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That didn’t work out. Nothing will.
My life is a mess of nightmares, lunatic emotions, and now this.
“Are you okay, Miss?” the shop owner, a woman in her mid to late thirties, asks me. No one else is standing near us; they’re looking but giving me a wide berth. “Do you need something or for me to call—”
“I’m fine. Just had a rough day.”
“Would you like to take a seat? I can bring you a chair.” Her hand reaches out for my arm and gives it a squeeze. The action is meant to be comforting, but instead, I’m filled with a sense of longing. How many family members do I have? Do I have a sister or a brother, maybe multiples of each?
“No.” Shaking my head, I step back a bit and give her a sad smile. “Thank you for the offer, but right now I just need to walk.”
“Are you sure—”
Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I give her a smile. “I’m sure. Thank you, though.” There are a few more specialty shops in this section and I take my time walking through each, not buying but admiring the artisan pieces made by local artists while staying clear of those shopping. It helps me calm down after a while, calms me to be surrounded by so many one-of-a-kind creations.
My creative soul relaxes. Welcomes the soothing vibes.
However, when I reach the farmers market section of Pike’s, I feel someone watching me. Their stare is hard and the footsteps not light in the least, as if they want to be seen, and yet when I turn my head no one makes direct eye contact.
Too many people surround me to pinpoint either.
So I move on, walking down the aisle and only pausing to buy some fresh pears that looked too good to pass up. And when I leave the area, I finally see a man in his late forties with a barrel gut walking closer than I feel comfortable with.
I’ve never seen him. I have no idea who he is.
But that doesn’t stop him from following me for the next fifteen minutes, and after trying to lose him at the Starbucks, I head to my car. Not running, but I take my kitty multi tool out and slip my fingers through the area below the ears, gripping the metal tight.
Footsteps come closer and I pause, giving myself a second to gather my breaths before whirling around and... nothing.
No man.
No more footsteps.
It’s as if I conjured everything and when I look around, taking in the many shoppers and vendors, I’m left questioning my sanity.
Where did he go? “Did I imagine him?”
26
King
His screams of pain rend the air, filling the warm summer night with a haunting symphony that makes me smile. His chest is red, the rivulets rising from each cut and flowing down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
The man is bound by his hands and feet to the floor of an empty building not far from Gabriella’s home and the heart of Seattle. It’s an empty space that I own and have soundproofed, dedicated each of its twenty floors to a different kind of torture, reminiscent of my home back in Italy.
I’ll bleed him dry here.
Drain him drop by drop until he talks, and still grant no mercy when he does.
This is his fault. Not mine. Not my pretty girl’s.
“Speak up, Mr. Hall.” His response is more unintelligible gibberish, his bodily functions failing him when the front of his pants become piss stained. Filthy animal. “You disgust me.”
“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong. I was there to—” I cut off his bullshit with a backhand, the force behind the blow to his face breaking the cheekbone and his nose.
“I’m going to ask you again.” I snap my fingers and two special creatures slither into the room, watching the man with spiteful eyes. One constricts. One is venomous. “Who sent you?”
“I-I didn’t.” That’s all he manages to get out as the white albino coils at striking distance from his feet. The cobra stands with a regal position, her hood expanded and forked tongue flicking in and out languidly.
