My pale skin become an abstract mess of the abuse I delivered. Dirty hands clutched the blade, trying to pull it from his body. Warm, flowing blood rushed out with the metal. I’d hit an organ, a valuable one. The gurgling noise and additional blood leaking out from his mouth, told me what I already knew. My eyes lifted to the sound. . . and shock claimed my face, noticing it wasn’t who I thought.
Teena dropped to the ground, disappointing me. I actually wanted my first kill to be Sylvia, who was still on the floor, trying to climb to his feet.
His unsteady steps took him to Jolie, a gun in his hand, aimed at her head.
“Woodrow,” she whispered, irritating me that I’d literally just killed for her, and it was still him she was focused on. “Woodrow,” she said again, as the barrel bashed her temple.
And it was like he fucking heard her.
I felt heavy and confused, like Woodrow and I were fighting for the front position. I knew his fucking lurking was a bad idea.
Blinking away the feeling, unsure if I’d be the one to open my eyes, I stepped forward. I forced him back, not wanting him to wake here with a gun in his face as Sylvia’s aim shifted to me.
My father and his silent friend moved behind me, and my father’s anger seeped out again.
I took a few fists to the face and stomach, delivering twice as many back.
And then, I took the bullet, fired from the gun in Sylvia’s hand.
Jolie’s scream deafened me as I propelled back, my head thumping against the work surface on my fall.
I could no longer hear her. I could no longer hear anything.
Jolie
“Woodrow!” I still screamed, long after leaving my perch on the table, forcing my way around anyone who tried to stop me. “Woodrow!” My voice hurt, my lungs grew heavy, my heart shattered to pieces. “Hell!” Desperation had me trying another approach. I had no idea where the bullet hit, but blood spurted from somewhere near his chest before he went down.
A strong arm, covered in the blackest hair, prevented me from attending to the boy I loved.
I screamed, my nails digging into the wooden doorframe, the banister, anything I could hold on to as Ville dragged me down into the basement.
The smell down here was making me gag each time I took a breath.
Ville, with his less than usual amount of fingers, pulled at my wrists. He careened halfwaydown the wooden stairs, his boots not even looking to avoid the rusty nails and chunks of carpet that should have been removed long ago.
He tossed me to the ground, and I landed on the floor, this one—pure stone, harder than the kitchen tiles. Both of my knees bruised and bled as the skin scraped away on my landing.
Someone stood in the doorway—whatever his name was—blocking out the only light down here. I desperately wanted to see behind him, my head bobbing constantly, as my focus was still on Woodrow’s body, lying on the cold kitchen tiles, paler than his usual ivory.
The image haunted my head, overpowering every thought and instinct.
Was he alive?
If he was, would he survive, or was he up there dying alone?
Those thoughts circled with his image.
The man blocking the natural light, flooded the room with artificial brightness. His hand, still on the long string with a knot at the bottom when my eyes adjusted.
My eyes didn’t stray from Ville, stood in the center of the stairs, Sylvia just behind him until he pushed his way to the front, moving down the stairs by taking them two at a time.
“Well, you weren’t fucking lying! You got the good stuff.” Sylvia’s voice held glee, not at all affected by the loss of his acquaintance.
I was the only one triggered by that, and only because I hated witnessing anything that could drag me back to painful memories of my dad.
Death, blood, fear. . .
“Should I check your son?” the man at the door asked. A look of fear flicked across his face as his blue eyes brushed along my skin. Fear for me. He didn’t want to leave me here. He knew what would happen. Knew things I didn’t.
