Control

Chapter 9.

     The driver slammed down on the accelerator and my spine was thrust into the back of my seat. Trepidation was thick in my veins as I hastily tried to identify my abductor for future reference if I got out of this unscathed—when I got out of this; he had bloodshot blue eyes focused on the road with mad integrity, reading glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, a short beard, mouse brown hair that was long yet balding and a tattoo of a crucifix underneath his left ear that seemed to have been scratched and clawed at until it was now a bleeding mess.

     Sweat dribbled down the side of his neck to a purple vein that seemed to pulse wildly beneath the surface of his skin as if it wanted to escape the confines of his flesh. I could see thick blood beginning to trickle from his ears and I felt a knot in my throat.

     Oh God, what is wrong with him?

     Wind whistled and squealed through the slit of the open window as he sped down the street and my heart thudded in my chest as I tried to steady my breathing. I could almost see the static electricity prickling across my arms, causing my hairs to stand on end. The air was so humid it seemed to stick in the back of my throat and there was a stench in the car that had only just seemed to reach my nostrils. Think of Cora. I tried to chastise myself. You and your father spent good money seeing that batty old crone. Do not lose your self control now.

     The driver twitched suddenly, his fingers convulsing around the steering wheel and the car swerved to the right, edging dangerously close to oncoming traffic. I could hear him muffling words under his breath in short hisses that pushed through his teeth angrily. I silently tapped out a text to my father with trembling fingers, in case I did not have the opportunity or time to call the police about what was happening to me.

     'Taxi. Help. Abducted. Call police if I can't.'

     I had almost pressed send when my phone rang. It buzzed quietly in my hand and I thanked myself for always forgetting to switch my phone off silent. I accepted the call without even checking who it was, desperate for someone to help me. The madman had not looked back at me yet either, so I risked holding the phone to my ear as I leaned to one side of the car, attempting to hide myself behind the driver's seat.

     "Lígo tyfóna," he said softly.

     "Help," I pleaded into the receiver. My eyes flicked into the rearview mirror with panic, praying that the madman could not hear or see me. "The taxi driver. I don't know what's wrong with him. He's crazy."

     "Gamó! Frances, tell me where you are!"

     "He's driving into the Bartley industrial estate on the docks. Get the police." I said just as the car swung through the gap of the metal gates. The wheels screeched against the concrete as the car jolted around the corner of a warehouse building. I was beginning to fail at controlling my breaths and I could feel my resolve breaking. I fixed my eyes on to the drivers' taxi licence card that hung from his mirror to console myself—Jack Morris.

     This man looked so friendly on his photograph. His blue eyes shone with humour and his crooked smile seemed approachable and reassuring. He looked like the typical father figure that everyone dreams of, not this madman driving the car. I suppose I was being optimistic, hoping that I could reach out to that kind part of him. Or perhaps there was no kind part of him at all and it was all an act. You can never tell with some people.

     Out of the blue the car shrieked to a stop and Jack got out and hobbled to my side of the car. I was prepared to attack and bolt but when he opened the door I spotted the knife he had in his hand and more importantly, that there was already dried blood on it.

     "Get out," He ordered, his voice like a thick gargle in the back of his throat with a hiss that did not even sound human. I did as he said and held my hands up as a symbol that I was not going to attempt to do anything stupid. He smiled sadistically but then his neck twitched and his head twisted to the side and tears began to stream down his face.

     "Oh no, no, no, no—" he whimpered, "—please God no. Get it out of me!"

     "Jack?" I said as calmly as I could, "It's okay. We're okay."

     As soon as his tears and remorse had came, they were gone in an instant. He shuddered, his body jerking violently as he scratched the tattoo, his fingernails digging into his ruined skin as the blood oozed out. I wanted to be sick and yet I could not avert my eyes as he kept chanting furiously under his breath. It was mostly incoherent but after a few moments I managed to piece it together.

     'Decorus Malum.'

     Two words that I did not even understand instilled a horror in me that made my bones grow cold and the blood in my veins to grow even colder still and yet, it was almost familiar. A phrase I had never heard in my lifetime had made me feel more terrified than I had ever been in my entire life. I was paralysed and all I could feel was the fear, twisting and crawling inside of me like a parasite.

     Jack clamped his hand down on my arm and his bloody nails bit into my skin as he dug them in like a wild animal in a frenzy. When the contact was made, my eyes rolled back into my skull and I saw red and within the core, I saw only devastation and darkness.

     A slithering creature seemed to crawl out of the void and its scarlet eyes stabbed into my soul with pure hatred—a hatred that wanted nothing more than to claw its way through my gut, rotting everything it touched until there was nothing left.