TORN FLESH

CHAPTER THIRTY: TEAR DROP

THAT smile only lasted so long for Mitch.

As soon as he'd returned to his quarters to get some good rest- for the first time since Margo had left- it all just came pouring out of him in quiet sobs as he slid down onto the floor against the door to his bathroom.

He had no one left, and if Margo didn't come back, he'd had to see those sad eyes of Violets stare back at him with more resentment than he knew how to handle. He leaned his head back against the hardwood of the door trying to regain his composure; it didn't work.

The tears continued to fall, and it wasn't till later on- closer to night- that his cheeks had tightened from his previous crying and his eyes were still somewhat swollen. Margo had been gone for just about three days, and so far, they'd gotten no calls about anyone coming within the vicinity of the compound, no sign of her on her way back.

What was she even doing so far gone? Stan wouldn't tell her, and as much as he wanted to go and ask, he knew Eric wouldn't answer him either.

It wasn't until an hour or so later that he managed to force himself to stand up from his spot on the bathroom floor and silently climb into the shower.

He only cried harder, except this time, he leaned his head against the shower wall and let his brown locks fall around his face like a halo as the water ran through his hair and clouded his vision until he let his eyes shut.

Fifteen minutes passed behind that grey curtain before Mitch stepped out of the bathroom and wrapped a towel around his waist. Staring back at himself in the mirror, he hated what he saw in between the fogged areas of the glass, he hated the person he'd become, the person he was still becoming.

He wanted his old life back, the one where he'd been happy.

But such things weren't possible, and he knew that.

So he snatched up the scissors from his bathroom drawer and tried his best to erase the person standing before him.

He cut his hair the way it once had been all those months ago, and while some parts were uneven he found himself feeling more comfortable than before. Forcing the majority of the water from his hair- leaving it slightly damp- he was slipping on a t-shirt when a knock came from the door of his room.

He frowned, hardly anyone was up at this hour, so who was knocking at his door?

Adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants, he stepped out of the bathroom and crossed the room thinking about who all it could be, it couldn't be Morgan- for obvious reasons- and it couldn't be her sister either, he knew it wasn't Stan or Eric, and he knew Violet was back in her hospital bed sleeping.

Pulling the door open, he realized it was Violet.

He raised a brow, the girl looking up at him with expectancy in her eyes, a strangeness lingering about her as she did so, "can I stay with you for the night?" before Mitch could ask why the girl had already opened her mouth to elaborate.

"The hospital's just always super quiet and then out of nowhere a loud sound or something that sounds like someone trying to be sneaky then taking a loud step by accident occurs and it keeps me up all night."

Mitch stared down at her with a set jaw, god, she was just like Margo, in every sense.

He stepped to the side, offering a small nod of his head. Smiling, Violet slipped inside and walked around the small room before looking back at Mitch, he gestured to the bed, "we can split it down the middle, or I can sleep in the tub."

Violet grinned at the statement, it was funny in the sense that it was stupid, she shook her head, "first option sounds like more of a win-win."

Letting a small breath fall from his lips, Mitch moved to drop onto his presumed side of the bed while Violet found her way to the other. She stared at him for a moment as she reached for the blanket and pulled it up to her neck before speaking.

"When's Rav coming back?"

Mitch stared back at her- his lips turned slightly downwards- giving a small shake of his head, "I'm not sure, but I'd say a few more days at most."

Violet silently nodded to herself, while she knew the girl was capable of looking out for herself, she couldn't help but worry over her wellbeing, what if she didn't come back? What if she decided not to come back? What if she left Violet here, all alone with only Mitch and Stan to look after her?

She couldn't imagine such a thing.

And while she'd never been one to put so much hope into something so unknown, she found herself praying to whatever higher power there was up above as soon as she closed her eyes, and the next day, when she awoke, she whispered another quick prayer in hopes that it would make Margo return faster.

Another day went by before she found herself face to face with Stan, at first she was confused as to where she'd seen him, and then she'd remembered sitting on his old sofa and asking him questions with Mitch beside her.

What did he want with her?

The answer became very clear as he stared down at her, his gaze being nothing less than condescending.

"I wanna show you something." he stated already walking away from the girl as the words left his lips, curious, Violet had followed after the man, and while she knew it was probably a dumb idea, she found herself thinking she was somewhat safe around him.

They ended up a few floors beneath the hospital, in a room with a few air vents that led from the surface to where they were now, the room was set up much like a gun range, if not identical to one. But instead of going to one of the ranges, Violet ended up following the man into what could only be a locker area.

Inside, Stan pulled a set of keys from his pocket and glanced through them before inserting one into the lock of the locker he'd settled himself in front of.

Violet watched with narrowed eyes at the lock clicked and he pulled it open to reveal a large case residing within the confines of the metal locker. It was a rifle, and one of the only ones she'd ever seen, much less kept as clean as this one.

Stan glanced over his shoulder at her gently nodding towards the gun, she raised a brow, "are we even supposed to be down here?" she questioned, the man nodded his head, "it's my range, I'll be damned if I'm not allowed down here."

Violet frowned, how was it his range?

They were on a military base of sorts, what kind, she still hadn't figured out, so if anything, this was the governments' range, not his, right?

"Pick your jaw off the ground and c'mon, we ain't got all day."

The girl let out a huff of air as she took one of the large boxes the man handed her, and despite its size, it wasn't quite as heavy as she'd expected, it was rather light.

"Margo was a little younger than you when she started, and she was real good." he paused for a moment, almost as if he was weighing his next set of words, "I think it best that you pick up that skill too."

Violet frowned, hadn't Mitch seemed wary of him getting too close to the girl? Why had she even come with him in the first place?

She knew Margo wouldn't have approved, and Mitch probably wouldn't have either, but as she watched as the man pushed open a door- holding it for her- before he set his rifle down on the range and began to set it up.

Between her curiosity and her logic, her curiosity won.

So instead of leaving, she stayed.

When Margo arrived at her intended destination, she found herself unable to move, so she sat in the car for a few minutes just gazing upon the house and the quiet beach that trailed behind it.

She could see herself staring out at the beach from the living room window, she'd hardly ever played on said beach, but her brothers had.

They were still teenagers, rolling about in the sand while her father attempted to regain her attention as he showed her a gun.

She was just a young child, fresh in the world at the age of six. She had no mother, and most of the photos of her had been taken down, mainly because her father couldn't bear to look at her and see the resemblance between the two.

Letting a sigh fall from her lips, she checked that her gun was in its holster and popped the door open.

The first thing she heard was the swishing of wind through the treetops. She closed her eyes for a moment as she tried to think back to the first time she'd heard it.

It never came.

Opening her eyes, she slipped her gun out of its holster and checked that it had a bullet in the chamber, while the place had once been her home, she had no clue if someone new had decided to claim it as their own.

And as she approached the door, nothing came to her attention besides the horrendously overgrown grass that bordered the sand of the beach.

But still, she held her gun at the ready and reached out for the doorknob. Which surprisingly enough, was unlocked and the door popped open within seconds.

Carefully poking her head in through the gap, she took note of the complete silence and continued on to slip inside the house. Turning around, she quietly closed the door behind her and moved to venture further into the house.

At first, all she saw was what appeared to be a normal family's living room, a few loose magazines strewn across the coffee table that had been caked in dust.

She wondered how long it had been left untouched. How long it had been abandoned.

She wondered who the last person to visit the sad dwelling had been.

Her breath stalled in her throat as she approached the entrance to the kitchen, her feet locked beneath her and she stared at the dirty white tile, the air smelled of stale bleach and sweat.

And she could see why, a small pile of clothes sitting outside the door to what she could only assume was the laundry room, and a large opened container of bleach sitting in the corner of the kitchen.

She saw it then, the chair, the ropes, the zip ties, the knife. She saw it all.

The blood.

The sounds.

The gurgling, her father's cries of desperation, the pure glee at what he had created.

He was proud. Even in his final moments, he was proud of what she was doing.

It made her sick to her stomach to think about the duration of time in which she'd spent drawling out his end, she'd made sure it was painful, and while she knew he deserved it, it didn't make her feel any bit less guilty.

Turning away, she brought a hand up to her mouth.

A small creak sounded from somewhere in the home and she began to turn to try and locate the source, but instead of seeing a small rat or mouse, she saw the butt of a rifle cracking against the side of her head.

And then everything went black.

Something she knew too well.

TORN FLESH

CHAPTER THIRTY: TEAR DROP