Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 110551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“Can you show him the video? I want him to remember what he did, and maybe it’ll give me the courage to go through with what I want.”
Number one hadn’t moved an inch as if he hoped we might forget he existed.
I removed the laptop and the disc from my bag and set everything up on a shelf so the asshole got a good look at the screen. After a nod from Dinara, I turned the recording on. This time neither Dinara nor I hit pause. Instead we watched every soul-crushing moment of the video. I wanted nothing more than to turn the screen off, or better yet smash the fucking thing like I’d done with Remo’s laptop, but I stayed rooted to the spot. The only movement I allowed myself was the occasional sideways glance to Dinara who seemed to be lost in the images, her gaze distant and her body taut with tension. How hard must it be for her to relive those moments?
I glowered at the asshole on the floor who had lowered his head as if he couldn’t bear to watch. Fury raced through me. I grabbed his head roughly and jerked up his chin, forcing his attention back on the laptop screen. “I know what I did! I don’t need to see,” he whimpered, closing his eyes, and my fury multiplied, turned feral. “You will open your fucking eyes or I’ll staple your eyelids to your fucking brows. I’m sure I can find a stapler somewhere in your shop.”
His eyes flew open and he didn’t dare looking away from the screen again. I was glad when we neared the end of the recording. The sounds and images had turned my stomach, and I just wanted to help Dinara move past those horrors.
Dinara looked like a wax figure of herself, pale and perfectly motionless. This was meant to help her, but what if it didn’t? What if this only fulfilled my own twisted hunger for blood?
The images of the screen became blurry and my mind took over, replaying my memories so much more vividly than the video.
Every sensation washed through my body, every pain and odor, every sound and image. They flooded my body like an unstoppable avalanche, dragging up buried emotions. Shame and revulsion, fear and despair, but above all: anger. Anger at the man before me. When the screen turned black and past-Dinara’s ordeal was over, I lowered my gaze to the cowering man before me. He begged me with his eyes, pretended to be a victim, when he was a monster who’d ruined my childhood to satisfy his own needs.
I’d remembered his eyes and his words, the names he called me and the name he wanted to be called, even before I’d watched the video. I remembered his low breathing, his aftershave and the sweat underneath it. I moved closer, took a deep inhale. Even his aftershave was still the same. A new flood of images, the same I’d replayed before, wanted to flare up for a repeat performance, but my mind fought the onslaught.
Revulsion welled up in me, followed by panic, but I didn’t allow it to take root, and finally anger ruled over everything else. My hands were shaking and my throat was tight as I set down the gun on the counter. Adamo watched the move with a frown. My blood seemed to pulsate with fiery anger as I stepped up close to Adamo, my breathing coming in quick bursts. Our eyes met and his held a myriad of questions. He thought I couldn’t shoot my abuser. Maybe he even thought I’d show him mercy and let him live. I’d considered it when I’d first stepped into the hardware store and seen the pitiful guy but whenever the thought had tried to take root, every fiber in my body had fought it and the voice calling for retribution had chanted louder. I took a deep breath and slanted another look at the man. Hope had entered his expression and he gave me another begging look. Over a decade ago, nobody had cared about what I wanted, about my begging.
No mercy.
Without thinking about it, I reached for the knife in Adamo’s chest holster, curled my fingers around the cold handle. Adamo didn’t stop me as I withdrew the sharp blade with a satisfying hiss.
I’d never used a knife in a violent way and I wasn’t sure what I was doing as I stumbled toward my abuser. He tried to scramble backwards but I followed. My heart beat in my throat and my surroundings became a blur as I lunged at him. He brought his arms up, tried to fight me off but I lashed out at him with the knife. Flung it at his flailing arms, his upper body, every inch of him I could reach. He tried to fight me off, and Adamo’s voice rang in the back of my head, but the man’s screams drowned it out. I couldn’t stop, even if I didn’t even see what I was doing. My vision was blurry with tears and blood. My palm and my thigh stung, my cheek throbbed, but my hand with the knife still arched down on my abuser until I was dragged away and someone was holding me tightly in their arms despite my struggling.