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“How did you turn into this?”
My eyes widen. “Is that rhetorical, Sheriff? Because I’m pretty sure it’d be obvious.”
He lunges suddenly, taking me off guard. But I slam the heel of my palm into his chest, forcing the wind from his lungs, then drop and kick up at the same time, catching him right in the groin.
Always wanted to hit him there.
When he hits the ground, I kick him in the face hard enough to almost knock him out. He stares, dazed, as blood leaks from between his lips.
“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way,” I chirp.
I kick him over to his stomach, grab his cuffs from his hip, and pin him down with my knee against his spine as I roughly jerk his arms behind his back. He’s still too dazed to fight with me, so I hurry before he gets his bearings back.
I h
ave a deadline, after all.
Reaching down, I grab him at the collar of his shirt and start dragging him toward the bathroom, ignoring the groaning fabric. His fight comes back, but it’s futile at this point. I grab him by his hair as we reach the bathroom, and force him to his feet.
The idiot tries to head-butt me when he’s standing in front of me, but I’m much shorter, and simply dodge it, spin around him, and kick him into the open tub.
A pained grunt escapes him as he lands on his back.
“What are you doing?” he asks, staring up at me while his legs hang over the sides.
“Using you to fulfill a fantasy,” I quip as I close the shower curtain. “Two fantasies, actually.”
Staring at the white, plain shower curtain, I pull out my knife. A dark smile curves my lips before I start playing the music from my phone, and I stab him through the curtain.
A cry of pain and surprise echoes off the bathroom walls.
But I stab again.
And again.
And again.
Until he’s just gurgling sounds.
Then I jerk back the curtain, smirking. “Life goals,” I say to myself, still smiling as I leave the dying man in the tub. I walk through the house and back to the living room where his service weapon is still on the table.
It’s the only loaded gun in the house, and shooting the sheriff—with his own gun—is just too poetic to pass up.
The song continues to play as I walk back in, and blood is flowing from all the wounds and the sheriff’s mouth as I watch him from the doorway.
His eyes are barely staying open as I point the gun at his groin. Words try to form, but he’s too injured to make an intelligible sound.
I grab a stack of towels and drop them to his lap, then I press the gun against the towels and fire. The sound is still loud, despite the muffling of it against the towels, but at least my ears aren’t ringing.
I hate guns.
But again…too poetic.
The sheriff jerks as I pull the gun back, and the white towels get redder and redder as he bleeds out. The tub catches all the blood, taking it down the drain as he continues to spill his shade.
I wipe my knife off as the sheriff slowly dies, and I listen to the song that is playing on repeat.
I shot the sheriff…
