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“He’s right,” she says again, a distant look glazing her eyes.
Wellington struggles to crawl an inch forward. Disoriented, he slaps at the wood floor, pulling his body toward the exit of his lecture hall.
She pushes my suit jacket off her shoulders, tows the strap over her head and sets the bag aside, then grips the tire iron with both hands, her movements methodical. “He’ll get away with everything,” she says, a gentle whisper beneath her rising fury. “Because of me, he’ll walk.”
“Don’t let him.”
Our eyes clash, a charged current dangerously strong snaps between us. If she wielded that weapon against me, I’d welcome her lovely death. I’m almost envious of that undeserving bastard.
She angles toward the broken man slithering along the floor and the drums surge. The beat pounds harder, faster, and I can feel the fire, hot flames licking my flesh as she takes one determined step after another in his direction. Adrenaline scorches the chambers of my heart when she blocks his path.
A change has overtaken her, and I’m not the only one who witnesses the transformation. Wellington’s smug expression falls. Real fear blanches his skin as he holds up a hand in useless protest.
“I can’t let the killer get away,” she whispers.
Darkness has many names, takes many forms. In this moment, she gives it vengeance.
The weapon arcs downward.
His disembodied cry is soon silenced as the sharp end of the tire iron clips his jaw. Beautiful eyes flared wide, mouth parted, she flips the weapon around and brings the bulk of the thick wrench down on his face.
My heart drums to the climbing rhythm. I feel the next strike as much as hear it, the wet smack that rends the air, and the sickening crunch that follows.
Three perfect strikes to deliver his death.
The display is brutal, and passionate, and horrifying.
For a few prolonged seconds, she revels in the delivery of her pain. Taking life, stealing catharsis. She unleashes a punishment to the fucking universe for the loss I still feel bleeding from her soul.
Blood is splashed across her face and clothes, her fury a work of art. Savage lust fires through my blood, blistering my arteries. Her violence is intoxicating. Every visceral emotion harnessed within her, I feel inside me, damn near overloading my senses. Pure adrenaline ravishes my veins until I’m vibrating with an electric current, a monster brought to life.
Silence rings in the air at a deafening octave as chaos bathes the aftermath.
I’ve stepped closer to her. She’s shaking, muscles trembling from adrenaline and exertion. I wrap my hand around hers and take the weapon.
We stare down at the body, the carnage. Wellington’s jaw has been dislodged, the lower half of his face torn off. Blood pools black on the lacquered floor. She doesn’t turn away.
And amid the destruction, I have never been more inspired. I look at her, my dark little muse sent to stir my soul. She is so much more than I envisioned.
She swipes her bloodstained hair from her face, her chest heaving. “I’ll wait here while you make the call.”
Lungs gripped in a vise, I step toward her. This moment is fragile, and I can’t scare her, or else she’ll slip right through my fingers. “Ut operaretur eum.”
Her gaze traps mine. “I don’t understand,” she says, her voice quivering.
“Let us work without reasoning.” I sweep a hand to encompass the body, blood, mayhem. Voltaire’s words have never held more meaning for me than in this very moment.
A light flickers in the depth, a single ray of connection where her soul recognizes mine. Gingerly, she touches her forearm, her thoughts drifting to some other subspace.
“One must cultivate one’s own garden,” I say.
Her eyebrows pinch together as distress crests within her. “Why do I know that?”
A requirement of any college literature course, she’s likely read the text, but I’d rather believe in the predestination of us.
“It’s the only way to make life endurable.” My smile is morose as I deliver the words, marveling at the shiny wet tears clinging to her dark eyelashes.
A broken sob is torn from her chest. “Nothing has been endurable.”
