But my question only enrages him.
“You fucking slut! You don’t even see me!” He growls, lifting the knife to slice it down my arm. I cry out at the pain, a burn that bursts from the gash. Blood warms my skin and runs off my body. “I’m sorry,” His tone changes, soothes, “I’m sorry, Sloane.”
But all I can do is cry.
“I have to do this. It’ll hurt for only a minute, sweetheart.”
“I don’t want to die!” I scream.
I watch in abject horror as he lifts his knife, his position meaning it’s going to come down into my stomach. I don’t know the odds of surviving such a wound and I don’t want to play with statistics. I cannot die today. I cannot.
“No!” I scream, the sound curdling my own blood, but he doesn’t hesitate. The knife comes toward me, so I do the only thing I can, I jerk with every ounce of my strength.
It’s not enough.
But it is enough to stop the blade from hitting me in my gut.
The knife slices through me at the hip, opening me down the entire left side of me. It cuts me open, splits my flesh and muscle, spilling my blood. I feel it leaking out of me like a burst pipe.
He screams in anger and frustration, but my strength is dwindling. I fought it off for now, but there’s nothing left. I have nothing left.
At least I fought, right? When this is reported in the town news, will they say that? Will they say I tried?
What will they say about me? Will it be kind?
I sag into the mattress, going boneless, and my vision fades.
Vaguely, I hear sirens, but I can’t tell how far away they are.
The weight suddenly lifts from me, leaving me cold in the middle of the bed while a hot pool of blood forms beneath me.
He’s leaving.
This is what he wanted, to kill me. To find me in whatever life is next now.
“Miss Harding!?” Someone yells, but it’s too late. I can feel myself dying. “Miss Harding, stay with me. I’ve got you!”
But they don’t have me. No one has me.
“Where the fuck is the ambulance!?” They yell frantically. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”
I wake in the hospital, a machine beeping to my left, and my sister crying to my right. Everything hurts, aches, throbs.
“He escaped,” Someone says, “We have no leads.”
My lashes flutter, but there’s a weight on my eyelids, stopping me from opening them.
“Is there anyone you can think of who might wish harm to your sister?” They continue.
“No,” Shelly, my sister, answers, “Everyone loves Sloane. She’s so nice to everyone. She works at the daycare, for Christ’s sake.”
“I understand,” The other voice responds. “But as of right now, we don’t know who hurt her. If you think of anything, anything at all, call me.”
“Of course,” My sister answers.
Another voice joins the mix, one that has alarm bells blaring, but the fog descends quickly after, and I fall back into that dreamless, black sense of nothingness.
Chapter Twenty-five
