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He puts the picture away, but I can’t stop staring at it.
Can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks without my permission.
Can’t stop feeling like my world just came to an end.
“I still don’t understand why he refused to listen when I told him talking to people on the outside wasn’t a good idea. And look what happened. All it takes is one little girl who actually talks back to him without fear, and then he took her. He just wanted a friend. He was never the killing type.” He clears his throat. “Not that it matters. He’s long gone, and I learned from my mistake. Cage isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you. I’ve got him chipped, and you’re pregnant as can be.” He smiles at me. “See? Works out perfectly.”
He rolls my way again and places a hand on my leg, squeezing. “Oh … I just remembered something … wasn’t that girl your sister?”
My eyes widen, and he cocks his head to see my reaction.
But I can’t. I can’t respond to this. Can’t describe what I’m feeling right now.
Can’t feel anything … but rage.
The look on his face changes from curiosity to pure malevolence as he squeezes harder and leans in toward me. “That’s right. She was your sister. That girl is the reason I started following you. You lost your voice because she died, didn’t you?” he says, grinning. “Maybe that’s why I took you … because you’re so quiet, and you’ve been a perfect victim from the start.”
My breath hitches in my throat.
No matter how badly I want to breathe right now, I can’t. I can’t breathe.
“So actually, I’m glad he killed your sister. Because it allowed me to keep an eye out for you … watch you grow until you were the right age… and now I have you here right where you belong.”
My sister got killed because of him … because he let his son out of the cage … and he’s glad?
I shudder when he takes his fingers off me and starts pulling the straps loose.
“Let’s get you back to your cell,” he mutters. “Before the drugs wear off.”
But I’m not listening anymore.
All I see is black and red dots in front of me.
Rage, like a fiery volcano … boiling inside me.
And the moment he’s unleashed the straps around my body, I reach between my thighs and take out the scissors.
Without thinking twice, I ram them into his neck.
I can feel the sharp blade entering his flesh. It cuts through like butter.
He gulps as I pull it out.
Blood gushes everywhere.
Delicate skin ruptures so easily … I’ll never forget how it feels.
And I want to feel it again.
I stab him once more until the scissors become stuck inside his throat.
I watch him suffer. Every second of the way, I watch the pain seep into his bulging red eyes. I watch … because I want to feel every ounce of pain he’s experiencing right now. Because it’s the same pain I’ve had to endure all these weeks. Because I want him to know he caused his own end.
Blood spurts out of his neck, dripping down his shirt, and he stumbles back. He tries to grasp anything to hold, but fails miserably. Tools and supplies tumble to the floor, after which he falls too.
I slide off the metal board and watch him struggle on the floor.
He’s scrambling for air, reaching for the scissors and desperately trying to pull them out.
All the while he’s keeping eye contact as if he can’t believe I did this to him. Or he’s pleading for me to help him.
How ironic.
With a slow, steady stride, I walk past him, leaving his bloody body on the floor behind me.
I don’t care if he dies from suffocation or if he bleeds to death.
I just want it to last an eternity.
But before I walk out, I grasp every photograph he has on this desk and take them with me. One of them is of Syrena. The moment I saw it, I knew I had to take it. I have to find her and make sure she’s all right. All these pictures will serve as evidence, as a testament to what Graham’s done. I’m not going to let him get away with this.
At the sight of his squirming body on the floor, I turn and make a run for it. I can still hear his gurgles.
The more steps I take, the more my body begins to shake. My fingers too, and I can barely hold the pictures. Every time I blink, I see his face in front of me … and the scissors I rammed into his neck.
I try to shake it off, but the farther I get away from him, the harder it becomes. I’m painfully aware of the blood splatter on my hands, and I get the sudden urge to scrape it off with a knife.
