His body goes limp, and he passes out.
With a sigh, I find an empty chair, shooting a couple of texts. I’ll allow him to get his rest now, because the final phase is happening as soon as his eyes open. He won’t know what hit him, and the moment he’s awake, everything will end.
Oh, Paul, your death is near.
A small, satisfied smile tugs on the corners of my lips when I fully soak in the moment. The rage is slowly leaving my body, I am saving the last of my rage for the grand finale. The man who wanted to be the president of the United States is now degraded down to a pathetic, whimpering mess.
And I did that.
I did that all by myself.
For the little girl in me who had nobody in her corner, she would be so fucking proud. And you know what? I’m proud ofmyself. For taking the steps to get there, for finding the courage to face the biggest demons of my life. I’m fucking proud of myself for surviving.
TWENTY-NINE
I’m hiding in the back of the bar, careful to conceal myself from Paul’s view. He slowly starts to stir, waking up from the slumber. He was unconscious for a couple of hours, I guess the pain truly got to him. Now, it’s almost four in the morning, the sun will start to rise soon. This needs to happen before dawn.
He groans, and on an instinct, lifts his hand up to run it over his face. His eyes are still closed, and it’s only for a couple of moments before everything clicks in his brain. He freezes, then peels his eyes open, glancing around. The chains no longer hold him hostage, they’re on the floor right next to him. He turns around in the chair, looking for me. There’s panic in his expression, his face making me chuckle silently.
He’s terrified. He knows this is one of my games that I prepared just for him, he just doesn’t know what he should do. Knowing him, and well, just about anyone in a situation like this, the answer is very simple.
I left the door wide open for him, too.
He glances down at his arm, noticing the small gauze. While he was busy sleeping, I drew some of his blood. Just enough to have it in a glass container, and enough for Kaya to give to Arlo. He knows what he needs to do with it.
But just when I think he might not do as I want him to, he pleasantly surprises me. He scrambles to his feet, trying to pull his pants up. He hisses in pain when the open wound on his penis touches his soiled underwear, but somehow, he pushes through the pain, and immediately heads to the door.
His footing is wobbly, and he has to hold himself by the doorframe to prevent himself from falling. He sucks in a sharp breath, and without looking back, he leaves.
That’s when I start to move.
I have a gun with a single bullet inside, keeping it hidden from view. Paul has two options here — either go to Time Square and hope someone will help him, or try to find his way to wherever it was he was hiding before I got to him.
The clear option here is the first one, and when I see him take the left turn, leading him toward Time Square, I grin to myself. I keep a distance between us, enough that I can run and catch him if needed, but still enough that he doesn’t realize I’m here.
He’s stumbling over his feet, cussing and talking to himself. His body in a state of constant trembling, the trauma it’ssuffered enough to slow him down. He’s gasping for air, having to stop every couple of minutes to catch his breath.
My heart starts to beat faster inside of my chest when he reaches the destination. Despite it being so late, it’s crowded. After all, it’s one of the most crowded places in the city, and the perfect one for his death.
I pick up my pace, walking quicker to catch up with him. My feet carry me toward my desired target all on their own, squeezing myself past the people that fill the space. He’s right in the middle of the street when I decide it’s fucking show time.
My hand reaches for the collar of his shirt, yanking him back. He’s taller, and usually, he’d be stronger, but the shit I put him through has ensured he lacks the strength.
Paul gasps, then turns around. When he spots me, his face pales, resembling a sheet of paper. His eyes are as wide as saucers, and nothing but fear lingers inside of those eyes that caused me nightmares.
“On your fucking knees.”
My voice is low, but the threat is clear. He tries to speak, but when I reach for his throat, forcing him to his knees, he understands that this is his last stop. There’s nothing he can do now.
Paul Simmons is on his knees before me, looking up at me with a look of pure terror. His jaw is trembling, and with my left hand, I grip it tightly, forcing his eyes to remain on mine.
“This is it, Paul,” I murmur. The sound of the busy street doesn’t affect his ability to hear me — I know for a fact he can hear every single word that’s leaving my mouth. “These are your last moments.”
He tries to wiggle himself out of my grip, but I dig my nails into his flesh, watching him flinch. I keep a tight hold on him, slowly pulling the gun out from my hoodie pocket. The barrel touches his forehead, and I keep it there, not quite ready yet to pull the trigger.
“Please,” he croaks out, as the tears start falling from his eyes, they irk me.
“Please?” I repeat with a small snarl. “What about all the times I’ve begged you to stop, huh?” I yank him even closer. My breath fans his face as I lean in, staring right into his eyes. “What about every time I have pleaded for you to stop? When I was bleeding and in so much fucking pain, wishing it would all be over? What about when I begged you not to be so rough with me, because you fucking knew painful it was. What about when I was begging you through tears to just kill me, so it would all be over? What did I get? Ah, that’s right. You would slap me, force something in my mouth to keep me quiet and shove my face into the pillow, while telling me how much I deserved it all.”
