James' hand.
A feeling of helplessness crashes over me like a wave in a frigid ocean.It breaks, colliding with me and sending cold nausea into the pit of my stomach.The frozen knot in my gut surges upward.I lean away and vomit on the floor.My stomach heaves until there's nothing left to expel but painful, dry gags and sputtering breaths.
Snatching my phone from the floor, I do what any totally out of their mind person would do—I text my stalker.
What did you do?!
Blinking back the tears that blur my vision, I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, those taunting dots winking at me as he types.
I told you what the consequences would be if you called the police again.You chose to disobey me.And as promised, someone died.
Realization hits me like a slap to the face.Cold, bitter reality.I brought James into this.I brought him into this, and now he's dead.The words on the screen blur.The room begins to shake and tilt.It takes a moment for me to realize why.With my arm wrapped around my knees, I rock back and forth.The hard floor pressing painfully against my hips as my weight shifts forward and back.
A thought nags in the back of my mind.It scrapes and scratches against my skull.I shake my head, as if I could dislodge it.Why hishand?Why did he cut off his hand?
There's only one way for me to find out.With fumbling fingers, I ask the only person who has the answer.
Why his hand?
His reply is quick, making me wonder if he's staring at his phone, awaiting my responses, too.
That hand touched you.No one touches what's mine.
My mind fogs, my thoughts becoming muddied with confusion and conflict.My fingers rush to type a reply, but it comes out wrong.I type and delete, type and delete, until my question forms.
What does that mean?What's yours?
His reply comes though so quickly that he must have needed no time to think about it.
You, little bird.You're mine.
I read it again and again until my eyes glaze and my focus wavers.The words linger in my head, replaying on loop.You're mine.The confusion in my mind dissolves, melting into a puddle of hot anger.
My grip on my phone hardens until the plastic groans, threatening to crumble in my fist.Just as I ready my arm to huck it across the room, it vibrates against my skin.
Leave the box.I'll clean up the mess.I wouldn't want my sweet little bird to get her pretty hands dirty.
My fury at his declaration of perceived ownership eclipses any sense of caution left in me.As I stand, my legs no longer quiver in fear.My muscles are taught and aching with rage.I rip the door open and kick the box outside.The wood groans and cracks when I slam the door shut again.He’ll clean up the mess?What kind of psycho leaves a severed hand and then expects that I’d let him come inside and clean up for me?
The sob that's been stuck in the back of my throat dislodges.I break under the pressure of my anger, fear, and sorrow.My tears fall as weeping, whimpering sounds escape my mouth.The waterfall continues, blurring my eyes and staining my cheeks.
My body works on autopilot, as if something else takes control of my limbs while my own mind hides somewhere deep inside of me.The entity moving my body scrubs the droplets of blood that seeped through the thin, cardboard box and wipes my vomit from the floor.I rid my kitchen of the evidence of this night.Of James’ death.Of the contents of my stomach.Of my tears.Of my pain.
