I Really Like Hurting You

By Sean Callister

In "I Really Like Hurting You," Sean Callister takes readers on a thrilling journey into the depths of darkness, delving into the mind of a thirteen-year-old sociopath.

Michael Platt is an outcast, discarded by foster homes and thrust into the clutches of his ex-con father and sadistic half-brother, Cole. Goldstrike, a desolate enclave in the unforgiving Nevada desert, becomes a breeding ground for Michael's darkest nightmares. Forced to scrub toilets for meager scraps of cash and enduring relentless beatings and torture, Michael is reduced to nothing more than a commodity.

But he is no ordinary pawn. As the seething rage within him grows, a deadly plan takes shape, and Michael steps into the spotlight to claim what is rightfully his. If you enjoyed Stephen King's "Misery" or Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho," you will be captivated by the heart-pounding intensity of "I Really Like Hurting You."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Callister
• Release date: Nov 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9780989188043

Sean Callister

Sean Callister writes stories across several genres, including children's fiction and horror.

Book preview

I Really Like Hurting You

Axe and You Shall Receive #1

Sean Callister

Copyright © 2022 by Sean Callister

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info].

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

ISBN 979-8-9873292-0-7

First Edition

Contents

1. Home

2. Toilet

3. I'll Make You a Deal

4. I Think I Found What I Need

5. Homecoming

6. I'm Going to Find You

7. Swing

8. Ben's Hamburgers

9. Bollo

10. I Got You, Bollo

11. Sugar Cookies

12. One Does

13. In the Footsteps of Bollo

14. Something to Believe In

15. You're Safe Now

16. Rotisserie

17. Along for the Ride

Sean Callister

1

Home

I really like hurting you.

Michael Platt’s two-hundred-pound brother—a year younger but twice his size—was kneeling on his back and pounding his fists between his shoulder blades.

Cole liked hurting him as much as he liked cheeseburgers, and beatings didn’t stop until he was completely satisfied. It didn’t matter what Michael said. All he could do was endure it until it was over, then get dressed and go to school.

Cole was a total psycho, so Michael knew he had no chance. If he tried to avoid his brother, Cole sought him out. If he did anything to deny his fun, Michael paid in bruises. Since he’d arrived two months before, he’d become Cole’s obsession in the same way other kids had porn.

At thirteen, Michael had been in and out of more foster homes than he could remember. A few had been good, and others had been run by sadists. He’d been beaten. He’d been messed with in every way. Some foster parents acted friendly for a while but got rid of him anyway. The caseworkers were careless with their notes, so he’d seen all the reasons. Some said that he was too creepy (or more commonly creepy-looking), too quiet, scary, or that he seemed dangerous. More than one called him a sociopath. That’s where Michael first learned the word.

Fuck them. If that’s what they thought, that’s what they got.

But this wasn’t a foster home. This was for real.

A caseworker he’d never seen before (you can call me Sharon) —a woman with long gray hair tied back behind her like a horse’s tail—was waiting in the kitchen of his latest home when he got home from school. She told him to pack up. He walked past his foster mother, ignoring her completely as he threw his clothes into his suitcase and followed Call-Me-Sharon to the car.

He figured his foster parents were relieved he finally left. At least they didn’t bitch out loud to the caseworker in front of him as some did. He had been there only a few weeks. It hadn’t been too bad, aside from assholes at school who variously hated on him for his clothes, face, his malformed left arm, or his squelchy, damaged voice. In just that one school, he’s been called fag, freak or Stan, from a recent horror movie about a zombified middle school kid. They liked using that one especially.

When he got into the car, Call-Me-Sharon gave him the typical insincere smile.

We found your dad.

She looked at him, expecting excitement.

Michael stared at her blankly.

What?

We found your dad, she repeated.

He’s dead.

She shook her head.

He’s not.

Michael focused on the road ahead as the car pulled away from the curb.

It’s a good thing, she tried to assure him, You and your dad and your brother can be a real family!

Brother?

Michael guessed it was a mistake.

Whatever.

He decided to keep his mouth shut and go along for the ride. Maybe the guy lived in some mansion, and he’d stay even if it was a mistake.

But instead of driving into some rich neighborhood, they headed straight into the desert. And then, hours later, into another state.

Where are we going?

The caseworker glanced at him briefly, It’s a place called Goldstrike. It’s a small town.

Michael stared out the window at the desolate landscape.

Where?

Call-Me-Sharon’s hesitation told him everything he needed to know.

They were in an air-conditioned car, but he could still feel the searing sun burning down on his arm. He didn’t move it.

He decided to let it burn.

They didn’t pull off the highway until long after nightfall.

Goldstrike, judging by its sparse, dimly lit main street, wasn’t much at all. The road was cracked and potholed, and Michael could barely make out a line of mostly crumbling, boarded-up brick storefronts. They drove by a dark, burned-up gas station and then by a well-lit place called Ben’s Hamburgers, the only place that had actual people in a building that looked suspiciously like it had once been one of the big fast-food places.

Michael couldn’t figure out why the fucking dump would be called Goldstrike.

Call-Me-Sharon drove straight through the two blocks of the main street and then followed her GPS and turned right onto a dirt road, out into the pitch-black desert. There was nothing ahead of them but a single, weak light in the distance. As they moved closer, Michael saw that it hung outside a dusty, decrepit mobile home. A smashed-up red pickup truck was parked nearby, and another half-dismantled one sat beside it. Car parts and other debris were scattered everywhere under the flickering light. Poles stood yards apart off into the darkness.

Michael figured it was an otherwise abandoned trailer park.

As they approached, the door to the trailer swung open. A shirtless man with a wide chest and protruding belly, decorated with tattoos all the way to the top of his bald head, stepped onto the little trailer porch and folded his arms while they approached.

Are you sure he’s my father?

He’s your father, Call-Me-Sharon assured him as if it were a good thing.

Without moving from the porch, the man watched him closely as he climbed out of the car, then asked Call-Me-Sharon, when am I getting my first check?

I’m CPS, she explained, You’ll have to call social services.

Fuck.

Michael could make out one of the tattoos across his chest now. Large, fancy lettering proclaimed. Racist.

Call-Me-Sharon had the man sign something as if Michael was some kind of package. Michael