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Anna
I’maware of the sound of the lock sliding back, but I don’t move. The door lets out that familiar groaning squeal before two figures move into my periphery. I barely register them, or anything really. I’m adrift, floating on a perfectly still endless sea of nothing. There’s no end in sight, so I’m committed to this permanent state, to survival. I become vaguely aware of a man and a woman, both with white-blonde hair. I glance at them, but it’s like looking through a fogged window. I see them, their features, their movements, but I don’t absorb anything. Fingers touch my face, and I’m forced to meet violet eyes. A bolt of familiarity hits me like an electric shock trying to jerk me back to life. Una. It’s like my soul recognizes her and hope tries to raise its head.
“Hold her down,” she says, and her voice is pure ice.
The man pushesme down on the bed with far too much strength to fight.
“Una?” I whimper. She takes a knife from her thigh holster and grabs my wrist, forcing my palm flat against the thin mattress. “Una, please,” I beg, my emotions slowly sharpening back into focus. I glance at the knife, fear filling me. She holds it over my hand, not a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. This is my sister, the kiss of death, the killer that everyone fears, and now I see why.
“Lie still. This will be over soon,” the man says.
Una takesa breath and then presses the blade to my pinky finger, pressing down until it bites into the flesh. I scream as I feel it snap through the bone. Blood spills over my skin as pain radiates up my arm. She grabs the blanket, wrapping it around my hand in a bundle.
“Hold this,” she says, her voice completely flat. I clutch it to my chest, my hands shaking as my vision blurs with tears. It’s not the pain or the loss of my finger. It’s the soul-deep sting of betrayal. It’s the absolute knowledge that I am truly alone, and no one can help me. She picks up my severed finger and walks out of the room without even looking at me. “Get someone to stitch that,” she says before slamming the door.
The guy staysin the room while a doctor comes in and stitches my hand. I don’t acknowledge either of them. I simply stare at the ceiling, willing myself to stop hoping, to just accept my fate. With acceptance comes peace.
