SICKER: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 2 by Christa Wojciechowski

Author:Christa Wojciechowski [Wojciechowski, Christa]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-04-13T04:00:00+00:00

*

By the time I was sixteen, my sessions with Pete had tapered off. I had become more adept at hurting myself and causing all manner of infections and disease. Only once in a while did I require his help.

One night, while Mother was at one of her mysterious lady’s events and Father was abroad, as usual, I had an idea. I got ready to pay a visit to the garage. I told Greta that Pete was showing me how to fix cars.

“It’s time for you to settle down for the night,” she said. “You know you are delicate. If your mother finds out ...”

“Please don’t tell, Greta,” I said. “It’s the only fun I have.”

“It’s nice you are interested in learning these things with Peter,” she mused. “It’s good for you to spend time with a man.”

Yes, Pete, my replacement father figure. So tender was our bond. I stifled the sarcastic laugh shaking my bruised rib cage. Greta smiled and nodded, and I walked out into the muggy night. Goosebumps spread over my skin at the thought of this new pain. I couldn’t stop myself. Not now. It was like I’d discovered a new world. A special place away from a mundane and lonely life, and I had so much to explore.

I always hated Pete’s expression when I walked in. No matter how many times we did it, he always looked like a dumb, scorned dog about to be beaten.

“Oh Pete, please get that pathetic look off your face.”

“When is this gonna stop? I keep thinking you’ll grow out of it, but you keep walking through that door.”

“Get over it,” I said, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it aside. “I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

That night I asked him to use the vice. The crushing pressure created a strange burning sensation I had not experienced before. My hand, though fair and lithe, was large now, and the older I got the more pain I could take.

“Keep going, keep going.” It was getting to be unbearable. I felt uneasy. We were missing something. “The record, you idiot.” I said. “How could you forget it?”

“Sorry,” he said, lumbering over to the player and putting on the song.

As I waited for him, I relaxed into the pain. The endorphins rushed into my blood; my cheeks were burning, and I smiled and sank back into the music.

Pete returned and slowly began turning the lever, watching my face with every twist. “Stop looking at me,” I said through clenched teeth. I gulped in some air. “The stick, the stick.” I said. He handed me an old tool handle, already riddled with my teeth marks, and put it in my mouth. I clamped down and signaled to him with a flipping of my other wrist to keep turning the crank. Pete’s astonished stare was ruining my enjoyment, and I thought that one day I would find some pretty lady to do this for me instead of the ugly, stinking fool.

“It’s going to crush you,” he said.

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