I press the piece back into his jugular again, the shard having already shredded my own skin from the struggle.
“Make one fucking move, and I'll slit your throat, asshole,” I spit through heavy pants.
My hand trembles against him, my vision narrowing until all I see is his disgusting face, contorted in rage with gray scruff covering his jaw.
“You're a pathetic man,” I snarl. “And there isn't a single soul on this planet that will care when you're gone.”
He laughs, and his rotten breath fans across my face. I dig the sharp end deeper, a bead of blood blooming from the tip.
“That don't matter to me, baby. Come on, you know better than that. Even if I was a fucking stand-up citizen, I'd go down in history like everybody else. Forgotten. My name carved in some stupid gravestone that people pass by and don't look twice at. And ya know what? The same thing will happen to you.”
“Yeah, you're right,” I say, my voice breathless and trembling. “But at least when I go down, I'll be able to say I took as many of you sick fucks as I could with me.”
Another full belly laugh releases from his throat, though the desperation is evident. He doesn't want to die, and at any moment, he's going to renew his fight.
So, I make a quick decision and slice the opposite side of his throat. He'll bleed out eventually, but it won't be over before I'm ready.
His eyes widen, and his mouth flops while he chokes on his own blood. Blood that spurts onto my face, neck, and chest.
“Fucking bitch!”
Uncaring, I lean forward until his eyes find their way to mine, his pupils little pinpoints.
I shake my head. “No. You don't get the privilege of seeing me while you die.”
Dropping the ceramic, I cup his face between my palms and place my thumbs over his eyes.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, though the words are garbled. His fingers wrap around my wrists, attempting to pull them away. But the blood loss has made him weak, and he fails miserably.
It takes a few seconds of pushing until I feel his eyes pop. His answering scream is loud, broken, and full of agony. It's a sound I've grown accustomed to with other girls in Francesca's house. Before, it shattered my heart when I heard it. Now, I feel nothing.
Crimson puddles in the craters of his pulverized eyes, flooding my hands, and down either side of his face. A sea of red.
I chuckle aloud. “Moses probably wouldn’t appreciate me calling your face the Red Sea, huh?” I laugh again, the sound hoarse and broken. “Then again, he probably isn't appreciating any of this.”
I don't stop until I've smashed them into his puny brain and his struggles cease.
The earth got a little cleaner today.
His hands drop from my arms, and as he goes completely limp, so do I. I just… deflate. Like his eyeballs, I suppose.
That thought wrings another tired giggle out of me.
I'm covered in blood, sweat, and probably other shit I don't want to know about. My heart is racing, and my lungs are incredibly tight.
Killing… killing is a lot of fucking work.
Then, my thoughts spiral, and panic overtakes me. How the fuck am I going to cover this up?
“Shit,” I whisper, dropping my head.
Thankfully, the neighbors are drug addicts, too, and there were many nights when they were in screaming matches that rivaled Mom and Dad’s. Our struggle shouldn’t raise any of their concerns, and even if it did, I doubt they’d be kind enough to call the police.
As for his job, it's not unusual for Dad to not show up without warning. He's lost many jobs over the years, primarily due to him going on binges. Sometimes for weeks at a time. They might call for a week, but eventually, they'll give up.
Same for his friends—they don’t bother coming over unless he’s offering them drugs.
Raymond Devereaux doesn't have anyone that actually gives a shit about him.
But he is in the public eye now.
Francesca used to turn on the TV and show me all the news reports and search parties after I was kidnapped. She would laugh and laugh about how many people were looking for me.
“Look at aaalll those people. And not a single one will find you.”
She found that funny.
And now, I need to ensure that' s exactly what happens. They can never find me. They can never know I came back here.
That couple—Latoya and Devin—might talk to the media. Claim they had me in their house. But they'll never be able to prove it, and eventually, speculation will become just that.
“No evidence,” I whisper. “There can't be any evidence.”
My DNA is all over this house. Finding pieces of my hair or fingerprints on every surface wouldn't be out of the ordinary.
However, on a dead body? That would be catastrophic.
I inhale deeply and then release it slowly, feeling my brain switch off once more.
No one is looking for him yet. I have time to clean up, get Layla situated, and then dispose of his body.
After, I'll take Layla out of here and never look back.
“What to do with you,” I wonder aloud, heading for the limited cleaning supplies beneath the sink, racking my brain and trying to remember the crime documentaries I've seen Mom watch and if any of them ever talked about getting rid of a body.
“Melting him?” I ask myself under my breath. “No. Too messy, and I don't even know the proper chemicals. Can't bury him or put him in a lake. That always gets people caught.”
My mind turns over idea after idea while I wrap his body in garbage bags, rejecting them all for one reason or another.
And just as I begin to scrub the floor, I remember one episode I had seen. A proverbial light bulb illuminates, and I pause as I think it over.
“Pig farm,” I whisper, a slight grin curling my lips.
And I know just where to find one.
Molly
Present
2022
“If I would've known that you were going to throw yourself all over me in the shower, I would've directed you to the guest bathroom,” I mutter, pulling a clean white tank top over my head.
He cocks a brow, unimpressed. “At which point did I give the indication that I'd keep my hands to myself? We'll play it back, and I'll redo that part so you're not confused anymore.”
I roll my eyes.
“I'm not confused,” I deny vehemently, shooting him an annoyed look.
Yet, I am.
I'm confused and a fucking liar.
He wears only his boxers—pretty much the only article of clothing that didn't get dirty. His shirt is a lost cause, leaving him with his black jeans and leather jacket, but regardless, he'll likely go home smelling like a pigpen. It takes a special kind of soap to get it out, but I won't divulge that information, purely because I’m irritated with him.
Even more, I'm angry he's not a sensible person who carries extra clothes on hand. His body is downright distracting, making it extremely hard to remember why I'm annoyed.
Right. Because he fucked me in the shower again and reminded me that sex can actually be… so good. It took years to forget that after the first time we met. And now I've relapsed and become addicted all over again.
Fucker.
Keeping my back to him, I pump a few dollops of lotion into my hand and start slathering it over my hands, arms, and chest. His eyes are like two little lasers burning into me, but I do my best to ignore him.
It was just sex.
That's it.
“You're about to kick me out,” he surmises from behind me. I jump, not expecting his voice to be right at my goddamn back.
“What else would we do? Play ponies and have a pillow fight?” I snap.
I sound defensive. I am defensive.
Tension is clustered in my muscles like it has nowhere else to go.
Gritting my teeth, I sit on the edge of the bed and force myself to meet his probing stare. It's not angry like I had expected. Or annoyed, even. No. He looks fucking amused.
He bends at the knees, lowering himself until I’m peering down at him with an incredulous stare.