Page 51 of Sinful
The sobs come violent and uncontrolled.
My whole body shakes with them, three years ofguilt and grief and self-hatred pouring out in gasping, ugly sounds that don't even sound human.
His hand.
They sent his hand.
My father's hand, severed at the wrist, delivered in a fucking cardboard box to my mother.
Because of me.
Because I killed Andrés Medina and made it look like club retaliation.
Because I wanted revenge more than I wanted safety.
Because I'm my father's daughter—violent and vengeful and incapable of letting shit go.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the images, but they come anyway.
The box. Mom's scream. The way Rati's face went cold when he said "his fucking hand."
How much more of him are they going to send back?
How many pieces before there's nothing left to save?
My stomach heaves.
I barely make it to my knees before I'm vomiting into the underbrush.
Nothing comes up but bile and beer—I haven't eaten since yesterday.
Can't remember the last time food seemed possible.
When the retching finally stops, I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with shaking hands.
Idid this.
I killed a man, and now everyone I love is paying for it.
The forest is silent except for my ragged breathing.
No birds. No wind.
Just me and the suffocating weight of what I've done.
I don't know how long I sit there.
It could be minutes, or it could be hours.
Time feels meaningless when you're drowning.
Eventually, I hear footsteps.
Deliberate. Careful. Someone who knows where to find me.
"Go away, Elfe."
"How'd you know it was me?"
