Page 78 of Overdose
My breath catches. Every instinct howls.
She’s in there.
I know it. I fucking know it.
I step back. Raise my boot.
First kick—solid hit, but the lock doesn’t budge. Wood splinters. My shoulder jerks from the force.
"Fuck," I hiss through my teeth.
Second kick. A deeper crack. My leg throbs, but I don't stop. Can’t. I see flashes behind my eyes—my mother’s body slumped in a hallway the day she died. Not again. Not her.
Not Blair.
I step back. Grit my teeth. Slam into it a third time.
The door shudders. Creaks. Gives a little.
I picture Blair’s face. The way she smirks when she’s being a brat. The way she kisses like she’s drowning and wants to take you down with her. The way she made me want something more than revenge.
I fucking roar and drive my boot in one last time.
The door caves inward, splintering at the hinges, slamming against the wall with a bang.
And the world?—
The world fucking stops.
There she is.
Blair.
Chained to a rusted pipe, slumped over, body limp. One wrist red and raw from struggling, the other bent at a sick angle like she tried to fight through the cuffs. Her lips are tinged blue. Blood’s dried under her nose, crusted down to her chin. She’s in nothing but a bra and panties—both torn. The lace cut across her ribs like she was dragged or thrown. Bruises bloom down her thighs, across her stomach, fingerprints inked in purple and yellow where someone grabbed her too hard.
One knee’s scraped bloody. A gash across her shoulder’s still oozing. She fought.
Fuck, she fought hard. I can see it in the way her knuckles are bruised, and still, she lost.
Bruises darken both her cheeks—fingertip-shaped. Like they held her down, forced her mouth open, shoved the shit down her throat while she kicked and screamed.
There’s foam at the corner of her mouth.
They fucking drugged her.
There’s a torn bag beside her, half-crushed under her hip. Pills scattered everywhere—holographic pink, glinting under the flickering bulb like they’ve got something to fucking celebrate.
Cyanide. Enough to kill a room. They didn’t just want her gone—they wanted to make her a fucking statement. A stage. A show.
This wasn’t a threat.
It was a message—louder than bullets, carved in her blood, screaming at me through the way she isn’t screaming at all.
Fuck.
My lungs won’t work. My limbs won’t move.
Because all I see is my mom—sprawled on our kitchen floor, eyes wide and glassy, needle dangling from her vein like it belonged there.
