Death

  DEATH

  C.M. RADCLIFF

  Forsaken.

  Carnage.

  Eradication.

  Copyright © 2019 C.M. RADCLIFF

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places, brands, media and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author, except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Due to the graphic nature of this novel, it is not intended for anyone under the age of eighteen.

  Cover Design: Cali Radcliff

  Editor: Ellie McLove of My Brother’s Editor

  To my readers:

  This book covers some very heavy/controversial topics that may contain many triggers. There is no HEA, but there is an ending that brings resolution.

  Readers beware… this story is not for everyone.

  It’s dark, it’s raw, and it’s brutal.

  But this is a story that deserves to be told.

  Prologue

  I am nothing.

  I am no one.

  And that will never change.

  What will change, is life.

  I determine how.

  And I determine when.

  What I don’t determine, is why.

  Maybe you do.

  Or him.

  Or her.

  There will always be a deciding factor.

  Something or someone that drives us to do what we do.

  And sometimes we’re driven too far.

  And sometimes we’re driven past the point of return.

  Where the unthinkable becomes a thought.

  Where the unimaginable becomes a reality.

  That’s what my reality has become.

  A series of events that have all led up to this moment.

  The moment where the unthinkable won’t only be a thought but will become a memory.

  A memory that will be etched in your mind forever.

  Just like the serial number etched on this gun.

  They say that guns don’t kill people. People kill people.

  Monsters disguised as humans.

  And they are out there, hidden in plain sight, lurking in the shadows.

  So where do these monsters come from?

  Is it in their DNA?

  Are they a product of their environment?

  Sometimes, monsters are created by monsters, but that’s not what I am.

  You look at me and see a monster,

  but what I am is a survivor.

  chapter one

  PRESENT

  “Matthews, you got a visitor.”

  Slowly closing the book in my hands, I look up at the guard standing by my door. The torn cover slices through my forefinger, cutting through the skin, leaving a red mark. Putting my finger in my mouth, I suck off the blood, soothing the skin with my saliva. The guard pulls open the door, clearing his throat as his large frame stands in the doorway, waiting. My height matches his as I rise to my feet, looking him straight in the eye.

  As I hold my hands out, he clamps metal handcuffs over my wrists, tightening them until they click. Squatting down, he does the same to my ankles and secures them with a chain wrapped around my waist. Stepping back, he holds the door open, letting me walk out before him and locks my cell behind me. Most guards are rough and typically drag me along, but he lets me walk myself as I follow him past the rows of other closed cells.

  Jameson’s a good guy.

  We have a mutual level of respect.

  Working in this prison, I know he deals with a lot of shit and sometimes literal shit too. Everyone’s in their own separate cells, but somehow these animals manage to fuck around. The least I can do is try and make Jameson’s work a little easier.

  I can’t say the same for the other guards, though. If they’re going to fuck with me, I’m going to give it right back.

  He leads me through multiple locked doors, closer and closer to where my visitor awaits. It’s not a surprise visit. It’s a planned one and I’m beginning to wonder whether or not this was a good idea.

  When we walk into the room, I see her before she sees me. Her tiny frame sits at one of the large metal tables as she pulls off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. She looks out of place with her flower print dress and polished light brown hair.

  The total opposite of this dreary hell hole.

  She puts her glasses back on her face and pushes her hair behind her ears. We walk up to the table and I catch her attention, noting she’s visibly nervous and uncomfortable. Reading people is one thing that I’ve become quite good at. After spending many years in a maximum-security prison that houses criminals that have committed some of the most heinous crimes known to man, you learn what you need to in order to survive.

  Welcome to death row.

  Smoothing her hands over her thighs, she rises to her feet, extending her dainty hand to me.

  “Mr. Matthews.” Her voice is soft and light. “Thank you so much for meeting me.”

  Taking her tiny hand in both of mine, I shake it lightly as my hands swallow hers.

  “Please, call me Curt,” I tell her.

  Dark brown eyes peer at me from underneath her bangs through black-rimmed glasses. She gives me a small smile, revealing a sliver of straight white teeth.

  I take a seat across from her as Jameson gets me situated at the table with my handcuffs and chains. I wait expectantly as she fumbles with her tape recorder until she finally gets it set up, setting it in between us. Grabbing her pen, she presses the tip to her white notepad and looks up, finding me watching her.

  She sits up straight, pushing her shoulders back and stares at me head on.

  “Before we get started, I want to make sure you are a hundred percent okay with me interviewing you and recording this.” Her voice is tender but firm.

  Giving her an impassive look, I stare back. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t a hundred percent okay with this.”

  A moment passes before she takes a deep breath.

  “Are you ready to get started then?”

  The clock on the wall ticks loudly echoing throughout the silent room.

  I nod once. “Ready when you are,” I concur.

  She gives me a small smile and a quick nod as she presses the record button on the small device.

  “This is Christine Anderson interviewing Curtis Matthews,” she pauses, waiting for my approval. “Curtis, why don’t we start from the beginning?”

  She wants a story.

  My story.

  So that is what she will get, the entire fucking thing.

  Better yet, we’re going to start from the beginning, and she has no idea of the ride I’m about to take her on.

  It’s a ride with demons that would give the Devil a run for his money.

  One with twists and turns that are enough to make you sick.

  A ride like no other.

  She cocks her head to the side, quietly waiting for me to start.

  She’d better make sure her seat belt is strapped pretty damn tight because there’s no turning back now.

  Taking a deep breath, I lean back in my seat.

  “I won’t start at the beginning because it began when I was first born, when brought into the world by two people that hated me more than humanly possible. So, we’ll go back to when I was six, back to the day my little brother, Carson, was born and it really started…”

  chapter two

  PAST

  Hopping down the steps on the bus, I wrap my thin coat tightly against
my body before stepping out into the cold. The bus doors close quickly, and it drives off, leaving me in the dust. I watch it drive down the road until it disappears. Smiling to myself, I reach into my pocket, pulling out a piece of paper with a bright red ‘A’ written on it. It’s the first A I’ve ever gotten on a test and I can’t wait to get home and show my mom. Stones crunch underneath my old, worn sneakers as I start walking down the gravel road to our house as the winter air blows harshly against my face, burning my red chapped cheeks.

  When I reach our trailer, Dad’s rusted truck is missing, but there are lights shining through every window, so someone is home. The wooden steps creak under my weight as I run up the steps and push open the front door. I rush inside, into the living room with the air thick with cigarette smoke and the pungent smell of weed.

  “Shut the goddamn door,” a nasally voice yells from the other side of the room. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’ outside.”

  Closing the door, I slip out of my sneakers and feel the coarse carpet on my feet through the holes in my socks. I drop my backpack onto the floor and shed my coat, leaving it on the floor. Turning around, I find my mom lying on the couch smoking a cigarette with her tank top riding up, revealing her pregnant belly.

  “Do you have to just leave all your shit all over the place?” she scoffs, glaring at me.

  Silently, I shake my head. “If we had somewhere to put it or hang it up, I would,” I reply quietly.

  I should have kept my mouth shut.

  She reaches down to the floor, grabbing her glass ashtray and hurls it across the room at me. It just barely misses me, clipping my shoulder before leaving a dent in the wall. I yelp, quickly grabbing my shoulder as I wince.

  “You stupid little shit,” she chuckles, shaking her head as her thin lips curl upward, revealing her rotten teeth. “Your daddy will be hearin’ all about this... you and your fuckin’ mouth.”

  Looking for the time, I glance up at the clock on the wall, but it’s broken. I don’t need the clock to know that he’ll be home from work soon.

  Shuffling across the carpet, the floor changes to linoleum when I reach the kitchen and its cold underneath my feet. Walking over to the sink, I turn on the faucet and watch it sputter as it shoots out brown tinged water and wait for it to run clear. Foregoing a cup, I lean forward and drink from the clear steady stream. A metallic taste fills my mouth as I take large gulps of the cold liquid.

  “Get me my vodka from the freezer,” my mom yells from the living room. Turning off the water, I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt and fetch her the bottle.

  The walk from the kitchen to the living room feels like it’s miles apart. Guilt builds and festers in the pit of my stomach as I clutch onto the handle of the alcohol, knowing exactly where it’s going. I could try and stop this, not take this to her, but she’ll get her booze no matter what.

  “Don’t look at me with your judgy little eyes,” she sneers as I hand her the vodka. She glares at me as she screws off the cap. “The doctor said it’s worse for the baby to stop cold turkey.”

  I’ve heard Grandma scold her for what she does and how it isn’t safe for the baby. I’ve never seen her go to the doctor, but if one told her that, then it must be true… they would know more than Grandma.

  She takes a large gulp of the cheap booze and takes another drag of her cigarette.

  “If the doctor said it about smokin’ then it’s gotta be the same for drinkin’.” She coughs as the smoke leaves her mouth. “It don’t matter though,” she pauses, taking another swig and smiles as she rubs her belly. “Your daddy’s got that super sperm, so we don’t have to worry about anything with this little guy.” She stares at me, cocking her head to the side, letting her greasy brown hair fall to her shoulder. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.” She narrows her eyes and snubs her cigarette out on the coffee table. “I was fuckin’ some shitbag around the same time. There was somethin’ off with that one, he wasn’t right in the head, so maybe you came from his balls. It would make a lot of sense.”

  I might have a different dad?

  I wonder if that dad would do stuff with me, stuff I like to do.

  Maybe he’d have a new mom for me too.

  Turning my back on her, I go back to the front door and retrieve my backpack before walking back through the room.

  “What’s this?” she probes, her arm snakes out and she wraps her dirty fingers around my wrist.

  “It’s nothing,” I mumble, trying to pull my hand from her grasp. Wiggling my arm back and forth, her hand finally falls from my wrist, just as the piece of paper slips from my fingers. She grabs the paper just before it touches the floor.

  Immediately, I drop my gaze to my feet, focusing on the three different holes in each sock and wrap the frayed straps of my backpack around my hands. My face is on fire as she scans the paper with her blackened teeth peeking through her lips.

  “An ‘A’ huh?” she asks curiously. “Did you bring this home to show me?”

  Slowly, I lift my head and meet her dead eyes. “Mhm,” I mumble.

  She starts to chuckle loudly and shoves the paper at me. I grab onto it before it falls again and stare at her in shock with wide eyes. “Woohoo!” she shouts mockingly through her laughter. “No one fucking cares, Curtis.”

  Hanging my head, I let out a sigh of defeat as my eyes well up with tears and amble away from her without a second glance.

  “Do yourself a favor and put that shit in the trash where I should have put you before you were born,” she shouts angrily from the living room.

  As I enter my room, I slowly shut the door behind me and ball up the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. A single tear falls and the bright red ink bleeds, smearing the ‘A’ across the paper. It stares back at me, taunting me, mocking me.

  No one fucking cares.

  I squeeze it as tight as I can and throw it at the overflowing trash can in my room, watching as it falls onto the dirty brown carpet. My backpack slips from my grasp and I drop down onto my mattress on the floor, curling up into a ball and let the tears fall freely, soaking the tattered pillow beneath my head.

  No one will ever care.

  chapter three

  PAST

  “FUCK!” My mother’s shrill voice bounces off the walls throughout the trailer. She lets out a low, visceral moan before yelling out again. “JACK!”

  Staring up at my stained off-white ceiling, I count the popcorn textured tiles above. Twenty-eight.

  The one thing I can always count on are my ceiling tiles. All twenty-eight of them, they never leave, and they never change.

  The house falls silent, but I never heard my father when my mother called for him.

  “FUCK!” my mother cries out into the silence.

  Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes, reaching over to my nightstand for my glasses. I put them on and the numbers on the clock come into focus.

  Two o’clock in the morning.

  I need to get some sleep since I have school tomorrow. My mother is notorious for getting drunk and acting out like this. Sometimes I think it’s just to get my dad’s attention. Other times, she somehow manages to hurt herself or trip and fall.

  This is nothin’ new.

  Another loud groaning noise snakes its way into my room, pulling me from my mattress on the floor. Padding down the hallway in my holey socks and tattered PJ pants, a chill courses through my body, covering my skin in goosebumps. I rub my hands against my bare arms, trying to shake off the cold. A light shines from the bathroom doorway, casting into the hall.

  The hallway is small, so it isn’t a far walk to reach the bathroom. Reaching out, I push my hand against the door, pushing it open the whole way. Standing by the sink, my mother grips the edges of the counter with beads of sweat rolling down the sides of her face as she hunches forward.

  “Mommy, are you okay?” I ask, peering in the room as her small body tenses up. She groans as a gush of fluid runs down her legs, pooling on the floor
around her feet.

  She whips her head toward me and glares at me with her beady eyes wild and bloodshot. “Go. Get. Your. Father,” she commands through clenched teeth.

  My eyes drop to the floor as her feet soak in the red-tinged liquid surrounding her. I look back around the small room, avoiding her eyes.

  I need a towel. If I clean up the mess for her, then she won’t be mad at me anymore.

  “CURTIS!” she barks. “NOW!”

  Keeping my gaze on the floor, I nod quickly and shuffle away from the bathroom as she cries out. I find my father in the living room, passed out on the recliner. Reaching over, I grab the nearly empty beer can from his lap and put it down on the floor. His shoulder is much larger than my hand as I grab on to it and shake his arm.

  He doesn’t move.

  Using both hands, I shake harder this time. “Daddy, wake up,” I insist, pushing all of my weight onto him. He shifts away from me, pulling his arm from my grasp and swings toward me.

  “What the fuck,” he groans as his elbow connects with the center of my chest. The stale air is stolen from my lungs as I fall backward, landing on the ground with a thud.

  Struggling to catch my breath, I claw at my throat in a panic, sucking in any oxygen I can get. My father leans over the arm of his chair watching me with hardened eyes.

  “The fuck you wake me up for, boy?” he growls. My chest heaves at my lungs demand for more air. I stare up at him with my eyes wide from the fear building inside me. “You gonna fuckin’ talk?” he sneers.

  My mouth falls open as I try to form words, but nothing comes out.

  My mother’s cry cuts through the silence. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  The vise grip on my chest releases and I choke on the air, laced with smoke, as it rushes into my lungs all at once.