Page 21 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I claw at his wrists. Useless. My nails—wait. The broken one. Jagged. Sharp. It catches on his skin, and he yelps. It’s enough.
“Fucking bitch,” he hisses, letting go. I gasp like I’ve just surfaced from drowning. I whirl around and try to knee him in the balls. I miss. Thigh shot. Still counts.
He advances.
I retreat.
My heel slams into something. I stumble. It’s another gnome. I grab it instinctively, wrapping my hand around… is that his dick? Gnomes don’t have dicks. It’s his hat.
“You’re not gonna—” Doug starts.
Actually, yes, I am.
I swing.
Crack.
The gnome hits him under the jaw. He stumbles. Stunned.
I don’t think. I swing again.
Crack.
Full force to the side of his head.
He goes down hard, the wet grass sucking at him with a sound that makes my stomach turn. Like the slap of a wet, bloody slab of meat on a granite countertop.
My chest heaves. My neck throbs. My whole body vibrates with the echo of what just happened. I stare at Doug’s body, unmoving in the half-light. My heart pounds in my ears. This isn't real. My hands are shaking so hard I drop the gnome. There’s sweat dripping down my back, cold despite the warm night air. I feel like I’m vibrating out of my own skin—like my body knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
This can't be real.
Sprinklers hiss to life, cold arcs of water pelting my back, hitting Doug in the face. He doesn’t stir.
“Doug?” I whisper.
No response.
I shuffle forward, feeling like I’m floating outside my body. Should I check his pulse?
He groans.
I exhale. Thank God.
I crouch beside him and give his shoulder a nudge. “Hey. You good? You hit your head.” A pause. “On a flying garden gnome.” The laugh slips out before I can stop it. A high, cracked thing that sounds more like panic than humor.
He mumbles something that could be bitch or sandwich —hard to say.
Then his hand lashes out and clamps around my ankle.
I shriek and kick with my other foot, striking anything I can reach—his ribs, his neck, his face. He's not letting go.I’m panicking. Fully, irrationally panicking. My shoes are doing nothing. I need something.
He grabs my other leg and yanks. I hit the ground. Hard. Wet grass seeps through my thin sleep shorts. My whole lower half is soaked. Of course, Mrs. Jenkins over-waters.
Doug starts to rise.
I grab the closest object I can find, my trusty gnome, and hurl it at his head. It hits with a sharp, sickening crack.
He slumps.
