Page 85 of Buried in Blood
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He said it like a promise.
Like he was doing me a favor.
“You’ll be sold with the next lot.”
And then he walked out. Just gone. Like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. I know I don’t matter. Not how he just gripped my body, kissed me against my will, and then dangled my freedom over my head.
I haven’t moved since the door locked. Not really. Not until now. Not until the rage finally boils over and cracks through the numbness.
My bare feet pace across cold tile. One wall to the next. Back again. I don’t count the steps. I don’t need to. The room isn’t big enough for numbers to matter.
He’s going to sell me.
Like furniture.
Like flesh.
Like I was never anything but an asset to him.
I press my palms into my eyes until stars explode behind my lids. Until the pressure makes me feel real again. I want to scream. I want to dig my nails into my own neck and tear something loose. I want todosomething—
No.
I want tokillhim.
The thought slithers in slowly. Not wild or frantic or dramatic.
Quiet.
Clean.
Like clarity after a storm.
I spin, pacing faster now. Chest tight. Breaths sharp. The walls feel closer than they were a minute ago. The corners are watching. Judging. Whispering in tongues, I almost remember.
Kill him.
The words echo with every step.
I won’t stab him. That’s too messy. He likes messy. He’d probably laugh through it.
I want him quiet.
I want himweak.
Poison.
I could hide it in his coffee. His water. That overpriced scotch he only drinks when he’s high on power and thinks no one’s watching. I’d watch him sip it slowly—like he always does. I’d watch the smug peel off his face the second he realizes something’s wrong.
And I wouldn’t blink.
Or maybe…
A gun.
Quick. Brutal. Loud.
