Page 22 of Undertow

Seeing—another thing taken for granted by those who can.

I shake my head, still clutching my side as if it will stop the violent throb in what feels like every part of my body. I spent a sleepless night locked in this small room, staining the concrete floor with my blood. If they make me clean it up myself, it wouldn’t be the first time in my life. Or the worst thing I’ve beenforced to remedy. No, the worst is cleaning up your own vomit while still suffering the pain that put it there.

McArthur thinks he can break me? You can’t break something that’s been broken for years.

I close my eyes, trying to force in air.

“I don’t have anyone,” I say, glaring up at Merrick.

“You’re not even close to hitting rock bottom, kid. Call them.” He jerks the phone in my direction again.

“What are you going to do? Kill me? I already told you to do it.”

I meant it too. In that moment, nothing seemed better than escaping once and for all. It made me a traitor, but I didn’t care. I wanted out, and my head was too fucked up to listen to my conscience.

But the decision had already been made, and not by me. Iwouldwork for Montgomery McArthur. Bullet or paradise? It wasn’t even a real question. It was a contract. And now it’s up to Merrick and his associates to execute it.

But they won’t have to. They just don’t know it yet.

My nightmare lives on.

“Unlock your phone,” he barks, handing it to me.

I do as he says and pass it back with a smug look. He won’t find anything. It’s my McArthur phone. My real one is safely hidden somewhere else.

I wait patiently as the man scrolls through my contacts and messages, his expression souring with each stroke of his finger. Names he’ll recognize from his own payroll, flirty text exchanges planted for just this reason—that’s all he’s finding. An F-U to every one of these kingpins who think they’re omnipotent gods.

“Fine,” he grunts, shoving the phone in his back pocket. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re not done here.”

My stomach clenches at the look in his eyes, the clear warning that he’s creative and desperate, but I don’t react. I won’t. This is playing out exactly how it’s supposed to. How it should have before I rebelled and chose death instead.

But life has never shown me an ounce of mercy, so here we are, back on course to my destiny with hell.

I will let them torture me for one more day out of spite, and then I will let them win. They’re going to get what they want from me. Everyone does.

Except me.

Like conscious decay,

watch my heart turn to clay;

I’ll let gravel and dirt set me free.

Buried with words I can’t say

in my self-conceived grave,

my only way out is for breathing to cease.

I’ve crawled through grief,

and clawed through stone,

to be six feet deep

and feel at home.

-JD May 20

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