The blood.
The bruises.
The terror still shaking through her.
The room.
The dead stink of rot and mildew.
The memory of waking bound.
The sight of him touching her.
The needle.
Something erupts in me so suddenly I don’t even feel myself move.
I am on the floor one second, half in her lap, lungs still clawing for rhythm, body still filthy with poison and pain. The next I am upright in a violent, dizzy surge, my hand catching her shoulder, moving her back behind me with as much gentleness as I can force through the white-hot flood tearing up my spine.
“Move, baby.”
It comes out rough, barely human.
The room tips, my side screaming where he cut me, my head pulsing with each beat of my heart.
None of it matters.
He is still breathing.
The Handler is slumped near the bed frame, one hand crushed over his neck, blood soaking through his fingers, over his shirt, into the carpet. His face has gone waxy with blood loss, but his chest still moves in those ugly hitching pulls. Still alive.Still existing in the same room as her. Still taking up air after putting his hands on her body.
My knife lies on the floor between us.
Seeing it there feels like seeing a piece of myself waiting.
Crossing the the space before the room can fully steady beneath me, every step is a tearing, nauseating wave of pain through my side, but pain is background now, a cheap little thing happening somewhere far from the real center of this.
His eyes find mine.
Good.
Let him know exactly what is coming.
Bending down, I pick up the knife, feeling the familiar weight settle into my palm. Blood has made the handle slick. Doesn’t matter. My grip locks down around it until my knuckles ache.
The Handler tries to speak.
Maybe he means to threaten me. Maybe bargain. Maybe spit out one last piece of filth with what’s left of his breath.
Nothing coherent comes out. Only a wet gargling choke. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
Crouching in front of him slowly, I'm enough that he can see there is nothing uncertain left in me.
“You will never touch her again.”
Each word comes out low, which is worse than shouting. I know that because my father used to sound like this right before someone got hurt badly enough to stop speaking back.
“You will never look at her again. You will never say her name. You will never carry one memory of her into another hour.”
