It was everywhere.
The hallway shifted, and my vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. I caught myself on the wall and slid along it, leaving streaks of blood behind me. The taste of blood was still on my tongue.I smiled. I laughed, breathless and shaking, because for the first time my chest felt light.
No more beatings. No more scrubbing floors and burning dinners.
I could run. I could finally run from here.
Then a thin cry drifted down from the bedroom upstairs.
“Sofia,” I gasped.
I snap back into the present, my eyes dropping to judge Harrington. I killed him. I killed my mom, too. I remember now.
I lean back, and Catherine is there beside me. She is cutting his left hand. When I tilt my head to the right, his right hand is already gone.
She hums under her breath as she takes what is left and lowers it into the long iron pot at her side. The metal rings softly as she drops his severed hand inside. She lifts her head and looks at me.
“I have to cook them. Judas said it’s the best way to get rid of the body.”
The hum never stops. She lifts the pot and carries it toward the kitchen. Her voice floats back to me. “I cooked the maids, too.”
My stomach twists. I turn away. My throat burns, and I gag, air scraping down my lungs.
A buzzing fills my ears. The house blurs, and I drift through it like a ghost. Catherine shows in the doorway as I tilt my head back. Her lips move, but no sound reaches me. All I see are the yellow rubber gloves pulled up to her elbows and her steps coming closer.
I can hear the hum of the melody as she grabs my shoulders and shakes me.
“Carmen, listen to me. You have to run.”
The hallway spins in front of me. She moves to the cupboard, yanks open a drawer, and presses a white envelope into my hands. “There is enough money for you and Judas to disappear.”
I nod. My heart is still beating, but the rest of me feels so numb.
“Run, Carmen,” she shouts, snapping me loose.
My legs finally obey. I stumble past the pool, through the garden, and down the driveway. I look back at the house. A woman with dark brown hair stands in the window. I rub my eyes, trying to make sense of it. She is gone. For a second, I see my own reflection in the glass, like I am leaving whatever is left of me trapped inside those walls.
I rush to the bike. My clothes are soaked with blood. But nothing matters anymore. The wind cuts at my skin, numbing everything it touches.
It is freezing, but I have to get to Judas.
I shove the envelope under the seat, and I swing onto the bike. I pull the helmet over my head, and I twist the throttle. The engine turns on. I move forward.
I lean into the wind, my vision smearing through the visor.
The world rushes past, but I feel stuck in one place. I push faster than my own thoughts. And when my chest starts to become too tight, and my thighs start to shake, I slam the brakes.The front tire lifts, and the bike bucks. I force it back down, and a scream rips out of my chest.
“Fuck,” I scream again, my heart pounding.
I fold over the bike, fists slamming into the tank. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Everything is a lie. Everything. We are ants in a paper town someone folded for us, following a script we never asked to read, living and living until we rot and die.
Promises mean nothing. Words lose their shape the moment you look too close at them. You can’t trust anyone, not even yourself. Trust shatters. And all of it is one big, brutal illusion we are taught to believe is real.
Because how can this much bad be real? How can someone write so much pain into the story, and we just swallow it, until something inside us finally breaks?
How are we all so blind, not seeing that we are pawns in someone else’s game, waiting for someone else to win? And we are always losing, because the ones who win stand above everything else.
