I take a breath and then stick my foot out so that Boomer trips over it when he crosses the threshold.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stumbling and dropping the bag of groceries he was carrying.
With a battle cry of sheer rage, I lunge at him, knife raised and stab him in the back as hard as I can.
“Argh!” he cries out and bucks as I pull the knife back out again. I have just about enough strength left in me to do it again. I have to make it count.
He turns towards me, and I duck low, screaming as the agony shoots through me from the stab wound. But I’m low enough to jab the knife straight into his cock area, making him scream like a girl. Hell, my scream was deeper than his, the fucking pussy.
“Jesus Christ,” he wails and drops to his knees.
My hand is still around the hilt, and we stare at each other for a second, maybe two before the fear and rage, the humiliation and torment rises, helped along by a massive dose of adrenaline.
I pull the knife out and shove him back, straddling him as I stab him in the chest, crying tears of fury and anguish.
I draw the knife out and stab him again.
And again.
My tears mingle with his blood. My blood seeps out of me and drops on him, but I barely notice it.
I just keep pulling the knife out and stabbing him.
His cries fade and he goes quiet.
I know in my head he is dead, but I can’t stop. I can’t let go of the blade. He tortured me. He stood by and watched as I was raped. He helped my rapist. He is just as bad as Smith, and I will make him pay.
Eventually, I run out of everything. I leave the knife embedded in the side of his neck and roll off him, panting and scrunching my face up against the pain that has come flying back.
“Get up, Rubes. Get the fuck up,” I mutter and roll over, getting to my knees and then my feet.
I stumble to the door, falling twice before I make it to the threshold. I grab the door jamb to steady myself and then I cross over into the light. Falling straight into the strong arms that grip me tightly with a loud, “Fuck!”