He looks old now. Weak. Smaller than he used to.
But I’m not small anymore.
I step closer, close enough to hear the faint rattle in his lungs. I tighten my fingers around the iron.
One more second.
One more breath.
He shifts.
And I strike like a viper, uncoiling and snapping forward.
I’m fast. I’m silent. I’m deadly.
The first strike lands with a sickening crack. The sound is louder than I expect.
His body jerks, but he doesn’t scream.
I don’t give him the chance. The second hit lands square across his temple.
The third…
The third is just for good measure.
He’s still.
Still.
Blood flows from his wounds. I wanted to see it gush out of him. I’m kind of disappointed at the slow meandering.
I drop the poker and stare at him.
No regrets.
No fucking regrets.
I walk to the sink and rinse the blood from my hands. It slides off in swirls, pink at first and then clear. Like it never touched me at all.
I change clothes, stuffing the bloodstained ones into a plastic trash bag. I’ll dispose of them later, along with the poker. I’ve been careful not to leave any fingerprints in his room. Nothing to incriminate me.
Besides, I’ll be long gone with a new name and look by the time anyone finds him.
I don’t take anything else with me except a duffel bag and the new ID.
The tattoo on my shoulder is new and still sore.
A viper, ready to strike.
That’s what I am.
I’ll never tell anyone what the tattoo signifies. Not even the people who swear they won’t leave if I do.
Because they always do.
I already survived one man who promised to protect me.
I don’t need to survive another.
