Page 25 of Riot

Sleep came fast—but it didn’t come clean. It never did.

The memory slipped in the way it always did. Not like a dream. More like a film on loop. Faded in some places, too sharp in others.

I was nineteen.

Still young enough to think I had the world figured out, still arrogant enough to believe I knew who to trust. Old enough to have blood on my hands. Real blood. The kind that clings to your skin long after you wash it off.

I remember the rain first—soft but constant, tapping against the broken warehouse windows like it was trying to warn me. The air smelled like rust and wet concrete. My boots stuck to the floor with each step, like even they didn’t want me moving closer. I had a pistol tucked into the back of my waistband, but I wasn’t there to use it.

I came with a knife.

She stood in front of me, trembling so hard I thought her knees might give out. Her arms were raised slightly like she didn’t know whether to shield herself or reach for me. Tears streamed down her face—ugly, raw, frantic. Her chest heaved with every breath, mouth trembling as she whispered my name over and over, like it might soften me.

“Please, Riot,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry…”

Her voice cracked, and she tried to step forward, but I raised the knife and she froze, hands up, palms shaking. She was crying so hard it didn’t even sound human anymore—just gasps and gulps for air between choked-out apologies. Her body rocked with it.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Please. You don’t have to do this. We can fix it, I’ll disappear, I’ll never say anything again. Just—please—don’t do this…”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

Truth was, some small, pathetic part of me wanted to believe her. Wanted to put the knife down. Walk away. Pretend this betrayal didn’t slice through my chest like a blade sharper than the one I held.

But then I heard his voice.

And I remembered why I was there.

“Handle it. You let this slide, you’ll be a target forever. And if you don’t do it, I’ll shoot you both!”

I told myself I had to do it. That if I didn’t, I’d never be able to live with the weakness. Never be respected. Never survive.

Turns out, I couldn’t live with myself either way.

I told her to turn around.

She didn’t move.

I repeated it, quieter. Tighter.

Still nothing. She just stared at me and whispered, “You don’t have to.”

My hand trembled. My stomach twisted. But I stepped forward, grabbed her shoulder, and turned her around before I could change my mind. Her skin was warm. Alive.

I raised the blade and pulled.

One clean motion. Deep. Final.

The sound she made when I slit her throat—raw, guttural, almost like a gasp—still lives in the back of my mind. It clung to the walls of that warehouse, mixed with the wet slap of her body hitting the ground. Her blood pooled fast, seeping into the cracks in the floor, drinking her in.

I stood over her, frozen. Numb. I don’t know how long I was there. Could’ve been a minute. Could’ve been hours. I just remember the smell—metallic and thick. The weight of what I’d done pressing down on my chest like concrete.

I didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t even breathe right.

I just shut down.

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