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“Sure I can.” She scoffs. “You wouldn’t be the first. You won’t be the last.” She laughs like she’s high as a kite, and I realize I’m no longer dealing with my younger cousin, but a certified fucking crazy.
I’m disgusted with myself; I’ve been working out and training to fight for months, and I haven’t done a damn thing to get away from this damn heater or the skinny bitch with rancid breath who has a bad case of jealousy and laziness.
She leans over me and sinks her knife into my shoulder so easily, like it’s not flesh she’s cutting, but warm pasta. White hot agony races through my arm, and I cry out in pain, then cry again when the movement jerks my arm.
My eyes wheel around wildly like an animal with its foot stuck in a trap. It’s just us in here. Chris bailed. He left me alone with her.
She pulls the knife back, slashes down through my bicep, and opens my arm like a warm loaf of bread. Hot blood gushes from my arm, thick and in waves, and black spots dance in my vision.
She stands from her crouched position, swings her leg wildly, and kicks me in the stomach. Ribs. Stomach. Ribs. “You asked for this, bitch. Next time, work hard like the rest of us. If you weren’t so fucking stuck up, we coulda gotten along.” Stomach. Hip. “Just get me some fucking cash and this wouldn’t have to go down this way.” Thighs. Stomach. My ribs crack painfully and my stomach turns hollow as though she’s kicking straight through to my spine. Panting for breath, she stops and studies me. Her eyes, painfully similar to mine, but vacant, her pupils large but unseeing. She leans over me and cuts my ropes. I cry out as she slices my hand and wrists, and when the ropes no longer hold me up, I cry out again when my aching body slams to the floor and crumbles.
White light and red blood fill my eyes as pain tears through my hollowed body. My sore arm is less sore, now. That numbness from before fills me like warm water filling a bathtub. I lie my head on the cool concrete floor and seek out the numbness and sleep. Rita kicks and kicks and kicks, because on top of being a stuck-up bitch who got lucky, I’m also a bitch for not crying out and giving her that pleasure.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
Is this what dying feels like?
