Page 382 of Vicious Saint
Saint doesn’t let up, though, instead, he screams, hitting harder, and faster, until blood and brain matter splashes all over him too.
Then, once the hammer has served its purpose, Saint tosses it on the ground with a clank.
The image before me is one pulled straight from a teen slasher movie. Except the star quarterback is the one rising slowly to stand over the mutilated serial killer.
It’s a bone chilling, nauseating, and beautiful sight all at the same time—because although Saint appears cut from the same cloth as his monster, I can see the light still in his eyes from way over here.
The softer features of his face, even tinged with blood, remain as pronounced as the cuts of his jaw.
His breath ragged from anger and exertion.
There’re even tears mixed with red falling down his cheeks.
No cold. No hollow. No black out eyes.
Only a series of human responses to someone who tortured the woman he loves.
Proving to me now, more than ever, that this is not Vicious standing over a dead man…just a vicious Saint.
Loud cracks of gunshots explode from the floor above, knocking both Saint and me out of our hazes before he runs over.
“That’s our cue.” He releases the first knot around my wrist, then catches me after the second, which is when I spot his first wince from the pain in his arm. Saint ignores it, of course, to help guide me to the ground.
“You’re hurt, I can do it,” I tell him, but might as well have tried to convince myself because he doesn’t listen.
Something I’m lowkey grateful for since there isn’t a part of my body that isn’t throbbing, aching, or burning as he removes the ankle restraints.
The instant I’m free, Saint unzips the hoodie he’s got on, which basically serves as a bloody nightgown when I dress myself in it. “We’re about to have incoming, Jimi. So I need you to listen.” He points to a wooden desk. “I need you to stay behind there and keep your head down. Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”
I’m already attempting to stand as I respond, “Fat fucking chance.”
“We don’t have time to argue,” Saint argues above the sound of gunfire exchange, but doesn’t stop me from getting up.
“Better quit while you’re ahead, then.”
Somewhere between playing Witty Remarks and Torture with Boris, that bitch Leerie returned, and I managed to catch sight of where she put Carlo’s gun in case Boris wanted to use it.
Which happens to be in the drawer of the same desk Saint is suggesting I hide behind.
So, off I drag myself to get it, and, as soon as the gun is in my hand, I release the magazine, finding the gun reloaded.
“Jimi,” Saint warns when I slip the magazine back in place.
“Letterman…” I counter, right before footsteps coming down the stairs mark the end of the debate.
“Fucking fuck,” Saint curses, rushing over to the table holding Boris’ toolbox, then curses again, with much more optimism, as he picks up a gun.
Saint is amidst checking it out when bangs erupt at the door, hard enough to make the chair holding it closed rattle.
In a flash, Saint is in front of me drawing the weapon, and I turn sideways holding mine close to the chest with shaky hands.
Then we listen to the pounding and wait.
Wait.
Wait some more.
Until finally, the chair hits the ground and the door flies open.
