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Grab me.
Hit me.
Shoot me.
I couldn’t let it happen.
He couldn’t take a single more goddamn thing from me.
He’d already taken my pride.
My choice.
My freedom.
And now, worst of all, Aurelio.
He couldn’t have anything else.
I turned, gaze moving wildly across the counter until it landed on the knife block.
I reached for the butcher’s knife. One I’d seen Aurelio pull from the block and run a whetstone across before he used it every night. Knowing how deadly sharp it was.
It felt light in my hand then as I turned back toward Warren, finding him holding his crushed hand to his chest as he tried to use the other to gain his feet, but fell back on his ass, turning to face me.
Rage tinged the edges of my vision, made it tunnel as I surged forward.
I had a death grip on the handle of the knife as I threw my arm out with all my might, having no reference for how much force it would take to lodge something sharp inside of human flesh.
As it turned out, it didn’t seem to be much.
Because the blade slipped in like a hot knife through butter, going deeper than I anticipated, meeting resistance.
Bones?
Organs?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
I yanked it backward, the sounds of Warren’s pain filling my ear, silencing everything else.
God, that was a good sound.
Good enough that I found I needed more of it.
So I stabbed the knife forward again.
And again.
And again.
I was aware of his cries, of his pleas, of his hot, sticky blood bathing my face, my neck, my arms.
Still, though, I couldn’t seem to make myself stop.
I’d never understood before when I heard people tell stories about how they lost themselves in rage, how they were almost watching the violence unfold as if they weren’t actually a part of it, but a spectator seeing it unfold.
