The gurgling, the choking, the slow and wet sound of flesh tearing.
Then the rip.
That one, Ifeel.
My breaths turn hoarse, gravelled, as though my vocal cords are being dragged over rocks.
Something cracks against the tiles.
Then there’s only the sound of water still raining from the shower and pattering down on the towels I laid out on the floor.
“Tesni.”
I unbury my wet face from my bony knees.
A breath loosens from me.
Samick’s thick, coarse accent butchers my name—but his tone isn’t rife with loathing.
It would be if he knew seconds passed before I even told him about the man and the gun, and that I don’t even know I would have told Samick about him if he didn’t raise the shotgun again, that if I could have gotten out of the way, I might have let him take the shot.
But Samick doesn’t know any of that.
His tone is soft, kind almost, as he says, “Come.”
Droplets of water cling to my lashes, trails of it cutting along my temple and falling down my cheeks.
Bringing the back of my hand to my eyes, I wipe away the distortion and roll onto my knees.
I heard the commotion.
I heard the ripping and tearing and slushing of flesh.
So he’ll have to forgive me for moving slow—for the unwillingness that weighs me down as I lean to the side and peer around the shower post.
I immediately regret it.
An acid burn rises through me.
I swallow it back and let my eyes shut on the mess of blood and bone and flesh.
Samick’s boots are planted in the puddle of blood—between the body of flesh slumped on the tiles and the literal spine thathe tore out before tossing it aside. Discarding it, like it’s just litter.
“I can’t.” My confession comes out guttered. “I can’t.”
A dizzy wave swirls in my head and I curl up again, letting my lashes shut.
“I can’t.”
I can’t look.
I can’t get up and walk past that… that severed body, flesh from bone, bone from flesh.
Just that one glimpse of it is churning my stomach.
The soft sound of boots come, stepping on watery and bloody tiles.
My eyes tighten the closer he gets—until I feel that chill again, the prickling of his frosty rage.
