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“So you know who I am.” Not a question, though, and he nods. “You know what I’m capable of?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you conspired against me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re not.” Faster than he can comprehend, two mouths strike and bite, one with venom and the other with sharp teeth that sink in and don’t release. They pin him down while I straddle his chest, taking my time while he fights against their hold. More piss escapes his bladder, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Such filth. And you thought to touch what’s mine? You wanted to mark her flesh with your dirty hands?”
“I’ll go away.”
“Agreed.” With two fingers, I slide inside his abdominal cavity via an earlier wound. It’s just large enough to fit half my hand, and after forcing the tips of four fingers inside—stretching—I rip through and leave behind a six-inch gash that reaches his belly button. The elasticity gives way under pressure and horrified screams fill the air, his blood staining my bare chest and pants.
I pull the red fingers out and find another wound right over his ribs and mimic my actions.
Then another. Three in total, but none deep enough to kill him.
They’re meant to hurt. To bathe the floor in his life’s essence.
I watch as more blood seeps. As the puddle beneath us grows.
Mr. Hall’s eyes roll back but I slap him awake; I’m not done.
“Look at me. Keep those eyes on mine.” I’m examining the sharp metal over my fingers, following the small drips that fall from the tip and onto his face. His cries fill every square inch of the space, the sound of a wounded animal dying, but there’s one more thing I need before I leave. “You coveted someone who is mine. You tried to touch what is sacred.”
His lips open, but no sound comes out as I stab his right eyeball and pull, forcing the orb to detach from the orbital muscles. It pops out, still on my finger, the ripped tissue attached in some places. Then, I do the other after dropping the first on his chest. They stay cushioned in his sternum while two holes are left to remind those who find his body what line to never cross.
Gabriella Moore is untouchable.
No one will harm a single hair on her head.
Only I can break her.
Once I step back, the animals move and begin to bite and tear pieces of flesh from his skin. I’m going to leave him broken, battered, and disfigured for the police to find behind the Astor Gallery.
“The time has come.”
27
Gabriella
It’s a little after ten in the morning when I stumble out of bed the next day. My body feels tired, my mind is a bit hazy, and my stomach is in knots. The last twenty-four hours mock me and have been doing so since I read those papers, and I made the mistake of taking one of the new sleeping pills to pass out.
And I did. Shortly after taking the small oblong tablet, I gave in to the effects and slept through without a single dream haunting my rest, but right now the aftereffects aren’t worth the nausea and muscle pain throughout my body accompanied by the migraine from hell.
“How did I draw the lucky number to win three side effects at once?” I grumble, a bit uncoordinated as I walk to the bathroom. Inside, I turn on the shower and strip, nearly tripping on my sleep shorts. However, the warm water is worth the almost concussion as it immediately soothes me, my tired body getting a bit of respite while the hot water on my scalp lulls me.
And I let it, standing there until the water turned lukewarm. It’s only then that I wash up, quickly lathering my body with my cherry vanilla shower gel. The fragrant scent fills the room and I breathe in deeply, allowing the calming smell to further relax me.
Tiny paws scratch at my door to get my attention and I smile; the little shit has no patience in him. “Almost out, Mr. Pickles.” Another scratch and then a bump with his body to the wooden structure. “I’ll take you out now. Two minutes.”
Not that he understands, but I do hear his grunt and then the sounds of the tinkling bell on his collar as he walks away.
Rinsing off the rest of the suds, I step out and grab a towel, wrapping it around my wet body. I’m a little more alert now, a little less shaky, and take a moment to look at my reflection in the mirror.
The glass is a bit foggy, but I run my hand across the cool glass and stare at my reflection. The girl standing there is sad, but beneath the hurt is a tough heart. She’s overcome a lot. Has made a name for herself and even when at the orphanage, she worked toward her dreams relentlessly.
But who left me this home? The money to start out?
