Page 115 of Taken Off Camera
Travis bucks beneath me, body convulsing as he fights for air. His fists pound into my sides, each blow weaker than the last. My shoulder slams into the partition wall, the impact rattling my teeth, but I maintain my grip.
The power cord cuts into my palms, burning as it slides through my skin. Blood slicks my grip, and I can’t tell whose it is.
“Be a good boy,” I snarl as I readjust my grip and keep pulling.
Time stretches, each second lasting hours as Travis thrashes. Every sound echoes off the partitionwalls, the strangled gasps, the scrape of his boots, the rasp of the cord. His eyes bulge, bloodshot and desperate. His legs kick, heels drumming on the stage in a frantic rhythm that gradually slows.
Travis’s struggles weaken, his blows losing aim and force. His head lolls back, lids flickering.
The silence after is worse than the noise.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as I continue to hold on, arms burning with fatigue, until his body goes limp beneath me.
Only then do I release the cord, fingers cramping as they uncurl from their death grip.
31
Icollapse backward, legs giving out as the last surge of adrenaline drains from my system. My chest heaves, each labored breath burning past my raw throat. The room spins around me, colors and shapes blurring into a nauseating swirl of light and shadow.
Blood pounds in my ears, the rhythm easing from frantic to merely urgent. My hands sting where the power cord cut into my palms, thin lines of red welling up across my skin. The blue satin clings to my body, wet with sweat and torn at the shoulder, a reminder of what almost happened.
Travis lies motionless beside the bed, his chest rising and falling shallowly. The power cord rests across his chest, and blood mats his hair where thelamp connected, spreading in a small puddle beneath his head. The sight should horrify me, but all I feel is a cold, distant satisfaction.
I stare at my hands, expecting them to be transformed by what they’ve done, but they look the same, smaller than they should be, considering the damage they’ve caused. The trembling starts in my fingertips, spreading up my arms and through my chest until my whole body shakes with delayed shock.
The taste of copper fills my mouth where I bit my cheek during the struggle. My ribs throb where Travis’s knee drove into them, each breath sending fresh pain radiating across my torso. Tomorrow, my body will be a map of bruises that I’ll happily accept, because they mean I survived.
I fought back.
I won.
The victory tastes bitter and sweet, triumph mixed with the knowledge that violence changes you, marks you in ways that can never be erased.
A red glow catches my attention, pulling me from my thoughts. The camera’s light still burns, recording everything.
Rage flares hot and sudden in my chest, burning through the fog of exhaustion. They’re still watching.Still consuming my trauma for their entertainment and profit.
My muscles scream in protest as I push myself to my feet, legs trembling beneath my weight. Pain flares across my body, each movement awakening fresh injuries. Blood trickles down my chin from a cut on my lip, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand, leaving a crimson streak across my skin.
Three steps bring me into frame, my battered body filling the screen that someone, somewhere, still monitors.
“Did you enjoy the show?” The words scrape past my swollen throat, and my voice grows stronger with each syllable. “Am I quality goods?”
On the desk, the laptop screen shows my image, small and distorted by the streaming software. Comments scroll up one side in confirmation that people are indeed watching.
“You think you can buy people? Sell them? Trade them like baseball cards? You think Omegas exist for your consumption?”
I lean closer to the lens, letting them see every detail of what their market has created, the split lip, the bruises forming on my neck, and the rage burning behind my eyes.
“Remember my face,” I whisper, the wordscarrying a promise of retribution. “Because I will find you. All of you. And when we burn your operation to the ground, I’ll be there watching.”
My foot connects with the tripod, a swift kick that sends the camera crashing to the floor. The lens shatters, glass scattering across the floor. The image on the laptop screen goes dark, but the comments keep pouring in.
Tears well up without warning, blurring my vision as the last of my strength dissolves. They spill hot down my cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the blood and sweat that mark my skin.
I sink to my knees among the broken glass, uncaring of the sharp edges biting into my already abraded skin. Darkness edges in as exhaustion threatens to pull me under. Then a crash of splintering wood breaks the silence from somewhere beyond the partitioned walls.
At the same time, porcelain shatters from my right, and multiple impacts follow, one after another, as if the building itself is under attack.
