Afflicted Heart

By Joe West

Amber's life isn't what she expected it to be, but she does know what it shouldn't be. As this young coming of age woman is just starting to identify her self worth her entire life is snatched away by a mentally troubled killer named Hector. What are his devious plans for Amber? Is there any way to survive this maelstrom of torture and mind games?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe West
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005158255

Joe West

Reading, writing, and family are the things that drive me. I have had a lot of different perspectives on the world from many different points of view. My imagination is something of your wildest dreams. I get my inspiration from everything around me, even my wild dreams. I have turned my passion from when I was a child daydreaming about the many fantasies I could create into actual reality. Words on a page you can read and enjoy.I went a lot of years not knowing what my calling was and working different ends of the jobs spectrum. I finally had a friend push me into writing with the phrase "You need to let all of that **** out and not keep it in, if you hold all that in you'll get cancer! That is how people get cancer!" That stuck to me like fire on kindle and I decided to write. Through Their Eyes is the product of my painful past brought to light in a completely different way. In fiction which was hard to write and even harder to share with the world. My imagination has always been extremely wild and uncontrollable. Now I'm using it to my advantage (hopefully) and sharing it with the world.I am an indie author in the true extent. The day I realized I should write I knew it wasn't going to be easy. I believe we all have a different magic inside of us and when we have a gift we must share it with the world. That is exactly what I'm doing through my writing. My books and stories will evolve with me and I will always share my vision with my readers.

Book preview

Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Joe West

All rights reserved.

Afflicted Heart

Jessica

February 2nd Night

I startle up, and now I’m awake. I think a noise woke me up, though I don’t know not where it came from. I fear opening my eyes to see what I’m sure I do not want to see.

Why me?

In saying this, my words come out as a croak that is inaudible even to my own ears. I see from behind my eyelids the light; it’s like hope glowing eternal, but I know it’s a farce. The pool of light is visible and, of course, is streaming from by the door at the top of the basement. It means that fuck must have come down here again while I slept and did God knows what.

By the feeling throughout my body and how groggy I feel, he might have drugged me again to have his way with me. Of this, I don’t really know because I’m in so much pain; I wouldn’t be able to tell what he did. My insides down there hurt; my legs and stomach from the beating are all bloody. How long have I been here in this hell? I think I can remember five or six days, but who knows with being incapacitated.

No matter what I’m thinking now, I know I must open my eyes. If I don’t, I’m going to torture myself with the anticipation of him being right next to me. Despite what my internal systems are telling me through my clenched gut and fear swelling somewhere behind where my heart is, I open my eyes. I scan the room abruptly, and upon a cursory glance, I find out there is nothing in the room; he is not here. Thank God for small miracles. This swampy-feeling basement is all I can handle now without completely losing my sanity if I’m not fucking mad as a hatter all ready.

He took me from my home. My entire world is gone, and I had no say in it. I pull my energy to hoist myself up, and my stomach screams from deep within me. Who knows what kind of damage he has done to me there, but between the sharp pain and the searing burning sensation whenever I move , I’m certain it can’t be good. Using my right arm, I grapple with the cold steel of the bedframe and finally grip it using what little strength I have to pull myself into a sitting position. In doing so, my scabs that feel like they blanket my wrist start seeping blood again. I can feel it – the warm sliding feeling that comes from my life trickling out down my arm makes my stomach churn even more – and I know now I shouldn’t have fought so damn much that first day.

I hurt my wrist so fucking bad that first day because of the metal restraint. I swear it’s broken, but it can’t be, or else I wouldn’t be able to use it. The pain after that first day has increased tenfold, and any time I move it, I wish it was just lopped off; that way, I couldn’t feel it anymore. I must hurt more now because, with the horrible orange glow from the light, I can see my wrist is not just flowing forth blood but something much worse. It’s hard to tell well, and my eyes don’t feel extremely focused. My blood looks sickly green and a deep dark red that looks more purple than anything.

I can’t look at my wrist anymore as I’m become more nauseous just peering at it, so I look around the room again. My chest starts to sound like a locomotive as my heart rate speeds into oblivion, and my eyes fall upon something in the corner that wasn’t there last night. It’s in the far corner past the light, and I couldn’t make it out on my rough glance a few minutes ago. Water fills my eyes as tears well from deep within me because I know my fate is sealed. From what I see, in the corner is a pile of black plastic garbage bags and white rope-like nylon.

As panic weighs on me more and more like blankets being piled on me one at a time, my eyes dash around the room and my bed, looking for a means of escape. I know this is futile, and I’ve done it a million times since I’ve been in this God-awful place, but that’s not stopping me now. The chain that holds the metal one-inch band around my wrist is too strong, and I’ve already tried breaking it to gain hardly so much as a scratch on the surface of the chains.

I’m crying profusely now, and I’m moving around, ignoring my pain like a trapped animal darting from one place to another. Despite all the pain, I’m not showing any signs of stopping. I need to be free; I need to live; I want to live! I keep struggling despite I’m not having any success, but it’s not slowing me down. I’m past the point of worrying about my pain and just worried about my life. I peer over the edge of the bed, and the smell of dirty urine assaults me, but as I’m leaning over, a thought comes into my brain; a horrible thought! If successful, it could certainly mean my freedom, but the cost might be more than I can bear.

I have no idea what time of day it is, but with all my crying and shuffling about on the bed, I’m making a ton of noise, and surely, if he was here, I would think he would be barging in and climbing down the ladder to interrogate me – or worse, he could rape me again. I shudder and think my plan is insane, but I can’t go through what he does to me or how he is going to end it. My life, he is going to kill me…I decide at that moment to do it regardless of the consequences. I move, sliding my broken and beaten body to the edge of the bed. I look up to the right, where the chain holding my wrist is fastened to the wall. On the bed rail, he has manufactured a kind of latch with a link from the chain sets it to pull it tight, so he can hook the chain, and I won’t have any movement to fight back. I hook some of the chain up and into the latch he made and move my wrist down to gauge how much chain is out. Perfect! I slowly stand up and move into position facing the bed.

This has got to work. I don’t have any other options, I say this, trying to psych myself up and thinking this is going to be my one and only chance. I take in a breath and begin to doubt myself. I think about the garbage bags and the nylon rope in the corner. Hell, I’ve watched enough criminal minds on television to know this is a kill kit, and I, for one, want no part of that shit. Second-guessing done, my determination fills and bubbles up inside me like the slow fury of a volcano about to explode.

Setting my wrist on the edge of the bed, I know I can’t take it back once done. Just a minute ago, I was wishing my hand lopped off at my wrist. Now, I’m going to attempt something even more horrendous than that. I shudder at the thought of what I’m about to do. Hopefully, if I jump high enough and have enough force, I can hit my wrist directly on the bed, pulling with all my might and snap the bone at the joint, tearing all the muscle enough to break free. Hell, if a coyote can chew its own leg off to escape a trap and live, I can do this. If this works, I’m going to kill this son of a bitch without further thought.

On three…

I hear a noise, not just any noise but a car, and it’s a familiar car sound. It’s deep and throaty, like its growling upon its return because it knows what I’m planning. It’s his car. Shit! What do I do now: go through with this crazy plan or wait and see if he leaves so I can try again, or maybe some other opportunity? I’m seriously thinking against myself, but whatever I do, I know I don’t have a lot of time and should decide fast. I probably won’t have another chance because he will most likely come down here. With having no chance at all, he will surely kill me in some vicious way while all I can do is sit and watch my own death through my horrified eyes…or I can do this now and maybe have the one-shot I probably have left. Hell, this is so fucking crazy it just might actually work!

Because I know this is going to hurt like hell and while I’m screaming, he will hear it and rush down; maybe I can grab the bucket once I am done and spill urine on the floor to make it slippery. That way, when he comes down and falls, I can take the metal bucket and smash him in the fucking kisser until he dies. I’m sure I could climb up the stairs after that and find the phone to call 911. I can put pressure on my hand to stop the blood flow, and I will probably make it until the paramedics arrive. I’ve never heard anyone dying from their hand being cut off…how many stories do I know, though, that involve this? I don’t know, but it makes sense to me. I hear his car shut off and a door slam shut.

Three!

I jump straight up in the air and hope my trajectory or whatever it’s called will work for my shitty plan. As I fall toward the floor, I swoop my legs straight out like you do when you are trying to fly higher on a swing. I don’t slow my momentum and hold my arm out stiff as aboard. God, I hope this works!

Snapping, popping, and a loud clink happen all too fast at once as soon as my wrist collides with the metal frame. Things seem to be happening in slow motion, though. I know my bone has snapped, and I can feel the steady flow of blood coursing out of my body down my arm. The pain is excruciating, and all I want to do is die. On top of the agony, I’m still attached to the chain, and my heart sinks. I’m not screaming like I thought, but it’s the pain; I’m drowning in it and feel like I can’t breathe. Now I’m not even free. I pull my wrist to see how bad it is but to my surprise, my arm pulls free of my hand, and my arm flops onto the floor by my head. The pain is unbearable, and I turn my head slightly because the putrid smell on top of the pain causes me to puke by my shoulder under the bed. A moment later is when the scream not so much as flows out of me but just falls upward and out, like a living being needing to be set free.

As I scream, I know I don’t have much time. He has to be able to hear me scream; the fact I can think this lets me know I’m alive and I can do this. I can kill him. I open my bleary tear-stained eyes and use my left arm to pull myself out from under the bed. Running on nothing but adrenaline or just a need to live, I stick my right arm forcefully into my side to slow the blood flow. I’m almost out from under the bed; I can’t hear if he has shut the front door yet or if he is coming down the ladder. Between the pain and my plan, I can’t hear a damn thing. I look up quickly at the doorway where he comes in; it’s still shut. I have a chance. I have a real fucking chance. I turn over on my stomach and get to a kneeling position, reaching over and grab the bucket. The agony I’m in now is at an all-time high of 100 on a scale of 1to 10. I put it aside and force myself to stand. As I get up, my head swirls, and black circles float around my eyes. I don’t drop the bucket, but I do spill its contents on the bed and floor as I stumble. I use my left arm to hold myself upright and look in the bucket to see if I have anything for my plan, but even though my blurry fog of dim vision, I can see it’s empty.

I urge everything in my body and soul to stand. I can still do this and just surprise him from behind; maybe that will be even better. I just need a moment to let the shock wear off so I can move to the corner. As I turn to head to the corner for my ambush, I feel something on the side of my neck: hot air. It feels like hot air from the breath of another human being and smells familiar—it smells of him. Shit! At this moment, I know he is right beside me, and I only have one option.

Urging the muscles in my entire body, I swing the bucket around my body, hoping to spin and hit him with enough force to knock him out. My momentum stops halfway through, though, and I realize his arm moved faster than mine. He has my left arm held firmly in his right, and I know I am moving in slow motion as he seems to be having no problem in doing such a feat. My arm is held fast by him; he has further tightened his grip quickly and even harder. The bucket falls from my limp grasp, my strength gone and my world falling in from the outskirts of my vision.

Everything fades, and my world seems to be is collapsing quickly. I realize way too late what else must have transpired in those fractions of moments while I swung the bucket, and he grabbed my arm, I know what it was, but I look down toward my stomach anyways. There it is, protruding only an inch beside the handle from my gut—a long kitchen knife with a red handle shining through his fingers that he holds it in place. Now my pain shifts from my hand, or rather where it used to be, to my mid-section. I can feel warmth spreading inside me like a slow fire burning from red glowing coals. If it wasn’t for the pain, it would almost be fascinating. The darkness is closing in around my vision as I see his fingers turn to the left and the knife following them with wrenching force as he twists it inside me.

I need to go for his throat. That is my last shot…maybe I can still kill him. I look up, and my eyes meet his only inches away. I stare directly into them; it is a crazy, sick pair of eyes that stare back at me, so full of hate and wrong. I know he is a soulless piece of shit then, and while our sight is locked, I can’t move my arms or anything in my body at all. I can only consider his eyes as the warm feeling inside me turned cold and biting. It overwhelms me. I know it is over and close my eyes. I think I hear him whisper something, but I can’t make it out. Then darkness…

Amber

April 20th Morning

*Pacing* I hate that I pace, but I’ve done it for so long now. It’s kind of a coping mechanism—for what though I am unsure. I seem to do it all the time. I do it when I’m trying to recall what I was doing last. I’m so helter-skelter sometimes that I just try to do too much at once to know what all I’m doing. I pace a couple more times by my kitchen island, waiting for my brain to engage. I know what I had just done, so I started with that.

What was I going to do once I popped the toast in?

I did another lap with my pacing.

Oh yeah!

After my exclamation, I practically skip to the cabinet that holds the sink and reached above it to grab out a glass. The glass that I take from the odd assortment I’d collected was one of the odd angles, like one with a hexagonal shape at the bottom, making it almost ornate looking. After plucking it up, I walk over to the fridge and grab the quart of orange juice to fill my glass. I fill it all the way to the rim but not quite overflowing. I pause, not quite sure why I just filled my glass all the way up intentionally, not really thinking about it and just doing it. I think this while I stare at the bacon on the second shelf in the fridge. I notice my skin starting to break out in goosebumps under my pink shirt from Victoria’s Secret, and the moment passes. I place the OJ back into the fridge and shut the door. I stand there wondering why I just had that strange moment, and all the while just stood there waiting for it to come to me.

The truth is I have been waiting since forever for something grand to happen to me, and it never did/does. I thought about how just the spring before I dropped out of college and decided that wasn’t the right choice for me. There were too many stupid tests for evaluations which I thought were just a waste of time to try and measure one’s worth in life. For the three full semesters I was there, I was hardly able to stay in and dropped out with a 2.26 GPA, and the only class I managed to get an A in was Psychology 101. After the first year, I had to write a letter to the dean stating why I would try harder the next year and why I should stay enrolled. I thought if he was getting paid by my mother to have me in classes, I shouldn’t have to write him a letter saying why I was going to try harder. This seemed futile to me and almost embarrassing when I turned it in.

Speaking of my mother, she was just loathsome when I broke the news that I wasn’t finishing my second year. Every single weekend she would ask how it was going, how my classes were, and what was wrong. When are you going to start applying yourself? she asked. That was the moment I think I chose to let that avenue of life fall away like a bad dream. I never liked college, and the ‘college scene’ certainly wasn’t my thing either. So, I didn’t want to be there at all and be unhappy. I mean, why be someplace where you are unhappy, right?

After I finished my semester just to have it done so I wasn’t a complete dropout, I found a small cheap apartment in a small not-so-good suburb near the downtown area and moved here with my savings. Shortly after, I applied to Bob’s Corner Liquor Mart; I had just turned 21 and thought it would be cool to work in a liquor store even though I rarely drank. It is a nice enough job, and the pay is enough to provide for my meek living style, which is fine by me.

I pace back and forth all the while as I think about the last couple years in my life and notice that my toast was done. Grabbing the toast, I notice it is ice cold. I spread cold butter on cold toast, which I find annoying. Damn, I have to go to the store today! I just used the last of the butter. I thought, tossing the bag from the bread I used before my breakfast. Well, I might as well go after my run, I further thought as I crunched down on the cold unsavory toast.

My run is the one place I always feel like myself, the one thing where I am always calm. Running makes my head clear, and I feel ready for the day. I run every day, so my legs are able to carry me forever without getting tired. It is one true freedom that I always have had, and no one could take it away from me. With that thought, I finish my piece of toast and realize I spent so much time daydreaming. I need to get ready to go now, so I trot over to my bedroom. I grab one of my hair ties and pull my hair back into a ponytail. How would my mother react, seeing how I didn’t clean up the kitchen after eating? She’d lecture me for sure about my life