Ties and Tangles

Chapter 1 – The Puppeteer

I didn't die with her—but the nightmares she abandoned continue to torment me. Each night, I experience that infinite dread, the mute cries that suffocate me in the shadows.

“Abby, sweetheart, mommy is okay.” “Everything will be okay, darling,” Mom attempted to comfort me, her voice shaking even as nooses tightened around her neck. I noticed a single tear slip from her eye—a poignant flash of grief.

I yearned to dash to her side, to embrace her and protect her from the agony, yet I was compelled to stay tied to a chair. Even with my eyes shut, every nerve in my body shouted to recall that day when masked figures came upon us like a nightmare come to life.

Half an hour ago, I was in a pink short pleated skirt with the cutest fitted crop top and my very own pair of pum pums. I had just made it to the cheer team and the football games were only a week away. There was so much practice to be done especially as a new recruit. Mom was so excited after she picked me up. She'd promised to always help me with a sleek, high ponytail for every practice session. That's when everything went wrong.

There was a huge bang to the car and mom lost control of the wheels, crashing into barrels stacked at the edge of a lonely alley. The airbags plugged at our faces pushing air forcefully up our nostrils as our eyeballs rolled. The blow caused me a slow loss of consciousness, the car engine bursting to flames from the crash. The last thing I heard was a man, his voice laced with menace as he called out evilly.

“Mirada!”

And with slow, deliberate motion, he screeched his knife across the burning glass, etching fleeting shapes in the blaze. The smoke made it all look pretty vague and then there was a sudden blackout.

A brutal splash of ice- cold water yanked us away from the void. I jolted upright, choking as the shock sent violent tremor through my body. Mom echoed a weak, pained groan laying beside me. The air reeked of rust and mold curling up my nostrils as my vision adjusted to the shadows closing in. The space was…

…suffocating.

“Mom?”

“Mom, are you okay?”. Her response was just another low pitched groan. Whatever spilled us the bloody cold water was leaning on the door hinge. He should be about a solid 6ft. His head tilts and I lock my thighs, grimacing as my muscles tense, thinking it would maybe prevent the inevitable I had cooked up in my head– r**e.

“F*ck you!” I spat, not that it was helping.

In his gaze, I perceived a lack of feeling, just icy deliberation. A deep laugh slipped from him before he took a step back. I leaned my head against the moist wall, the buzz of a flickering light above creating eerie shadows throughout the space. The creak of the door hinge pierced the air like a horrifying prelude, seemingly signaling our plunge into terror.

I prodded Mom, eager to wake her from the fog of suffering, but she didn't have the strength—too kind hearted by nature to withstand this harsh truth. Suddenly, as though summoned by our fear, six masked individuals appeared from the darkness.

The leader was undeniable. Standing proudly among them, his presence extinguished any chance of defiance. He continued to grip the shining knife from the car—a tool whose earlier glimmer had been imprinted in my mind. As he bent down to glide a chilly touch along my exposed thighs, I automatically pulled away, every fiber in my body protesting.

"Tell me, how often does your mother praise your beauty, dear?" “You’re worth it,” he stated, his tone a warped blend of derision and threat as his eyes feasted on drenched body. With a wave of his hand, he commanded that I be tied to a chair while Mom stayed, her life depending on a fragile thread of rope looped around her neck.

"Take anything you want but do not hurt her,” Mom begged, her voice hardly more than a whisper yet filled with urgent affection.

"Hurt her?" he jeered. “I’m not a monster, Mirada,” he went on with a voice that sent shivers down my spine. "This isn’t concerning money." "I'm taking away elements from the chessboard."

Her objections were feeble, urgent—a pointless try to negotiate with destiny. "This isn’t fair… everything about this isn't fair," she cried, her voice breaking with the burden of looming sorrow.

“Mom, what is he saying?” I inquired, my voice shaking as if my eyes could explode from my skull.

“Oh, no need to be concerned, princess. “For the moment, I can save you from having your organs removed,” he said nonchalantly, as if talking about a routine hassle.

Then his tone changed, unsettlingly straightforward, “I’m afraid mommy dearest has seen better days in this business. Certain influential individuals think that it would be preferable for the competition to be eliminated for good.

My heart missed a beat as his words registered. I felt dizzy and sick as he hit my thighs, his hold firm.

Mom shook uncontrollably, her body lurching forward until she slumped against her bindings. The dark red mark of the noose disfigured her skin, a reminder of the cruelty she endured.

“Please,” she pleaded, hardly whispering, “release her.” "She is only a child."

I nodded my head in ineffective objection. “No, Mom!” "I'm not going anywhere without you!" I gasped, tears obscuring my sight.

The masked figure drew closer until our gazes connected—his mask, a hideous blend of gold and black fabric, seemed to ridicule our anguish. "It's Arzhael, princess. I wouldn’t want you to say farewell without ever knowing that," he whispered before unsheathing his weapon. The icy shimmer of the blade glinted in his gaze, and for a terrifying instant, I feared it would stab my heart. Instead, he cut the rope that held me, and I fell onto the damp, harsh floor.

“Run,” Mom breathed, her voice a broken murmur. “Abby, go!”

Instincts took charge. I hurried past the men, evading reaching hands and the persistent fear of being chased. As I rushed out into the night, the cool air felt like a welcome relief. My soaked garments stuck to my skin; my legs, despite shaking, moved quicker than I had ever sprinted.

The urban avenues rushed by—a chaotic blend of strewn posters, tattered flags, and faint street illumination. I'm about to cross the streets when a car nearly slams into me. I pause, my entire life flashing for the second time right before me. The car lights make it seem like whoever is in can see through my drench clothes. I see two men and a woman at the back. She must be their hostage.

A man steps out from the drivers sit. He's tall with black hair. His muscles line the black suit piece he has on. The other in the car looks rather disgusted by me and the woman looks horrified. When he reaches close to touch me, I make a bolt for it, leaving his questions to flow with the wind. I can't get kidnapped twice in a night.

I returned to the area close to the crash location, memories of the tragic night flooding my mind with each step.

A cry escaped from my throat as I approached the grand gates of Tenuta Carla. I bang on them, urgency driving every frantic shout. “Help! Someone, please help!” I wept, my voice breaking. "Father!" Ray! “Rain!”

The doors flew open to show my father, Beckham Carla, surrounded by my brothers. Their bewilderment swiftly turned to dread as they observed my unkempt, drenched appearance. My dad moved ahead, but then his phone chimed—a sharp, loud sound that sliced through the disorder.

He replied and, while he listened, his face lost its color. I identified that voice from the blaze—chilling, composed, and unrelenting.

“Mirada sends her final regards," it announced.

“Father, please save her.” "Please!" I wept in his grip, the nightmare of what was occurring far too overwhelming to endure.

“Your father is powerless, princess,” came the eerily detached response, as cold as usual. “Mommy mentioned her love for you once…” He hesitated, then continued in a chilling tone, “...before we killed her.”

"Murder?" I uttered again, skepticism and pain merging into a numbing surprise. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I knelt on the ground.

Ray and Rain held me, their quiet presence a slight solace against the overwhelming hopelessness. In the meantime, my father gripped the phone, his distress evident.

"You’re more knowledgeable about the industry games than I am, Beckham." You have a lovely daughter there. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would you?" The frigid, methodical voice of Arzhael cut through the atmosphere, and then, just as suddenly, he cut the call.