I run.
I run for myself.
I ran for every victim who was here before me. For every lost and forgotten case.
The collar sparks again, electricity ripping through my body, my muscles jerking as his laughter follows me down the corridor.
I stumble.
I push again.
Because I knew that if I survived, I would be able to tell a story about a woman who didn’t just take it all.
I would be able to tell a story about a woman who tried and fucking survived.
SEVENTEEN
Emily
Iwake up chained to a table in a red room lined with mirrors. My chest rises as I exhale, clinging to the thought that this is only a sick dream. But when my eyes fully open and I shift them to the side, the truth crashes into me.
A woman’s corpse lies on the table beside me.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Zeke says.
He lifts a heart from the woman’s open chest and lowers it into a glass jar filled with green liquid. The wet sound makes my stomach twist.
I scream and try to turn my head, but I can’t.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This can’t be real.
Metal bars clamp around my skull, forcing my gaze forward. Her dead eyes stare back at me, locked into mine as if they are burning straight through my soul.
Zeke peels off his gloves and steps closer. He leans down until his face is inches from mine.
“I found out that eating liver and heart makes you live longer.”
“You’re crazy,” I shout. My throat burns. “You’re nothing but a pathetic loser who needs to cut women open to get aroused.”
His brow lifts. “You’re not wrong.” He smiles. “I do get aroused.”
Pliers glint in his hand as he reaches for my hand.
“No,” I shout. “Zeke, stop.”
My eyes follow the metal as it lowers toward my hand.
He laughs.
Metal clicks against my fingernail, locking it, then he pulls.
The pain explodes. I scream as the nail tears free from my flesh. My body jerks, but the chains hold me in place.
“No,” I cry, my voice breaking. A sob claws its way up my throat. “Please, please, no.”
But nothing stops him.
