Flynn looked to his mother, anxious to make sure she was still alive. His suspicions were confirmed; her jaw was broken and hung at a grotesque angle. Her eyes lolled about in her head and she seemed unaware of anything going on around her.
“Ma?” Flynn knew it wasn’t going to be of any use.
“We will begin right away.” Stitches dragged a large pot toward Flynn. Standing upright, he drew a sharp knife from his side. “This is for you,” his sing song voice made Flynn’s upper lip quiver in anger. “You are going to drain her.”
Drain her? What did he mean?
The confusion on Flynn’s face made Stitches throw his head back in a guttural laugh. He grasped at his fat belly. “Of blood, boy! God, you’re thick!”
“No!” Flynn screamed, throwing himself against his restraints. “I’ll never do that!”
Thick greasy eyebrows raised. “Really? Shall we bet on it?”
Reaching forward with both hands, Stitches pointed all ten fingers at Flynn. An odd sensation began in his head and Flynn shook it to clear it away.
“What are you doing?” Flynn shouted. When he wasn’t answered he struggled again, attempting to pull free of his restraints.
“Boy,” Stitches called and when Flynn looked up, his body completely relaxed. “Ah, there we go.” He flexed his fingers and Flynn’s arms moved involuntarily. “Good! Now I’ll untie you and we can get to work.”
Horror flooded Flynn, as he realized he no longer had any control over his actions. His breathing hastened as Stitches dropped his hands and walked casually up to him. Grabbing his wrists, the smelly man untied him and Flynn’s arms fell to his sides. More than anything, Flynn wanted to attack the man, rip his throat out and cut his mother down. Rescue her from this hell hole, get her to safety. But he was powerless.
“Right then, pick up the bowl,” Stitches ordered as if he were asking for potato soup at a tavern.
“No,” Flynn said, but his body moved to the large bowl and he stooped down, picking it up in his arms.
“Nicely done!” His words dripped with sarcasm. “Now put it under her.”
“No!” With everything in him, Flynn willed his body to stop, but it was useless. A cold sweat broke along his back as he straightened and stared at the pot he had just placed beneath his mother’s bare feet.
“Excellent. Here’s the knife,” Stitches held the weapon in his palm looking bored. “Take it in your hand,”
Flynn’s shaking hand did as it was told.
“Right, follow me.” He walked to Flynn’s mother and taking hold of the top portion of her skirt, ripped it away in one tug.
“Stop!”
“Now, see this here?” Stitches continued as if he were teaching class, pointing to the inner part of her thigh. “You need to cut here. Now I know you want to know why. The answer is because that’s where the femoral artery is. The blood will drip down the leg all the way to the toes in a nice steady stream, slowly filling this bowl. When it’s all done, we’ll have enough blood to last a day or two.”
“Go to hell,” Flynn cried.
Stitches face changed from boredom to malice.
“Cut.” He ordered.
“No, please,” Flynn begged, his young hand reaching toward his mother. When the knife pierced her ivory skin, she woke from her daze and screamed. Tears streamed down Flynn’s face.
“Ma, I can’t stop them! I’m sorry!”
Blood spurted across Flynn’s face and chest. With no control over his body, he was unable to wipe the droplets away. They began to stream down his face, mingling with his tears. Stitches leaned forward, cupping the fresh blood spurting from the artery and brought it to his lips.
“One day, you’ll find this more tempting than anything you’ve ever dreamed of.” He said before drinking it. Crimson lines formed about his lips and he smiled.
He walked past Flynn, leaving him standing in front of his mother, the knife in his hand for the entire night. That was the first time they broke him.
Flynn wouldn’t see the Master for three more years. During that time, he was forced to suffer the most horrendous torture a human could endure. Many times, if the vampires were not able to find a human to feed from, they would cut Flynn’s brachial or radial arteries, gathering his blood and draining him to the point of near death and then healing him. They would allow him a few days to recuperate and then expect him to resume their bidding.
He was their slave, doing what they commanded and when he refused, Stitches simply forced him to do it. By the time he was sixteen, Flynn had seen more death than any grown man could possibly handle. Several times he asked Stitches why they didn’t just kill him, and the answer was always the same.