The Bad Life – Chapter 11.2 – The Dog That Bit Its Master to Death

Author: nicotine

Why?

Jerome narrowed his eyes and smiled.

<Oh, already tamed? That’s cute.>

But his flippancy was brief. Jerome added.

<…>

<It’s okay. Even if it’s a lie. I actually like it. Simon might have been a bit hurt by your lies, but not me. I enjoyed it.>

<…>

<Yeah. Taming you? That’s unthinkable. It must be the lingering effects of the drugs.>

Drugs?

<Raymond, don’t go getting drugged recklessly. Like back at Bluebell, you’re too susceptible to drugs.>

Drugged? What drugs? Pills? I hadn’t taken pills in a while…

<You’re healthy but unusually weak to drugs.>

<Didn’t you see while washing? There’s no way you didn’t.>

His lips, glossy with meat grease, curved into a charming smile. Jerome gestured with his eyes.

A chill suddenly ran down the back of my neck. I slowly extended both arms. Nothing was visible. Just my arms. Sun-tanned arms.

I looked at Jerome again. He burst into loud laughter at my bewildered expression. His laugh had something unsettling about it, making me feel embarrassed and flustered. I hurriedly examined my arms again. Still, nothing was visible, but I stared as if something was there.

Then I began to see it. The moment I realized what it was, my arms trembled. Since when had this been happening? Who did this to me? Why didn’t I know anything?

My forearms were covered with red needle marks, like pinpricks. Too many to count. Dozens, maybe. No, hundreds… thousands, it seemed.

<Huh, huh, what, what is this…?>

My breathing grew ragged. My entire forearms were covered in needle marks. They were bright red. It looked like blood was dripping… no, blood was dripping! My forearms were drenched in blood, suddenly burning with searing pain.

It felt like my skin was peeling off. My arms were hot and painful, as if plunged into boiling oil!

A cold hand grabbed my arms.

<Shh. It’s okay. You can endure it, it’s okay.>

It was the same voice that sang lullabies. The soothing tone was as gentle and warm as the lullaby’s melody. The cold hand softly stroked my arms, pulling me into an embrace. I didn’t have time to register whose arms they were. The heat from my arms spread through my body, as if my entire being had been thrown into a fiery pit.

Oh, Carl! You felt this heat too. You were in this much pain and suffering! It felt like falling into hell. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to cling to someone, anyone. I struggled to grasp the cold hand stroking my arms but ended up losing consciousness.

Fainting felt like a fleeting moment.

But when I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon, well past morning. As soon as I woke, I hurriedly lifted my arms. The forearms that had been bloodied from needle marks were perfectly fine. The countless marks I thought covered them were just a few needle marks over my veins. What I saw before passing out was a hallucination. Just a delusion.

I sighed and lowered my arms. Only then did I notice a cold sensation on my legs. Someone was wiping them with a wet towel. I looked down. A dark head of hair was visible. It was Jerome. He was humming lightly as he lifted my leg to wipe the back of my knee. His touch with the towel was meticulous and gentle. He didn’t say a word, even though he knew I was awake.

I turned my head. The summer sunlight, now softened, poured through the window. Without taking my eyes off the window frame, I spoke.

<…You used drugs, didn’t you.>

Despite my sudden words, Jerome responded naturally without surprise.

<Wasn’t that your goal?>

I asked quietly.

<No. That’s not anyone’s goal, Raymond. You’re still misunderstanding.>

Jerome suddenly leaned over me. He smiled, facing me closely.

<You’re all psychopaths.>

<We’re not sick. Just a bit clumsy.>

Jerome set the wet towel aside and stretched leisurely. He neatly placed a pair of shoes beside the mattress. I didn’t resist his helping hand and stood to put on the shoes. After putting them on, I instinctively reached out. I thought Jerome would extend his hand, as he had all last week. He didn’t. He watched me put on my shoes until the end, then took a step forward and started walking.

I wasn’t tied up. I glared at Jerome as he walked leisurely. There was nothing on his light clothing that could be used as a weapon. Maybe Jerome already knew I wanted to die. And he was trying to make me want to live. To chase me down and reenact the old hunting games. It was futile. I followed a step behind him out of the log cabin.

The moment I walked out the cabin’s front door, a deafening roar startled me, making me stumble. My heart pounded. The noise came from a construction site. As I stared blankly in that direction, another roar sounded. It was like lightning striking right by my ear. This time, I fell helplessly to the ground. My heart raced so hard it felt like it would leap out of my throat.

I covered my ears and looked at Jerome with a bewildered expression. He looked puzzled, then suddenly exclaimed as if realizing something. Or so it seemed—I had my ears tightly covered. Jerome came closer and said something. I could tell from his mouth’s movement, but I couldn’t hear. He suddenly extended his hand.

Seeing his outstretched hand, for some inexplicable reason, I felt a sudden sense of relief. I cautiously took Jerome’s hand. He gripped mine tightly and pulled me up. He started walking slowly toward our usual strolling spot. The loud noises, though not as intense as before, still pierced my ears recklessly. I was anxious. I kept checking behind me, and before I knew it, I was walking with Jerome into the forest we usually strolled through.

When I finally matched Jerome’s pace, he asked.

Anxiety made my breathing uneven. Though I kept pace, my breath was still ragged.

<Yeah, I figured as much.>

Jerome nodded calmly.

I asked, panting, unable to catch my breath.

<No. The sounds were real. There’s construction going on over there right now. You didn’t seem to hear it at all for the past two weeks, but every time we went for a walk, it was always noisy with construction sounds. Of course, not loud enough to tear your eardrums.>

Jerome explained kindly.

I rubbed my face with the hand not holding Jerome’s.

Jerome yawned briefly and answered.

Jerome said softly.

With those words, we fell silent. Jerome seemed in a good mood. He occasionally whistled, and his steps were light. Our clasped hands grew sweaty, but he never let go. We wandered through the forest until the heat became unbearable, then returned to the log cabin. By then, the camp area was quiet, perhaps during Hugh’s break time.

Jerome went to get food. The meal was simple sandwiches, but he showed up with ice cream for dessert. We shared the ice cream. After cleaning up, Jerome brought the pile of knitting we’d been working on for the past two weeks. He was quiet, just watching me knit without mistakes. I spoke first.

<You’ve barely knit half a foot, and you’re already impatient?>

Jerome asked with a laugh.

<You’ve still got a long way to go for a scarf.>

<…How long are you going to keep up this pointless rehab?>

<Oh, that.>

Jerome spoke readily, but it wasn’t the answer I wanted.

Jerome shut his mouth and pretended not to hear.

<I’ve been in this log cabin for nearly a month. In all that time, that man called Mr. Acacia has barely shown up. So how am I supposed to ask him?>

<He’ll come… when you’re healthy enough. It’d be great if you could get as healthy as you were during your military days, but recovering this much in such a short time is already impressive. Still, at the very least, you should be healthy enough by the time we reunite, don’t you think?>

Jerome said, holding up his palms.

<I’m healthy.>

I threw the pile of knitting at Jerome’s feet.

<I’m healthy enough, so bring that man here. And…>

Kill me already. I swallowed the last words and shut my mouth.

Silence fell. Jerome picked up the pile of knitting and placed it on his lap. His expression was unreadable. Since Jerome always had a beaming face, seeing him with his mouth closed and deep in thought felt somewhat unfamiliar. He might be calculating something. Maybe plotting another scheme to stab me in the back. But such tricks didn’t matter anymore. I wouldn’t play their game again.

Jerome slowly pulled at the yarn, unraveling the tightly knitted strands. He remained silent until the tangled yarn was completely undone.

Jerome looked up, his face unusually serious compared to his usual demeanor.

<I’ll let you escape. To a place we’d never find you… How about China? No, you probably don’t speak Chinese, so maybe India would be better?>

<Why? Why are you saying that?>

<Why? Because I like you. Because I don’t want you to die.>

<…>

The silence didn’t last long. Jerome, who had briefly closed his mouth, suddenly smiled brightly.

<No, that won’t do. If I let you go, Mr. Acacia will scold me.>

Jerome swept the yarn off his lap onto the floor.

<I’ll go get Mr. Acacia.>

Jerome stood up abruptly and left the log cabin. I had no idea what that guy was thinking, what he really wanted, then or now. There was so much I didn’t know. Too many reasons I didn’t understand. Why me in the first place? What did those boys want from me? I’d probably never have the chance to find out.

Jerome said he would kill me . It must be the price for trying to burn them to death. I picked up the yarn scattered on the floor and began winding it into a skein. My hands didn’t tremble. My heart didn’t waver. It was calm. As calm and composed as ever.

There was no need to know anything. It was all over now. I would die. That was all I needed to know.

Jerome, who had left the log cabin in the late afternoon, didn’t return even by evening. I spent the time wandering around the cement-plastered interior of the log cabin. Knowing death was near didn’t make me nervous or afraid. was familiar to me. Serving on the front lines in Afghanistan and Iraq for years had made me far too accustomed to the sensation of death.

Looking back, I served for years in war zones and was medically discharged, yet I didn’t even have the common PTSD. A guy I shared a room with at the veterans’ hospital had lost a couple of toes to a gunshot. But more than losing his toes, he feared noises. Even the sound of a toilet lid closing would be mistaken for a gunshot, startling him to the point of fainting.

I was different. No event on the battlefield was more terrifying than what I experienced in Bluebell’s eerie dormitory. On the battlefield, there were comrades within arm’s reach who would never betray me. Closer than my comrades, my body was armed with bullets and grenades. I slept with a gun as my pillow every night. There was no reason to be afraid. It was far better than being thrown naked into a swamp, grabbed in the dark and gang-raped, or stripped and tossed into a stable. Even before reaching the battlefield, I was already thoroughly accustomed to being helpless, abused indiscriminately, and constantly threatened in a state of tension.

So I wasn’t afraid now. Wasn’t this the air I always breathed? The cold air of Bluebell that erased a person’s humanity and delivered utter despair. It felt as if the cold summer air, without the tropical nights, was suddenly rushing in. Unlike Bluebell’s summer, Laberham’s blazing sun and sticky, humid air were stifling, but in this moment, I barely felt the heat. My body felt as cold as if I were standing in Bluebell’s dormitory.

As the sun set, the log cabin grew dark with shadows. There were electric lanterns, but I didn’t turn them on. I sat on a stack of paint cans by the window frame, staring blankly outside. The low hum of insects was faintly audible. A summer night without a single mosquito.

I couldn’t tell exactly how many hours had passed since Jerome left. There was no clock here. The life of keeping track of time felt like a distant memory, out of reach.

Footsteps sounded from afar. The sound of stepping on grass and snapping twigs. Soon, the murmur of conversation reached me. I recognized one voice immediately. Mr. Acacia had a very distinctive voice, impossible to miss. The other voice was faint, but it was probably Jerome.

I waited quietly as their voices grew closer. As the distance closed, their conversation dwindled until it stopped entirely. Instead, the sound of footsteps grew loud and clear. The crunch of polished gravel was audible, followed by the sense of presence inside the log cabin. They were back.

I sat with my back to the window frame. Footsteps entered the living room. The room was so dark, buried in shadows, that almost nothing was visible. Light footsteps navigated the space with familiarity, and soon an electric lantern was lit. It was Jerome. He turned the brightness to maximum and placed the lantern on a paint can.

Heavy, slow footsteps followed from behind him. As the light of the lantern reached, a figure gradually entered, and finally, his grotesque, ugly face was revealed. Mr. Acacia showed his yellowish, fish-like, glossy face. He extended a gloved hand toward me. In his hand, absurdly, was a waffle topped with cream.

Mr. Acacia spoke kindly in his sandpaper-rough voice.

<No.>

Cream dripped from the black leather glove. The waffle didn’t look appetizing at all.

<I’m not hungry.>

<Oh, dear! I went out of my way to get this for you!>

Mr. Acacia said with a strange laugh.

Jerome just shrugged without a word. He must have told Mr. Acacia I wasn’t healthy enough.

Mr. Acacia sat on the edge of the electric lantern. We faced each other, three or four meters apart, relying only on the faint light of the lantern. Silence fell.

Suddenly, Mr. Acacia tossed the waffle carelessly onto the floor. It landed with a splat on the cement. Jerome stepped back a few paces, disappearing completely into the darkness. He hadn’t left, but it was clear he had no intention of joining the conversation.

Mr. Acacia’s eyes gleamed blue as he scrutinized me. While he observed me, I observed him too. Mr. Acacia was a suspicious, bizarre man. In the sweltering summer heat, he wore a suit, leather shoes, and gloves. His tie was knotted so tightly it looked suffocating. Yet, not a drop of sweat ran down his face. He seemed impervious to the heat. A strange, unsettling man. The kind of man who sent chills down your spine and made you want to look away.

Mr. Acacia clasped his hands, ignoring the sticky white cream on one glove. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he asked in a low voice.

His lowered voice was even more grotesque and unpleasant.

<Yes. Jerome told me to ask you.>

I met Mr. Acacia’s eerily blinking eyes.

The moment he heard the question, Mr. Acacia’s mouth opened. There was no other way to describe it. It looked like he was smiling, his mouth stretching long, but in reality, his lips only extended about three fingers’ width. Was he laughing silently? If so, it was the creepiest laugh I’d ever seen. His yellow teeth were visible, but his lips hid all but four front teeth.

<…>

Speaking cheerfully, Mr. Acacia rummaged through his suit’s inner pocket. He didn’t care that white cream smeared his jacket. He pulled out a flat tin case.

<When. When will I kill you? That’s the same.>

He opened the tin and took out a cigarette, putting it in his mouth.

Mr. Acacia lit the cigarette and stood up. He exhaled smoke and approached slowly. Standing tall, his towering figure cast a shadow that seemed to engulf me. Mr. Acacia was observing my reaction to his words. Was I overwhelmed, scared, what expression was I making? He studied me obsessively.

I just stared blankly up at his face. Up close, Mr. Acacia’s face felt even less human. His face was as smooth and nauseatingly glossy as the white underbelly of a fish. What passed for lips looked more like a gash in his face than actual lips.

The half-burned cigarette fell from the creamy, slippery leather glove. Mr. Acacia clicked his tongue and crushed it with his shoe heel. Rummaging through his pocket, he said.

<…You’re mistaken. I’m ready to die.>

<No.>

Mr. Acacia pulled out that same flat, brassy tin case from his pocket. He made a hissing sound with his unpleasant voice.

He opened the tin case, engraved with acacia flowers, and took out another cigarette.

Mr. Acacia lit the cigarette, exhaled smoke, and turned away.

Without another word, Mr. Acacia walked out of the log cabin. Jerome followed him. I sat frozen on the paint cans. At that moment, my mind was consumed by a single question.

How?

How…?

My mind was consumed by a single thought.

It wasn’t until I lay on the mattress that night that I realized Jerome hadn’t returned. For the first time since arriving at this log cabin, I was falling asleep alone. The faint sound of insects chirping came from outside. The tropical night was hot and uncomfortably sticky. I blinked into the darkness and suddenly fell asleep.

In the morning, there was still no one beside me. I could have escaped if I wanted to, but I didn’t. While washing, I touched my face and felt the considerable stubble on my cheeks and chin. I hadn’t shaved since Simon did it for me. I went straight back to the bathroom and shaved. After shaving cleanly, I doused myself with cold water from head to toe.

It was hot, so I didn’t put on a shirt. Wearing only pants, I returned to the living room and did something I hadn’t done before. I started with light stretching. My shoulder, scarred from a gunshot and burned with a cigarette, felt stiff. I slowly stretched my muscles to loosen up. Once my body felt limber, I began doing push-ups, speeding up while controlling my breathing.

Soon, my entire body was drenched in sweat. Sweat dripped from my face onto the cement floor. The morning wash was rendered pointless as my upper body glistened with sweat, and my pants clung to my legs. I washed again and went out for a walk alone. The outside of the log cabin seemed deserted.

My mind was consumed by a single thought.

As I entered the forest, someone followed me. I heard the hasty crunch of twigs being stepped on but didn’t look back. All I wondered was whether someone had been watching when I walked with Jerome. I hadn’t noticed anything all this time. Truly, I knew nothing. After the walk, I returned and followed Jerome’s routine.

Due to the heat, I knitted quietly with my upper body bare. I could move my fingers with strength. I was able to move my body as I wished. Thanks to Jerome’s dedication. I spent the afternoon re-knitting the yarn Jerome had unraveled yesterday. By evening, I was sitting by the unglazed window frame, just as I had yesterday.

I was waiting for them. They had thoroughly left me alone today. They let me sink into the aftereffects of the drugs and didn’t feed me anything all day. But in a way, they were giving me chances to escape at any moment. In the log cabin, in the forest, I had countless opportunities to flee, and I let them all slip by. There was only one reason they were confusing me like this. As always… as the three of them always had…

It was well past evening when I heard hurried footsteps. There were at least two people. But only one set of footsteps entered the log cabin’s living room. The steps ventured into the darkness, found the electric lantern I hadn’t turned on, and lit it. It was Mr. Acacia, holding a waffle with melting cream, just like yesterday. He extended the waffle toward me and gave another eerie smile.

<Hungry?>

<Yes.>

I spoke for the first time since waking that morning.

Mr. Acacia burst into a hearty laugh, picked up the electric lantern, and approached me. His strides were wide. In a few steps, he was right in front of me, placing the lantern on the window frame and offering the waffle.

Instead of taking it, I stuck out my tongue and licked the cream dripping from his glove. Mr. Acacia laughed again. I opened my mouth and sucked on his gloved thumb. The leather felt soft against my tongue. He kept laughing. Looking up at his expression, I slowly pulled his thumb from my mouth. I carefully grasped Mr. Acacia’s wrist and took a bite of the waffle.

It was sickeningly sweet. A sudden rush of sensation flooded my tongue, which hadn’t tasted anything in so long. The sweetness was almost painful. Suppressing my revulsion, I ate the entire waffle. I licked all the cream left on his glove, not leaving a drop between his fingers. Mr. Acacia’s leather glove now glistened with my saliva instead of cream.

Mr. Acacia spoke.

<You’re eating so well…>

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I grabbed his wrist tightly and pulled off the glove. The bare hand was revealed under the electric lantern.

A grotesquely twisted, burn-scarred hand was exposed. It wasn’t that unsettlingly cold, pale hand. He must have left that behind. The startled Mr. Acacia tried to yank his hand away, but I didn’t let go. No, I didn’t give him time to react fully. Thanks to loosening up my body since morning, I could move as swiftly as I thought.

I gripped Mr. Acacia’s hand tightly, quickly stood, and twisted his arm behind his back. I kicked the back of his knee hard, knocking him to the floor, and nimbly climbed onto his back. Surely someone must have heard the sound of him falling, yet no one came in from outside. I didn’t care. There was something I wanted to confirm. That fish-like, glossy face.

I curved my fingers like claws and scratched his neck. As expected, his neck was slick. Mr. Acacia cursed and shouted, thrashing, but the more he struggled, the tighter I clung to him. I roughly untied the tightly knotted tie, ripped open his shirt buttons, and slipped my hand inside the collar. Finally, my nails caught what I wanted. I grabbed the disturbingly slick thing and yanked it off.

My mind was consumed by a single thought.

A silicone mask came off in my hand. A stiff blonde wig fell away. Beneath the skin that didn’t feel human was a monstrous face. The skin was horribly melted, with no eyebrows or eyelashes, and even the nostrils were tiny from melted flesh. The very short hair sprouted sparsely, like it had been gnawed by rats, looking pitiful. The reddish, scarred skin was as rough as tree bark, incapable of forming any expression.

The moment I faced that face—no, the moment I met the embedded in that face, my vision blurred dizzyingly, and a deflated laugh escaped me. I brought my face close to Mr. Acacia, who was pinned beneath me, breathing harshly and trembling with rage.

In that moment, I was completely free from Bluebell. Fully separated from Bluebell’s scars, I whispered to the past glory I had left behind.

The hideous man, screaming and trying to cover his face, was George. The very boy I left behind at Bluebell! I grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the floor.

The few remaining strands of hair were ripped out. I grabbed his head and smashed it into the floor several times. George was out of his mind. He screamed, clawing at the cement floor and writhing. He struggled to cover his face. He didn’t want me to see it. I grabbed his neck, rolled him over to face me, pinned his waist with my thighs, and stared directly into his bleeding face.

It was an ugly, filthy face. Seeing that face feel shame in front of me sent a thrilling chill down my spine. For the past five years, it wasn’t me but George who had been floundering in ! The scars of defeat on his face, hands, and body would never fade, constantly reminding him of humiliation. They ensured he could never forget his miserable defeat! Only when facing George’s scarred face did I finally move far from death, far from the desire for death.

I didn’t want to die. I wanted them to be alive. So I could hold them accountable for Carl’s death! By burning them all at Bluebell, I couldn’t avenge Carl. But here, Bluebell’s ghosts had come back to life, allowing me to offer them as sacrifices to Carl. I could wash away all my sins with their crimes. The ones trapped were the top-floor boys. The ones bound to Bluebell weren’t me but the top-floor boys!

Sophistry? Maybe. But who would judge me? You’re all dead, destined to be gone!

<Don’t look! Don’t look at me! Let go, let go!>

I whispered, staring into George’s tear-streaked face. He thrashed his bloodshot face wildly. He kept trying to cover it with his hands, so I slapped his cheek. Blood streamed from lips that looked like a torn gash, unable to form properly. His reaction was strange. Tears flowed uncontrollably down his face.

Is he dead? Is Hugh dead? I grabbed George’s ear tightly and probed his thoughts.

<No… no!>

George screamed. His wail shook the log cabin. Still, no one came to check on us. No one. No one was there to care for George. One of the top-floor boys had definitely died.

<No… no… no…!>

<Stop… ugh, sob… stop… please…>

<Ah… ugh… no… Hugh… oh, my love…>

George’s struggling strength gradually faded. Finally, pinned beneath me, he went limp, shaking his head weakly. Broken moans and incoherent words spilled from his lips. I stood up from atop him. George didn’t resist or attack me. He muttered like a madman, then suddenly slammed his head into the floor. From there, he curled up like a bug and began banging his forehead against the cement.

I stepped back and looked down at George. In the mix of darkness and lantern light, he was half in light, half buried in shadow, muttering and slamming his head into the floor. Soon, he began twisting his ears with both hands, hitting his head harder. Blood and flesh smeared the cement.

George screamed.

<Hugh! Nooo! Hugh! Please! God! Aaaah! Hugh! Hugh! Save him, no! Aaaah!>

Screaming in a rough, chilling voice, George didn’t stop harming himself.

I picked up the lantern and shone it on George. His forehead was torn to shreds as he rolled on the floor, still screaming. I recalled George’s cold, calm voice from when we were young. Had he been screaming like this every day since I burned his lover alive at Bluebell? Is that why your voice became so grotesque? My chest began to stir. A tingling thrill spread through my chest, and my shoulders trembled.

I frantically examined George’s anguished, wailing face in the light. His eyes unfocused, he sprawled on the floor, limbs splayed. His body trembled as if convulsing. Frothy saliva mixed with blood dripped from his mouth. I brought the lantern close to his face and shook it slowly. George’s unfocused eyes gradually moved to meet mine. He still looked like a madman. Muttering, he stared at me.

<It’s hot…>

His voice cracked unpleasantly.

<It’s hot… too hot…>

I doubted he could understand, but I answered anyway.

<Hot? Why are you hot? Hugh, burning in hell right now, should be the one who’s hot.>

<No… me, too…>

Tears rolled from the corners of George’s eyes.

<It’s hot, so hot, I can’t stand it… like I’m on fire…!>

<Oh? Should I put out the fire for you?>

I whispered, leaning toward George.

George nodded, bursting into tears. I set the electric lantern down beside his face. I unzipped my pants, pulled out my penis, and urinated on his face. At first, George didn’t seem to realize it was urine. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes as if welcoming the filth soaking his face. Only after a moment did he realize it was urine being poured on him. George shook his head and twisted his shoulders.

<Hey, stay still, you bastard.>

I said, aiming the stream at his ear.

George crawled, scratching the floor to escape. He didn’t get far before his strength gave out, and he collapsed, sobbing and starting to harm himself again. I zipped up my pants and stared down at George, writhing like a drugged rat at my feet.

George’s state was strikingly similar to the PTSD-afflicted soldiers I often saw at the veterans’ hospital. Mental illnesses like that tend to resurface as long as the cause remains. For instance, as long as someone like me, the cause of that fire and a witness to all the tragedy, stood alive and well before George’s eyes, that bastard would be doomed to a mental hospital until he died.

I closely examined George, foaming at the mouth and rolling his eyes back. I didn’t want to forget this sight for the rest of my life. I wanted to eternally remember his pathetic, filthy figure, convulsing with my filth all over him and his eyes rolled back!

<Disgusting.>

It wasn’t me who spoke. I raised the electric lantern high. Someone was standing at the unfinished doorway.

The person who slowly stepped into the light was Jerome. He looked at George with a cold face mixed with contempt and disgust. That’s right. Jerome had always hated George. They had always hated each other.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and approached us step by step. I stood motionless, glaring at Jerome. His gaze lingered only on George.

Jerome said in a cheerful tone, but his voice was thick with contempt.

<You’re no different, Raymond. Urinating on him is a bit much, isn’t it?>

But in the darkness, his pale face couldn’t suppress its joy and bloomed brightly. I stared at Jerome’s face for a moment before speaking.

<So, do you feel better now?>

Ignoring my words, Jerome asked with a bright smile.

Jerome had deliberately brought George here. He knew George would have a breakdown and a fit. He might not have been certain, but he took the gamble. He had nothing to lose, after all… I quietly looked at Jerome’s gleaming, smiling face.

The next moment, I hurled the electric lantern with all my strength at Jerome’s chest. We were too close for him to block it. The last glimpse of Jerome’s face before the lantern shattered showed shock, a hint of tension, and still… a mix of laughter. I didn’t wait. As the electric light vanished and darkness flooded in, I lunged at Jerome.

We tangled and fell to the floor. Taking advantage of Jerome’s failure to recover from the lantern hitting his chest, I slammed my fist into his face. When his head turned, I grabbed his jaw and swung again. With every punch, I felt skin tear and blood stick wetly to my knuckles. Strangely, Jerome didn’t resist. At some point, I stopped punching, realizing Jerome was laughing.

<Hahaha! Ugh, hahahaha! More! Hit me more, harder! Raymond! Harder!>

I stopped punching and stood up. Jerome grabbed my ankle, clinging to me.

<What’s wrong? Already tired? Come on, do more, Raymond!>

I pulled my foot free and kicked Jerome’s side with all my strength. He gasped, choking, but still burst into sporadic laughter.

<Raymond! Oh, Raymond!>

I turned away from Jerome calling my name in the darkness. Leaving the two surviving top-floor boys behind, I leaped over the unglazed window frame and escaped the log cabin. From behind, Jerome shouted.

<Don’t go, Raymond! It’s not over yet! You’ve got to hit me more! Pfft, hahahaha!>

Jerome’s laughter grew fainter. I bolted into the forest, familiar from my walks.

As soon as I plunged into the forest, a flashlight beam shot up behind me. Startled by the light narrowly missing my ear, I dove behind a tree. But the sound of collapsing into the underbrush drew all the beams to the tree trunk. A mistake. Still… judging by the diameter of the flashlight beams, the pursuers were still some distance away.

As expected, there were watching eyes. George and Jerome wouldn’t have come alone, unarmed. The priority was to put distance between me and the pursuers. I decided to ignore the flashlight beams and charge through the forest. It was nighttime in the woods, and as a former soldier, I had an advantage. If I headed toward the filming set and sought help from the crew, I could escape.

But that thought was a miscalculation. As I stepped out from behind the tree and was exposed to the flashlight beams again, a shout rang out.

A sharp gunshot followed. Those crazy bastards! I dove to the ground, scrambling under the shadow of a tree. Only when I was fully hidden in the darkness did I catch my breath. My skin crawled. The gunshot made my ears ring, and my heart pounded wildly. Those lunatics had fired a gun. They’d rather kill me than let me escape! My hands trembled with shock. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to calm my breathing.

Thanks to my heightened alertness, I quickly regained my composure. Most of them probably didn’t know how to shoot properly, but some knew how to handle a gun well. I’d seen skilled shooters during old can-shooting games. Given it was dark and in a forest, it wasn’t too dangerous, but I couldn’t risk being exposed to the flashlight beams anymore.

The pursuers had threatening weapons and outnumbered me, so hiding in the darkness was the best option for now. When they exhausted themselves chasing me through the night, dawn would be the best time to escape. For now, I had to play the part of the hunted. I needed to lure them deep into the forest and make them lose their way.

As soon as I made the plan, I stood up. I didn’t step into the flashlight beams again. Instead, I made loud noises, left footprints, and broke branches to leave deliberate traces. The pursuers began chasing me. Occasionally, sharp gunshots rang out. My spine chilled, but now wasn’t the time to look back. Even if I got unlucky and was shot, I had to use this chance to move forward. No time to look back.

Luckily, I was wearing shoes, but since I was shirtless, I got scratched up badly. I didn’t even notice the pain. I broke branches recklessly and tore through the underbrush, charging blindly through the pathless forest. Calling it a forest was generous—it was almost half rugged mountain terrain. Fortunately, the forest was as unfamiliar and rough to the pursuers as it was to me.

The flashlight beams occasionally grazed near me but mostly missed in other directions. I heard shots fired in frustration a few times, but they weren’t a real threat. As the distance between me and the pursuers grew, and their gunshots faded, I felt a gradual sense of relief. I’d created some room to shake them off. They were still hot on my trail, but if I carefully hid my tracks and changed direction, the situation would shift. They’d struggle far more than now.

My breath came up to my throat, and I finally stopped. Leaning against a tree trunk, I caught my breath. I couldn’t rest for long. Even with some distance, I was still at a disadvantage. Without a flashlight or anything, I couldn’t keep moving indefinitely. I needed to hide somewhere. But even in a tropical night, enduring the dewy dawn without a shirt would drain my stamina. Could I last the night? I tried to calm my breathing and thought hard about how to survive until morning. No good ideas came. A way to conserve energy until dawn… But, why?

Why were these pursuers so obsessed with me?

Jerome, Simon, and George made sense. At Bluebell, I couldn’t understand those boys, but here in Laberham, they had clear motives. The Bluebell fire must have fueled their grudge. They nearly burned to death, and Hugh was ultimately sacrificed. They wanted revenge. But the workers?

They’d already tortured and violated me enough. I didn’t know what kind of collaboration the workers had with the top-floor boys, but not all the camp workers were involved in the assault, and they must have realized I wouldn’t report to the police even if I escaped this prison. So why not let me go? It didn’t seem like the workers were being blackmailed. Nor did it seem like they were promised some reward. At most, a few bucks, but risking gunshots being heard at the filming set for a few bucks…

Bang

The gunshots were getting closer. No time to speculate on reasons. I had to focus. I shut my eyes tightly, opened them, and stepped cautiously into the dark, layered forest, careful not to leave traces this time.

I hadn’t gone far when, in the faintly moonlit forest, my cheek brushed against a strangely dangling branch. A branch? It felt odd for a branch. What was it? I stopped and looked back. The strange branch hit my face.

When it caught around my neck, I realized the odd branch was a . At that moment, the grass at my feet, which I thought was underbrush, sank downward. Simultaneously, I heard a snapping sound, like a trap springing…

I was yanked into the air in an instant. My breath caught, and it felt like my eyes would pop out.

<Krgh! Hrk!>

A groan escaped like a scream. Blood rushed to my head, and my vision darkened. The sensation of the Lasso tightening and digging into my neck was more horrifying than the choking. Cold sweat drenched my body in an instant. I clawed desperately at the rope, which felt like it would sever my neck. My arm muscles bulged and twitched, but it was no use. My ears rang, and I couldn’t scream as my breath was cut off. I scratched frantically at my neck with my nails, trying to tear the rope away.

As I thrashed in the air, a flashlight beam flicked on directly below me. I barely managed to look down. The light was blinding at first, and I couldn’t see anything. My vision flickered black, making it even harder to see. As I struggled, blinking in agony, I saw a tattoo. A heavy, dark green crocodile tattoo sprawled across a shoulder.

<Kgh! Krgh!>

<That’s right? As expected of a Devil Dog! Even if you were a hustler, a Marin’s a Marin!>

I couldn’t hear what he was babbling about anymore. At first, the blood rushing hotly to my head felt like it would burst, but now my head felt like a pathetic burden. The rope crushing my windpipe forced my tongue to loll out grotesquely, but I didn’t care.

I wanted peace. I wanted to escape the agony of not breathing and rest peacefully. A peace where I didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need air—a peace like death… no, I wanted to sink into death itself… My limbs went limp, dangling in the air. I felt it getting closer. I blinked reflexively, staring blankly at the dim, moonlit night sky. It was close now. Almost within reach.

Author's Thoughts

There are numerous stimulating scenes involving rape, gang rape, violence, abuse, and drugs. Please practice discretion as you proceed.

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