Page 120 of Deliver us from Evil

The bullet hit me just below my right shoulder, but my entire torso feels like it’s on fire. I can’t move that arm, and my body is as limp as a rag doll.

Nick climbs onto me, pushes the muzzle of the gun so hard into my temple that I’m facing away from him, to a window.

The muzzle bites into my flesh, the cold metal spreading through me. Then he rips my dress up to my hips allowing the brisk air to caress my bare skin.

A wave of dizziness hits me. It feels like I’m on a boat, and the waves are tossing me around. Then like I’m drowning. Except I think I am, because when I try to breathe, there’s shit in the way.

I cough. Retch.

Thick, warm liquid spills from my mouth.

The air smells like copper.

Am I dying? The pain is so immense, it’s impossible to comprehend. I’m aware that I’m writhing with it, that he’s fighting my limbs so he can wrench open my legs, but that’s all distant and possibly happening to someone else now.

Or to my dying body.

Which is fine, because I’m not really there anymore.

I’m floating to the window. Heading for the bright afternoon sun beckoning me through the glass.

Not scared of falling anymore.

Because I’m weightless now.

I can just float away.

Up into the clouds.

And then the pain is back, a spear through my chest. I suck in a ragged breath, and turn my head.

Nick has his hand on my chest. He’s leaning his weight on the bullet wound, grinning at me.

I reach up, numb fingers trying to pry his hand off my chest.

But then his body is between my legs, holding them open. And he’s looking down.

There’s still something cold touching my face, but it’s different now. I use my good hand, my left hand, to feel alongside my head.

It touches cool metal.

The gun.

Pain, but not in my chest anymore. Down there. Down where he’s looking.

Let him look at my cunt, I don’t care.

Because then he’s not looking up. He’s not seeing me fumble with the gun. Trying to pick it up.

He shifts, his hand digging harder into my torn flesh. I cry out, and he groans as if the sound gets him hard.

But I don’t care, because now I’m holding the gun.

Pointing it.

It shakes.

Oh God, how it shakes.

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