Page 66 of The Venom We Bleed

Cool air washes over my sex, the sensation so unnatural in this circumstance that it brings me back to reality. I crash into my body with all of the grace of an inexperienced skydiver. When I slam back into my flesh and bones, I realize that the man has released my wrists to reach for the front of his pants. My head turns slowly, latching on to the silvery metal of his switchblade tossed haphazardly on one of the pillows nearby. Moonlight pours in through the still-open sliding glass door, half the glass muted by the layers of grime I can never quite get off no matter how much I try to clean it. I reach out, seeking the knife with my fingers. Not that the intruder notices. No, he's far too fixated on the fact that he's managed to free himself from his pants and has a cunt in front of him. Gripping me by the hips, he drags me closer, hooking my legs over either side of his thighs as he shoves the scraps of my sleep shirt out of the way and grips a fistful of my breast, squeezing tight.

Frost on the back of my tongue slides into my throat, choking me as my fingers close around the switchblade's handle. I tighten my hold as sickness wells up within my chest, setting fire to the ice that's consuming me. I’m so fucking over people trying to hurt me because I’m my father’s daughter. I’m not the one who stole from them. I’m not the one who ruined their lives. Do they care who they hurt, though? No. They are just as bad as him.

Principal Long’s words come back to me. She wants me to talk to someone, to go see my father? I don't need that. What I need ... is a way to excise the rage spreading its poisonous veins through my body.

The intruder fumbles between my legs, not seeming to bother holding me down now that I've stopped moving—getting closer and closer. A strange sort of ... anticipation restsinside me, coiled like a snake waiting to strike. He fists himself, stroking up and down, pumping his cock as if it's not already hard.

The floaty Oz sensation changes. I can almost see myself lying here, eyes on the ceiling despite the fact that I'm more than aware of everything the man over me is doing. He mumbles something in that raspy voice of his, but I only catch a piece of it. "—cunt's gonna be good on my cock."

I tap the edge of one fingertip against the switchblade. Once, twice, three times. I stare up into the yawning darkness as I feel the hard plastic and rubber of the knife's grip. This is going to be messy. My mother would be so disappointed. Good girls aren't supposed to make messes. My lips curve upward. I'm not her good girl anymore—certainly not after tonight.

"They told me you'd fight harder, but I guess you want this, huh?" the guy says, his hand moving up and down his cock as he shifts forward on his knees.

My mind latches on to those words.They? Who the fuck is they?

My breath rushes in and out of my chest, filling me up, and yet I still feel lightheaded. It's as if a bubble has formed around me and keeps my mind and attention separated from my body. I continue to tap against the knife's handle as I consider where to stab him first. The side? No, not damaging enough. Maybe his kidneys. Yeah, one little slice to those fuckers and he'd bleed out fast. He'll die.

I like the thought of killing someone. Of finally being the one who gets to decide what the hell happens to me ... and what happens to the man trying to rape me.

The stranger pauses and I know without looking down that he's about to begin. He rises up between my legs, hand on his cock, directing it forward. Just as he means to drive himself into me—no preamble, no attempt to make sure he'll even get insideconsidering I'm as dry as a fucking bone—I twist my hips and the head of his cock slams into the crevice between my thigh and pelvis.

"Fuck!" He shouts. "Fucking bitch!"

A hand swipes out, his fist barreling towards my face. My head snaps to the side, pain radiating through my jaw, and I'm done—so. fucking. done.

Arching up and shoving my free hand against his chest, I reach around and slam the blade home. It cuts through the fabric of his shirt and then the flesh of his lower back easily. Muscle is a bit harder, though, and I have to grit my teeth—digging in even as he screams in pain. Laughter threatens to bubble out of my chest. I shove down on the blade, twisting the handle until I'm sure it's buried deep.

Then I rip it out and punch it in again. The first scream melds into another, rising in pitch as he shoves away from me. Finally, the laughter festering inside me breaks free. I look down at my hands as the man stumbles from the bed. They're covered in crimson.

"F … uck. Ugh." I look up to see the intruder turning around, wavering on his feet as a dark stain blooms across the back of his gray shirt. I tilt my head to the side and watch him for a moment more as he tries to reach for the blade and pull it out. It's not going to happen.

Slowly I rise from the futon and look down at myself. I'm naked from the waist down, the only thing clinging to me are the remains of my big t-shirt, though the bottom part is cut up towards the underside of my breasts. The man's body slams into the opposite wall across from my futon, tripping over my backpack. It tips over and the items inside scatter across the floor.

I'm not sure if I actually hit his kidneys or not—the dim memory of Cory showing me which parts of the body were themost dangerous to get hit play like a grainy old black and white film in the back of my head. I take a step forward and another and another. The man moves away from me, back toward the balcony. I pause as my toes squish into something wet. Blood.

There's no remorse, no sorrow, no emotion. I feel decidedly numb as I lift my head and continue towards my would-be rapist.

"Get ... it ... out!" His voice is slurred, garbled as he tries to shout the words. His side slams into the wall that separates me from the apartment next to mine. I follow him at a much slower pace. He's grunting and cursing and acting for all of the world like a rabid animal. It's kind of funny. I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing again.

Behind me, the distant sound of a deep voice echoes through the barrier of my front door. I ignore it and focus on the man in my apartment as he curses and spins again, hands reaching out to remove the knife in his back. He doesn't even seem to be aware of me anymore. Then his head lifts and his eyes lock on mine. They're black, I realize. Well, maybe not black, but they're dark, and his pupils are so dilated that there's no hint of any actual color.

Rage infuses his expression, the pain receding as he growls and reaches for me, hands outstretched as if he wants to choke the life from me for hurting him—as if he wouldn't have hurt me even more. I stand still. When he gets close enough, I dodge in a circle and he follows. He spins towards me, following me right out onto the balcony.

"B-itch..." The slur in his voice rises above the yelling at my front door.

I might be a bitch, but at least I'm not a dead bitch. Not like him.

Without really thinking about it, I shove him, using both hands to push him right into the wooden railing. The flimsydecades-old barrier breaks, a loudcracksounding upon impact. His eyes widen in shock and then he screams. The sound echoes into the moonlit night as he careens over the edge. Right. To. The. Ground.

I pause at the edge, air sliding over my nearly naked form as I stare down at the man's twisted form. One leg is bent at an unnatural angle. His neck is twisted to the side and something white and red sticks out from his left arm. He doesn't move again. As the dust settles around the outline of his body, reality slams back into me.

The vomit I'd kept down earlier comes spewing forth. I turn and heave. The cheap mac and cheese meal I'd made for dinner splatters right onto the balcony's edge. Retching over and over, I barely notice the sound of splintering wood that filters in from the front of my apartment. I'm still on my knees, breathing through the heaving of my stomach as it cramps and tries to expel everything it no longer holds.

"Jesus Christ, Jules." Gio. I close my eyes. "What the fuck happened?"

I press my lips together, resisting the stabbing pains in my stomach to stop myself from vomiting again—or laughing. The wind whips through the balcony, the lack of a railing making it obvious that something terrible has happened here. I close my arms around myself and look down. I'm damn near naked. The stench of my own vomit permeates my nose.

Pretty girl … pretty, pretty girl …Those words circle around and around my head just like an evil witch’s cackle. Except … I think even the wicked witch wouldn’t be so fucking cruel. I’m no one’s ‘pretty girl,’ but I am … a killer now and I’m not sorry.

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