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I take a deep breath, ignoring that voice that leaves behind doubt and insecurities.
A knock on the door startles me, but I only lift my head to look out the window at the burnished sky bathing the world in shades of fire.
Too bad it’s not all up in flames…
“It’s about to start,” Mrs Holt announces.
The end of my life—that was the knock that signaled it. Only it seems to have switched on something inside of me. Anger… fear and hopelessness. Like a flood, it pours inside of me, filling every vein and nerve with this dangerous concoction that spikes my adrenaline. Through heaving breaths, I finally move and stand straight, turning to Mrs Holt, who now stands closer to the door.
I shake my head frantically, taking a step back.
“We must go,” she pleads, more with her eyes than her voice.
But I can’t, I can’t go, not to him, not ever! I keep shaking my head as the knock sounds on the door yet again.
“Go away!” I finally shout, but I can’t seem to fully recognize that voice.
The knock is harsher, rattling the hinges, the door shaking, and even as I watch it, I still flinch at the sight.
When the door opens with a loud bang, swinging so far, it hits the wall, Mrs Holt almost falls to the floor as she jumps out of the way. The guard that stands in the door frame holds an arrogant look in his eyes. I recognize him—he was at Holt’s house when I escaped… when Vincent and Maddox helped me escape. He obviously isn’t pleased with me; he most likely suffered some consequences for my actions.
Good.
“It’s time. Mr Holt is waiting.” There’s exasperation in his tone, and I can’t imagine why. It’s not him waiting at the damn altar.
“No.” I stand firm, looking him straight in the eyes.
“There is no time. Move. Now!” He steps closer, and he’s only a couple of steps away when my ass hits the desk and I brace myself on it.
He sighs and comes straight into my face, rolling his eyes at me as he grips my left arm, yanking me away. Only I grab onto the desk, plant my feet onto the floor, and pull back as hard as I can, yelling at him tofuck off! I grip harder onto the desk, reaching farther back as I try to force myself out of his hold. But my hand slides through a stack of papers, and I’m just about to lose my grip, when something smooth and cold grazes my hand. I grab onto the thin, long metal, and with the adrenaline growing a little higher, I stomp my heel onto his foot, watching as he stumbles back, just about yelping in pain.
“You fucking bitch!” he rasps as he regains his balance.
In the next instant, he closes the distance between us, bringing one hand toward my throat, and I knock it off before it touches me, but I’m not fast enough to catch the other one. He wraps it around, holding tight as he steps back and pulls me toward him, and I push onto his chest, trying to force him away. Only the fucking wall of a man doesn’t move! I bang my fist against his body, wherever I can reach in this angry and panicked state, and he doesn’t even flinch!
“Stop fucking fighting!” He loosens his grip, using it to guide me toward the door, the darkened corridor that takes us to the main room of the church, seemingly lengthening before my eyes and only one expression comes to mind as I look at the abyss of it—dead man walking. My electric chair, my noose, my damn lethal injection stands beyond it.
And I’m not. Fucking. Ready!
As the man that holds me in his grip is about to take me through, I strengthen my hold around the metal object I’m clasping, hoping it has a sharp fucking end, just as I swing my arm up, jamming it straight into the side of his throat. He gasps like a fish on land as he releases me, the shock so beautifully clear on his face. The moment I pull away from him, I take that metal with me, sliding it out of his flesh.
And crimson becomes my new favorite color.
It sprays like a damn garden hose out of his throat, on the sweet notes of Mrs Holt’s screams, splashing all over my hair, my face, and as the man collapses onto his knees, it paints a morbidly beautiful, abstract painting all over my pristine white dress.
When he collapses onto the floor, gasping one last time for air as I take a step back away from his body, I realize… I’m smiling.
The pool of blood beneath him is not large, most of it having soaked into the many layers of my dress, and I wonder… should this bother me? Should I be disgusted? Run and hide and freak out that I just killedanotherman?
Maybe it should.
Yet as I step over his body, watching the door at the end of the corridor swing open and two more men walk through, I realize I feel nothing for him. No guilt. No terror. No fear. That numbness inside of me, the one filled with anguish and grief, revels in the ruthless, careless rage that took over. It feeds on it, because feeling even the most damaging of emotions is better than feeling nothing at all.
Tucking what appears to be a letter opener somewhere in the folds of my dress, I walk straight toward the men that entered the corridor, but I don’t care about them. Somewhere in this rage, I found the courage to take this whole thing head on. I have nothing else to lose.
Nothing at all.
They might see that in my eyes, or maybe it’s the blood on my dress, or the splatter that stains my freshly made-up face, that makes them pause and look at me with apprehension. They even make room, pressing against the walls as I stalk between them, toward the room where the man I loathe waits at the altar.
