Page 440 of Eternal
Blood on the marble, on the walls.
The music stops, but the fireworks don’t, stupid fireworks, they should be for her, only for her, a celebration of life she never got to finish.
I reload in the middle of the panic.
It’s not revenge, it’s grief, dressed in bullets, a requiem for the only thing that ever made me human.
The clip clicks empty.
I pull the trigger again. Nothing.
Click.
“…Fuck,” I whisper. I’m too tired for rage.
I drop the gun, pull the knife from my belt, it’s small, sharp, personal.
The man in front of me screams before I even move.
One step, one clean slice across his throat.
He gurgles as he drops, and I just keep walking.
The Governor’s trying to run. Stupid. Slow.
I catch him outside the garden, panting, red in the face, begging already.
He falls backward as I approach, boot to his chest, pinning him down.
“This is your house?” I ask, calm.
“Y-Yes! Yes, please?—”
“Okay,” I nod. “Good.”
I slice his ear off like I’m cutting steak.
He screams, high-pitched,animal.
I drag him by the collar, through the blood-slick grass, past bodies and glass and bone.
The fireworks keep going. Loud, bright, like celebrations are still happening.
It makes me sick.
I sat him in a chair in front of the house, the one they used for toasts, for speeches.
His ear’s in on the ground, his blood’s on my hands.
I step inside, find the kitchen without thinking, lighter in the drawer, cabinet full of alcohol, curtains dry as kindling.
I soak everything. Trail the liquor across the floors. Over rugs. Tables. The drapes. I even splash it across a painting. His fucking legacy.
I walk back out. He’s still in the chair. Shaking. Crying.
I flick the lighter.
“This is what my Fourth of July looks like,” I tell him. Then I dropped it.
