Page 33 of Whispers of Fire

Pathetic.

Keepin’ my gun pointed at him, I take out manacles from my jeans pocket.

“Wrists out,” I order. He lifts his trembling thin arms towards me, and I restrain him, closing the manacles enough so that the metal digs into his skin, making him bleed. I look around and find a small piece of dirty cloth on the floor. He must have used it to wipe his sweat while cutting the wood. Grabbin’ it, I shove it in his mouth, gagging him, and enjoying the distress in his eyes.

I enjoy scaring the shit out of him. That's what he deserves for hurtin’ an angel.

Restrained and unable to yell, I take a look around, checking that no one can see us.

Perfect.

Putting back my gun in my holster, I fist his hair, angling his head towards me, his reflection in the glass of my helmet, making him watch himself terrified.

That's when I take the spoon and shove it in his left eye, in a precise movement learned after years of practice. His body fights me, tryin’ to escape the assault so I hold on tighter to his scalp, letting him know that there's no escape.

Turnin’ the spoon in the hollow of his eye, I pull it toward me in a slow motion, lettin’ him feel his eyeball leave his head. His cry is swallowed in the cloth. I know there’s a chance he'll faint, but I can't have that.

Wouldn't be fair for Rose.

I need him to be present to hurt. Lettin’ the spoon and his eyeball fall at his knees, I slap him hard in the face.

“See, doesn’t feel good when someone hurts ya. Should have thought about it before breakin’ her fingers, don’t ya think?”

His face bleeds hard from his missing eye. I punch him, makin’ him fall on his side like a fuckin’ pathetic weak man. Ignoring his pleas, I secure my gun with a silencer.

Alright, I’m done here.

I shoot him in the head, his body jerking back as if a truck had hit him.

Problem solved.

I head back to my bike, thankful for my black gear to conceal the blood drippin’ all over me. It would be a shame to scare the housewives chattin’ on the other side of the street.

We wouldn’t want that, would we?

-

The sun has set when I arrive to my house. Parkin’ my bike in my driveway, I sigh. It's been a long day but I want to see her before fallin’ asleep. After removin’ my helmet and puttin’ it on the bench of my entry, I decide that I will break in her house after havin’ dinner. Just want to look at her like last week, when I watched her sleep, tucked under her covers, her breathing echoin’ in the room, making my chest tighter. I enter my living room when I hear a noise.

Taking my gun from my holster, I raise it in front of me, ready to kill whoever is here.

Gettin’ closer from the noise I heard, I walk to the back of the couch, trying to be as quiet as possible.

At this distance, there's no clean shot. Whoever is in my house will have his brain blown up everywhere in the room.

Fuckin' pain in the ass to clean.

Reachin’ the couch, I make one last step and freeze.

My angel is curled up in a ball on my couch. Her eyes are shut, while her slow breathing tells me she’s been asleep for a little while.

She knew she could come here, and she did.

She fuckin’ did.

She took the blanket I gave her the other night and used it to cover her body, but the fabric must have slipped cause it only covers her legs now. I want to put the cover back on her, but it feels wrong to let her sleep here. She won’t be comfortable enough to spend the night and I don’t want her to be tired cause of it.

Circlin’ around the couch, I kneel in front of her body and wrap my arms under her knees and back, carryin’ her in firefighter mode. She’s as light as I thought she would be. Reachin’ the stairs, I take them carefully to make sure she won’t wake up and carry her to my bedroom. I would normally never enter this room with my boots on, with my habit of always puttin’ them in the entry, below the bench, on the left, like the maniac that I am, but it doesn’t even bother me right now.

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