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She did what she had to.
People in the slums didn’t care what their neighbors had to do to survive, but those words meant something to the rich. Those words were shameful to these rich fuckers for some fucking reason, and I wanted everyone to know what kind of man this guy was when they found his body.
He struggled underneath me, but I pushed the knife deeper each time until he stayed still. And when I carved the final letter into his thin chest, I sank my knife into his muscle until it hit his sternum, and then I released the handle and clasped my hands around his neck.
“What’s her name?” I asked him.
“Fuck you,” he said, spitting up blood.
I sank my thumbs deeper into his throat. “What’s her fucking name?”
He gargled a mouthful of blood.
“Tell me her fucking name, and I’ll let go.”
“Luana Rocha,” he repeated without a problem this time.
Keeping my promise, I pulled my hands away from his throat and stood up. With shaky hands, he grasped the knife in his chest and pulled it out while spitting and coughing up blood. I grabbed the gun from the table and aimed it at his head.
He knew her name. He knew what he had done wrong.
This bitch deserved to die.
Without a second thought, I put two bullets straight through his skull and watched him bleed to death.
