Page 45 of Misery
Luna follows me, tail low, whining softly in her throat.
She knows something's wrong.
Animals always know.
They smell fear like perfume.
Rex and Odin stay with Oskar, flanking him like guards.
Pack recognizing pack. Protector acknowledging protector.
In my room, I close the door and lean against it.
The wood is solid against my back. Real. Here.
Not in that warehouse with its copper smell and artistic arrangement of death.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Three bodies. Arranged like art installations.
Deliberate placement of limbs. My name is carved into flesh like a love letter written in violence.
Someone spent time on that. Made it beautiful in its horror.
My stomach churns, and acid burns my throat.
I strip mechanically.
Jeans that smell like motorcycle exhaust and fear.
Shirt damp with nervous sweat.
The leather jacket Oskar gave me with its Kevlar lining—protection I needed just to ride through my own city.
Each piece of clothing feels contaminated somehow, like the night's horror has seeped into the fabric.
The bathroom light is harsh. Too bright. Fluorescent honesty that shows every flaw. I catch my reflection and freeze.
There it is.
The scar on my shoulder where I hit the counter seven months ago.
Pale now, faded to silver.
But still there, still real.
Evidence written on my skin that I almost died in my own kitchen. That men put their hands on me and tried to?—
For the little artist.
The words flash behind my eyes.
Carved deep. Deliberate. Each letter cut with precision.
Someone killed three men and marked them for me.
Like a gift, like those horror movies where the killer leaves presents.
