Page 33 of Til Def
Power—it rules this fucking world, quietly wrapping itself around everything. The root of all evil, twisting and bending people to its will. It doesn’t just command. It fucking consumes. And once it touches you, you’re no longer free.
Never. Free.
I’ve seen first-hand of how fucked this world truly is. Iwas just a kid when I was dragged into the cruel clutches of it, forced to see the things no child should ever witness. I remember the cold rooms where dirty secrets were kept, the hushed voices, the fear that clung to the atmosphere like smoke. There were places hidden from daylight, buried in the sinister underbelly of society, where people traded innocence like currency.
I’d seen it all: the hollow eyes of kids who’d forgotten what it was to feel safe, the bruises, the whispers, the screams, the scars hidden beneath long sleeves. I learned quickly that people will do anything to protect themselves, to bury the things they’d rather pretend don’t exist.
And the worst part? Nobody wanted to see it. Nobody wanted to admit what was really happening. They still don’t. Nothing has changed in fifteen long fucking years, if anything it’s gotten worse.
But at least I can say I cleared two of them off these fucking streets—my parents. They may have given me life, but they poisoned it, shattered it, all for business deals, supremacy, their satanic rituals, and whatever sick, perverted thrill they could squeeze from it. They were supposed to be my protectors, my fucking foundation. Instead, they sold me the fuck out, wrapped me up in a realm of darkness and fucking sacrifices.
Killing them wasn’t just revenge—it was a purge. My parents didn’t just ruin my life; they left scars on this world, on so many others, fed into a system that was hurting innocent children and maybe I can’t undo the damage they caused, but at least I made sure they’d never hurt another soul again.
But I’m not finished. Oh, no. My parents were just the beginning. Every last one of them that rotates that ring, all thosesick, disgusting cunts—they’re next. They think they’re safe. They think I’ve forgotten, or I’ll be quiet, but they can’t hide behind their wealth, comfortably tucked away in their dark little corners any longer.
I’m coming for them, one by fucking one. They’ll all burn in hell, and I’ll be the one to light the fucking fire.
My eyes move over my parents’ grave one last time, slowly and carefully before I decide to stand. I glance over the cemetery until my gaze settles on Raven’s house. I think about going over there to collect some of her stuff until I see that young woman from the bar trying to knock at her door. I raise an eyebrow, careless before turning around and strolling toward the woods again.
…
Walking deeper into the forest, I begin counting as I pass the trees, each number anchoring me to a memory buried somewhere deep in the chaos of my mind. Steps, distances, landmarks—it all had to line up. When I come across a tree, warped and bending like a silent sentinel, I stop dead in my tracks.
“The south side... seven inches deep,” I mutter, my thoughts scrambling to piece together the events of that day, the fragments of a plan set in motion long before the blood ever spilled.
Circling the tree, I toss my bag onto the muddy ground and dig through it, pulling out a small garden shovel. The blade bites into the wet earth, and I dig relentlessly. The tension rises until the sound of metal scraping against something solid breaks through the air.
“Fucking bingo,” I whisper, a cold smile tugging at my lips.
I drop the shovel and claw at the soil with my hands, pushing it aside until the shape of a black box emerges from the earth. My fingers hook into the edges, and with one final tug, I free it from its muddy tomb. Glancing around the deserted woods to make sure I’m still alone, I return my attention to the box, swiping away the dirt embedded in the engravings.
The rusted lock snaps open with a creak, and I slowly peel the lid back. My head dips closer, my breath fogging in the crisp air as my eyes narrow, taking in the contents. Stacks of money, glittering jewelry, diamonds—anything of value that I could stash away to secure some of my future.
Premeditated murder? Absolutely. But no one ever knew that.
Two weeks before that harrowing night, I started planning. As soon as she went missing, my thoughts spiralled into an abyss, each one darker than the last, until they distorted into something evil. Killing them was set in stone. Every sign pointed to her murder. Hurt me in the most horrific ways all you want, but not her. So, I started collecting. Planning. Preparing.
This box was more than just a stash—it was insurance. I knew if I killed them, I’d be left with nothing. It wasn’t greed that drove me; it was common sense. Without them, I’d be on my own, with no one to fall back on, no resources to fund the path I was carving for myself. A path of blood, vengeance, and control. To be honest I feel fucking disgusted using their shit money, but I will get great pleasure spending it for my warpath and disappoint them even more from beyond the grave.
I push some of the stuff inside the box aside until my fingers brush against an old, worn photo. I gently pull it out, the edges frayed, and the colors faded. But It’s us. Together. Back when we were kids.
My Adam’s apple bobs as I stare down at it, a lump forming in my throat that’s almost impossible to swallow. I haven’t seen her face in over fifteen years. The memories of what she looked like had already started to blur. But here she is, pulling me into the past. Frozen in time. Innocent. Untouched by the horrors that came later.
My chest tenses, the edges of my vision growing misty. The burn in my eyes is unexpected, a harsh reminder that there’s still some piece of me—some weak, human part—that refuses to die, no matter how much darkness I drown myself in. And that piece? It’s why I’m fucking doing all of this. It’s why I can’t stop, won’t stop.
I take a deep inhale and place the photo gently back into the box, my hands lingering for a moment before slamming the lid shut. The sound echoes through the empty woods, snapping me back to the present. I shove the box deep into my bag, zipping it up with jerky movements before slinging it over my shoulder.
After kicking the dirt back into the hole, ensuring it looks untouched, I head back toward the mansion. The air feels heavier as the towering structure looms in the distance. As I pass it, my gaze flicks upward briefly, to where Raven is locked inside. It’s eerily silent—no cries, no protests. Just stillness.
I keep moving, my boots crunching against the gravel and orange leaves until I reach the backyard. The garden shed sits there like a forgotten room, its wooden frame weathered by time and neglect.
Shoving my shoulder hard against the stiff door, I push it open, the hinges groaning. Dust dances in the thin slivers of light streaming through the cracks. The air smells of damp wood and rust. My eyes scan the space, taking in the shelves cluttered with old tools, and a few cobweb-covered bottles. Then my gaze lands on it.
An axe. A beautiful fucking axe.
It’s mounted on the wall, standing out amongst the clutter like a masterpiece in a gallery. The handle is long, black, and smooth—polished wood with a grip around it that’s both sturdy and elegant. The blade is deadly sharp and silver as it glints in the light.
I step forward, reaching out with both hands. When my fingers curl around the handle, it feels natural, almost too natural. I lift it from its place on the wall and test its weight, letting the cool steel rest in my palms, adjusting my hold as I swing it lightly. Perfect balance. Perfect weapon.
