John Gilstrap - Threat warning

Her eyes strained in their sockets, desperate to see something out there. Anything. Over in the corner by the door, the darkness seemed to have lightened, a vertical shaft of dark gray against pitch black. The door had been opened.

A shadow moved. The shadow of a man.

Realization hit her in a rush and she sat upright in her bed, turning to her left and slapping at the shelf where she knew she’d left the matches for the lamp. Oh God, oh God, oh God…

“Don’t do it, woman,” a voice said from the darkness. Christyne recognized the voice as Brother Stephen, the one who had been so terrible to Ryan. “Be silent,” he whispered. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

The shadow moved closer.

Christyne scooted away from the intruder, closer to the head of the bed. “Please stay away,” she begged. Her voice came out as a barely audible squeak.

“Shh,” Brother Stephen said. “This doesn’t need to be difficult.” In two more steps, he towered over her, his silhouette a black stain.

“Please don’t,” she rasped. A new kind of terror enveloped her. She’d seen this man-this boy, really-abuse her son. Now he was He sat on the edge of her bed, and the shadow of his hand reached out to her. Settled on her breast. He squeezed too hard, but she sensed it was less an act of torture than inexperience. “All you have to do is be quiet,” he said. His other hand fumbled with the front of his trousers.

Christyne started to tremble. Blinding, disabling fear enveloped her like a straitjacket. She knew what was coming, but in her terror, she was unable to do anything to stop it-to do anything to protect herself. “My son,” she whispered.

Brother Stephen slid his hand down her stomach. It groped her lap. “Maybe he’ll get his turn.” His chuckle was even more terrifying than his touch. “A woman like you needs a man like me. I’m going to kiss you now.”

His shadow swelled as he came closer and planted his mouth on hers. His tongue pried her lips apart.

“Don’t fight me,” he whispered.

Christyne shifted in the bed and her hand brushed his exposed, engorged penis. It was wet and slick and her hand jumped as if it had touched a hot stove.

“Big, isn’t it?” he hissed. “Go ahead. Feel it. Rub it. Think about all we can-”

A guttural roar filled the room as something massive slammed into her attacker and knocked him to the floor.

Lying on his left side with all his clothes on-including his coat-Ryan kept his covers up high, all the way to his chin, just to keep warm.

He’d been slipping in and out all night. The bruises on his ribs and his cheek were killing He could have sworn he heard the door to their little prison open.

Someone stepped inside. He moved as a shadow, but he kept the door open behind him, and somewhere in the house someone must have left a lamp on, because he cut a silhouette in the darkness.

It was a man, one of the terrorists, but there was no way to tell which one. Until he spoke.

“Don’t do it, woman,” Brother Stephen said.

Ryan heard clothing rustle, and he heard his mother make a whining sound. She pleaded.

“This doesn’t need to be difficult,” Brother Stephen said.

With those words, Ryan knew what the intruder was going to do. He knew what rape was. He heard springs squeak as he watched the invading shadow sit on his mother’s bed.

She made more frightening sounds, and there was more whispering. Ryan couldn’t make out all of it, but he could feel his mother’s terror from all the way over here.

She said, “My son,” and something about that made Brother Stephen laugh.

Ryan felt his face flush with anger. His heart rate doubled. Tripled. This was the asshole who had beaten the crap out of him when his hands were tied. The man who had promised to kill him if he stepped out of line even one more time.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

That’s when something inside him snapped. He tore off his covers and he launched himself at the beefy silhouette, charging full tilt, and aiming high. He had no plan, and no fighting skills, but there was no way he was going to let this asshole get away with what he was trying to do.

As he closed to within the last foot, Ryan tucked his chin in a little and smashed the top part of his forehead into what appeared to be the attacker’s temple. Something flashed behind Ryan’s eyes on impact and a jolt of pain lit him up from forehead to tailbone. He smelled blood, and then he tasted it. A second later, he felt it streaming down his face, but by then, he was airborne, and as he tumbled, he felt what he somehow knew to be Brother Stephen’s jaw nestled in the crook of his elbow. He clamped down on it, turning as they fell. When they hit the floor, Brother Stephen’s head hit first, and then Ryan landed on his shoulder and rolled. Something snapped, the sound making him think that he’d broken his shoulder. Except the pain never came.

Everything happened so quickly. Behind him, his mom screamed, but at a whisper level.

He couldn’t care about that. He needed to prepare for the counterassault. When Brother Stephen got the opportunity to throw a punch-if he really put all of his strength behind it-he’d separate Ryan’s head from his shoulders. He’d already caught a glimpse of the attacker’s power while he was holding back. This time, one of them was going to die.

Ryan scrabbled to his feet and found Brother Stephen where he lay on the floor and he fired a savage kick into what he thought was his head, but he really had no idea. The kick landed firmly, though. And Brother Stephen didn’t even grunt. He must have been knocked unconscious.

Fire flared to Ryan’s right. He whirled to see his mom holding a wooden match high to illuminate the scene. Her face looked pale in the yellow light and tears streaked her face. Her hand shook.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked.

She just stared at the form on the floor. “He was going…” Her voice trailed away.

“I know,” Ryan said. He pivoted on his heel and looked around the boxes and crap that surrounded him to find a lamp. He lifted it off the box closest to his mother’s bed-the one she used as a nightstand-but by the time he got the globe lifted to expose the wick, the match had burned to a nub and Christyne had to light another one.

The wick ignited easily, and the light got even brighter as Ryan lowered the globe, the brightness creating sharply defined, dancing shadows. He swung the lamp to assess the damage done to Brother Stephen.

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan breathed. The attacker lay still on the floor, his dick and his balls hanging out the front of his unbuttoned pants. He shot a look back at his mom, working hard to swallow the anger that welled inside of him. When she looked away, so did he, sorry for the thoughts that had entered his mind.

Holding the lantern out in front, Ryan moved closer to Brother Stephen, and stooped to get closer still. Exposed junk aside, something wasn’t right about the way he was lying on the floor. He seemed too flat-like a balloon version of himself from which maybe an eighth of the air had been released. And his head. It was at an odd angle, an inch or two farther to the side than it should be.

Finally, Ryan saw Brother Stephen’s eyes. They both were open, but the left one just a little more so than the right one.

“Holy shit, Mom,” Ryan breathed. “I think he’s dead.” He turned to look at her. “I think I killed him.”

Christyne brought her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

Ryan hurried across the room, pushed the door shut, and hurried back. “Mom, what are we going to do?” His mind raced. If those assholes came trooping in here again in the morning and they found their buddy-their brother -dead, God only knew what would follow. He decided to answer his own question. “We need to get out of here.”