“What does this mean now?” I ask, my voice trembling. I can feel heat rising to the surface beneath my cheeks.
Rusty’s eyes flick to mine, and when I gaze into the same blues he gave his son, he says, “They die, sweet girl.”
And then, he nods.
Ready to take out three men he had trusted,for me.
My hands are beneath the faucet, the water filling the cup I made in the center of my palms. I splash the warm liquid over my face before curling my fingers around the edge of the raw gray stone bowl, dropping my head between my shoulders. My lungs fill with a rattling breath as I inhale sharply, watching the rivulets drip off the tip of my nose. I flick my eyes to the mirror, wincing when I gaze into the eyes of the broken.
“Make that motherfucker bleed red, Cherry.”
Cameryn’s words make me shiver, and a chill ripples across my limbs when I clear my throat, straightening my spine, exhaling roughly.
I need to find my strength, and quickly.
Theytook too much from me, and it’s time I tear it back.
I bite into my bottom lip when it flutters, then I nod at myself.
Revenge is optional, but it’s all I have, the only outcome I need to move on,to feel whole again.
I turn around, walking toward the door, and as I’m curling my hand around the handle, I notice a painting to my right.
It looks familiar.
My fingers slip from the handle, and I step up to the wall, feeling my eyebrows furrow slightly, my eyes squinting as I study the intricate lines, the detailed shapes, pops of light, and shadows of gray.
Cold wind washes over me, though I know there is no open window in the room. There’s an ache in my chest that hasmy knees turning weak, my hands flying up to my mouth in recognition when I stumble backward, losing my balance.
My temple connects with the countertop, and I see stars, blinking in and out of consciousness, though only for a short moment.
I’m crumpled on the cool gray tiles beneath me, my body quaking through an icy wave of pure, heartbreaking pain.
No.
It can’t be.
I’m imagining this, right?
My trauma’s just playing a sick joke on me.
The painting staring back at me is the exact same concept as the carving in the concrete of the sallow, dank basement I was chained in.
The skull more detailed.
The sun much brighter.
I stumble to my feet, my heart racing, my pulse thundering in my ears as I rip open the door and cradle the ache in my stomach when I race down the hallway frantically.
I’m going to be sick.
I find both Rusty and Harlen in the kitchen, and they instantly spot me as my heaving, breathless pants announce my arrival at the edge of the room. Harlen is around the bench before I can take another breath, his hands on my cheeks and Rusty is right behind him, his large palm finding a place on my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Harlen asks, his frantic blue eyes flicking between mine.
I look over his shoulder, catching Rusty’s gaze, and Harlen moves slightly to the right so I can see him better.
A rivulet of agony trails down my cheek when I ask through chattering teeth, “The painting in the bathroom–” I start to say, swallowing the shards in my throat. “Who painted that?”
