and my head felt like it had been through a blender. I fought like hell to stay awake, but it was so hard. My eyelids grew heavy, and all I wanted to do was sleep. Crashing and banging got closer, and I let my eyes shut.

Until the unmistakable pop of a gunshot had them flying open again.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Choking, gagging, and the voice I heard was unmistakable. “Do not come back here! Call for help and make sure he stays put.”

Dylan.

There was an argument, then the second voice retreated. My vision blurred at the sight of my little brother rushing into the room. A gentle hand pushed matted hair away from my face as I succumbed to the darkness.

“You’re okay, David…You’re okay…”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’d always heard of out-of-body experiences, even got told a few first-hand accounts when I was in the hospital, but I’d never had any of my own. I think it’s safe to say that I never want to experience one again.

I came to on the ceiling. Yes. On the fucking ceiling. At first, I didn’t know where I was. Then I began to make out parts of myself on the table. I don’t recommend turning into the ghost of your favorite arachnid-based superhero to view the insides of your own body. It’s a trippy experience.

The only words in the room were the occasional request for an instrument. I didn’t recognize myself. Blood matted my hair, making it difficult to tell where the dark rust color ended and my natural hair began. Every part of me was beaten black, and blue. I’d never seen so much blood. There had to be three or four people with their hands inside of me. One in my stomach, and another at my neck.

“How is this kid still alive?” the one in my stomach commented. Their hands emerged from my abdomen, filled with pieces of something that resembled shredded meat. Even as an out of body spirit I got nauseous.

Nope. I don’t want to see anymore. How do I turn this off?!

I closed my eyes tight and wished like hell to be anywhere else.

My next memory was choking. But not because something was around my neck.

Something was in my mouth. I coughed, trying to tug it out but someone pulled my hands away. My vision was still blurry. I could only make out blobs of people bustling around me. A dark shape appeared in front of me, and plastic cleared my face. As it did, the thing caught in my throat became more prevalent.

“Cough, Mr. Fischer,” I heard a female voice say.

As if I had a choice.