I slash the bloody knife between my ankle and the chair, severing the tape.
There is only time for one before Alexander comes at me again, still clutching his wound. This time, I aim for his balls with my foot and I don’t miss.
He doubles over, and my other ankle is free.
The knife is a mess of blood and glue and my hand is sore and stiff. This isn’t going to work.
I bolt from the chair and pull up my pants, seeking out alternate weapons with my eyes. There’s a mug on the counter and I move for it while Alexander crawls after me.
I throw the mug at his head and it misses.
But the next item, a frying pan, hits him in the shoulder.
“Cunt,” he roars. “You will beg for your death.”
A fork sails through the air and bounces off his forehead, which does me no favors.
He’s wounded and bleeding, but adrenaline is powerful. He’s on his feet now, clutching at the counter as he moves around it.
I don’t even know what I’m throwing at him anymore. I reach for anything I can find and hurl it at his face.
Until I grab hold of something metallic and heavy.
His gun.
He left it on the counter next to his keys, and what a fucking rookie mistake. It’s heavier than my revolver was and I use both hands to hold it up and aim in his direction.
Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he knows that I couldn’t hit Ethan when I tried because he’s laughing at me.
He lunges, and I pull the trigger.
It hits him in the gut, and he collapses.
But he’s still cognizant and his teeth are bloody and he’s fucking smiling at me.
My hands are clammy, and I’m fumbling with the trigger, huddled in the corner I backed myself into. The knife fell in the chaos and there are no other weapons in my reach and the gun won’t fire again.
It’s jammed or… I don’t know how to get it to work.
I’m screaming for it to fucking work, desperate in a way that I’ve never been before.
My eyes are blurry and distorted and my ears still ringing from the shot.
But when I look down again, all I see is blood stained tile.
Alexander isn’t there.
And after arming myself with several kitchen knives and checking the apartment three times over, I realize he isn’t anywhere.
“Jesus,” Mack says again.
“I know,” I say again.
The apartment is a blood bath.
I still can’t bring myself to look at the body lying in the middle of the floor. I can’t even think her name, because that makes it real.
I’ve already vomited twice since Mack’s been here.
