Young Writers Society

Viggo has just deserted Nyssa, and Russ is on his way.

To know more, read Chapter 19.2.

Nyssa woke up knowing she was alone in the house – hell, in the world. Peter “Viggo” Carlsen had dumped her like so much excess weight. In the end, she didn’t matter as much as his revenge. It hurt so much. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to get out of bed. She knew she had to, eventually. There was a new car to fetch, a mutt to feed. But, for just a moment, she wanted to wallow in it.

The dog must have been famished. It found its way up the stairs. It shoved its cold, wet nose against her neck, and she yelped. It looked sad, she thought, tail way down, big eyes thoughtful. She scratched its chin and laughed wetly when its ears twitched.

“Hi, Scruffy.” She sniffed. “What kind of name is that, anyway? ‘Scruffy’? What the hell was he thinking?” She sniffed again. “The stupid moron…And he left you with me too.” Scruffy tilted its head to the side, listening, and she wanted to hug its scrawny neck because it was listening. “It’s his loss, Scruffy. We’d have made his life amazing – amazing, you hear me?” The dog-face barked happily. “We’d have made him so happy – so happy, Scruffy, that he’d have forgotten…he’d have forgotten…everything! He’d have forgotten everything.”

She let out a short burst of laughter that was part tears, and all her heartbreak gurgled out, hilarity and sobs together.

“We’d have forgotten everything. I know we’d have.” The mutt very gently licked her cheek. There was something almost delicate about that dog. “You know what? I don’t even care anymore. I like you – who cares about him, anyway? I’m going to do just fine on my own.” Clinging to her new-found resolution, she got up. Her knees were wobbly. “I’ve got plenty to do. First, mutt, let’s feed you. No reason to go hungry.”

She decided to take it one problem at a time. The dog needed feeding. Once she had taken care of that, she would tackle the next item on her to-do list. So, she did. She poured food and water in the dog’s bowls. She started packing. She had a moment of hesitation when she came upon Viggo’s gun. She didn’t want to take it with her, but she couldn’t very well leave it behind. He had obviously intended for her to protect herself with it.

She was still debating the gun when she noticed the white pillow-case out of the corner of her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I love you. Be careful.”

Oh, God, booze would make it all so much simpler…Her hands actually shook, she wanted it so badly.

“Screw him!” she muttered angrily.

That’s when she stopped caring what Peter Carlsen wanted. She got a knife from the kitchen and she methodically trashed his miserable excuse for a love letter.

She decided to take the damn gun with her. Nothing to do with Peter, just a simple forensic countermeasure. Where was she supposed to stash it? It didn’t look right with her underwear, nor with her shoes. Her purse would have to do. It was a risk, but what use would it be if she couldn’t get to it quickly?

She had all the money and fake IDs she needed. She would have left days ago, if not for her stupid hopes for a life with Viggo.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Then again, this last couple of days with Peter had been worth the delay. She sighed and felt just a little bit better, just a little bit hopeful. She stared at the three bags she had packed– mostly with clothes and keepsakes. Funny, she thought. She had left Russ with only the clothes on her back. Eight years could pass in the blink of an eye and leave no marks you cared to keep, while a few weeks with the right person could mean everything.

Viggo’s bedroom had been left almost untouched. It looked just like he would walk back in anytime and take up where they had left off. She pressed her nose into one of his shirts. His smell was so reassuring. For one second, she even deluded herself that he would come back soon. That would be a slippery slope. She couldn’t afford to linger longer, waiting for him. He wasn’t coming back. He would never change his mind if he thought that her safety was compromised.

She stuffed the shirt in one of her bags. Then, she packed the car and ran back in to check on Scruffy. It wasn’t done eating so she went down the stairs to the basement.

There was a small closet at the back of the little gym. Viggo had never bothered asking about it. It contained enough chemicals to open a meth lab. Lye and kerosene – a girl couldn’t do without either, could she?

She had used her lab at work to model a fire in the house before she even rented it. Just a contingency plan. Nyssa loved her contingency plans. The flames wouldn’t spread to the vegetation, they would be contained within the thick walls. She didn’t want to cause a bush fire, but neither did she want to leave loose ends after doing such a thorough job of erasing Viggo and herself.

She doused the basement and upper floor in fuel. The smell was thick in the air and tickled her nose. Her eyes itched, burned. She was halfway down the stairs, holding a can in each hand when she realized that something was wrong. The mutt was being unnaturally quiet. It wasn’t yapping. It wasn’t running around. Scruffy was always yapping or running around.

She froze. The girl who was always so good in a crisis froze. Then, because she was so good in a crisis, she shook herself out of it. She could either creep back up the stairs or down them. If someone was in the house, she could always hide upstairs and avoid a confrontation – but then, what? She would be trapped with no way out. If it was Russ downstairs, he would find her. But downstairs, there were two exits.

Even better, downstairs, there was her purse with Viggo’s gun inside.

She slipped out of her flip-flops mid-step and she tiptoed down the stairs, leaving the cans behind on either side of her shoes. Twisting her neck to look in the hallway, she spotted the dog. It was lying on its side, trembling as blood flowed slowly out of its body.

Her heart clenched. They had nursed it back to health with such care.

She couldn’t see the intruder. She reached the foot of the stairs and took a running start. She didn’t make it past the living room’s door. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eyes. Someone grabbed her around the waist and crushed her to the wall.

He stank of spice, aftershave, sweat, blood and sex. She retched. Russ’s lips were wet against her ear. “Hi, sugar, miss me?”

They moved to her cheek. Was he about to kiss her? She turned away. He slapped her so hard that she flew into the table. Pain flared in her hip, but she knew she hadn’t broken anything because she could still move. She focused on the door. Get out, get out, was a litany in her mind. She started crawling on her hands and knees.

Russ grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up. He couldn’t force her to meet his eyes, she kept hers on his blood-splattered shirt. Not her blood. It had been sprayed, like something had burst. No part of her had burst. Yet.

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you missed me. Bitch!” he spat, bitter and venomous.

He kicked her in the flank. She rolled on her back like a turtle. Broken ribs, she thought, and made herself breathe despite the pain. He pulled on her hair again, dragged her a couple of feet and leaned over her. His smirk was ugly. “Unless you thought better of it. Did you miss me, bitch? Would you like to show me how you missed me?”

He wanted her to crawl and beg. Maybe she would live longer if she did. She pushed up on her elbows and spat right in his face. “Go to hell.”

“You first!”

He kneed her in the face and busted her nose. And he kicked, and kicked, and kicked. The hail of blows wouldn’t stop. He kicked, and kicked, and kicked her. She felt like bread dough being kneaded. His foot caught her left wrist, and pain exploded as it broke.

She stopped thinking. She went back to the strange place she found whenever he touched her, whenever he hurt her. Everything was warm and dark in that place. She could still feel the pain, she still heard the abuse he was screaming at her, but it didn’t register anymore.

Like being in the sea, she thought, like sinking so deep the sun didn’t reach her anymore. This was how she would die.

A bellow of rage pierced through the black haze. Her lips curved into a half-smile and she tasted the blood running down her face.

Peter, she thought, and didn’t understand. Peter had left. She would never see him again.

The kicking stopped. The haze receded, but she was pinned down on the floor. Her eyelids were glued shut.

Someone grunted, crashed into the wall, a familiar growl washed over her. Peter. Could it really be him?

Panting, she rolled on her side, and cried out. She had landed on her broken ribs. Agony knifed through her body. Her world drowned in pain. Again, she breathed through it, then she raised her head. She managed to blink most of the blood out of her eyes.

Russ and Peter were grappling on the floor. From what little she could see, Russ’s left eye seemed to be swollen shut, while Peter’s side bled.

Peter. Peter needed help. He didn’t look so big, so strong anymore. He keened when Russ punched him in his wounded side.She needed to help. She glanced around, spotted a knife under the coffee table. No way. She would never make it, she wasn’t even sure she could lie on her belly much longer.

The gun was even further away. Her eyes on the living room’s door, she had to blink back tears. She couldn’t make it.

Peter cried out, and Russ sniggered.

No choice. She started crawling again.

“I’m going to…fuck her up so good.”

“Shut up!”

Someone made a sound of pain, and Nyssa heard the table crash against the wall.

The door, finally. She touched a hand to the frame, not quite believing it. Her fingers left bloody prints on the white paint. She made it inside.

“No, you don’t!” Peter growled.

My purse, my purse, my purse. On the armchair. I can’t.

“Let go! Let go!”

She dragged herself just a couple of inches further.

Something gave with a crunch and Peter spat out, “Fuck!”

It dangled up there, right there, just out of reach. She caught it with just the tip of her fingers. It tipped to the side and the gun fell on the carpet. A tearing pain speared down her arm when she reached for it. She let out a sob, but her fingers wrapped around the gun.

“No!” Peter cried out. She clicked off the safety and jumped when a gun went off. He grunted again, then he shouted, “Run, Nyssa!

Peter screamed in the other room, “No!” She clicked off the safety and jumped when a gun went off. He grunted, then shouted, “Run, Nyssa!”

The gun went off again.

“Ready or not,” Russ sing-songed. “Ah, there you are, baby. Didn’t run very far, did you?”

He grabbed her hair again, lifting her clear off the ground. He was gloating, and he never got a chance at another expression. She moved so fast that it seemed to happen out of her and without her. She stuck the gun right against his temple and she shot him. Brain matter exploded in her face.

She fell, Russ collapsed on top of her. The pain was too great, this time. She passed out cold.

Is everyone dead?! Find out for yourself in Chapter 20.2.