Page 123 of The Colour of Revenge
And I'll burn the fucking world down to bring her home.
30
I’ll Fight In The Morning
Hypothetical Question: If you had to kill someone in the most boringway possible, just to mess with their loved ones, what would your method be?
Carina
Whenmyfathersaidhe wanted to break me, he wasn’t just talking. He meant every fucking word.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? Time doesn’t exist in this place—only pain. It drags me under an endless, suffocating tide.
My ribs scream with every breath, sharp and unforgiving. My wrists burn from the ropes that held me, my skin raw and torn. A knife wound on my thigh pulses with agony, blood still sluggishly leaking from where he carved into me with my own blade.
The irony is bitter on my tongue.
I try to focus, but the world is a haze, a nightmare without an end. Fear should be clawing at me, choking me, but all I feel is the slow, smouldering burn of fury.
Before, I wanted him to pay.
Now I want to burn his fucking life to the ground and watch him weep before I drain the life out of him.
The door creaks open. Despite myself, I flinch.
He steps inside, his presence filling the dim space like a shadow stretching across my soul. The smell of his cologne clings to the air—something expensive and sharp, something I used to associate with power. Now, it makes bile rise in my throat.
His boots echo on the concrete floor. “I think you understand now that I’m not playing games,” he says smoothly.
I say nothing. Words are a weapon I refuse to give him.
A sharp tug on my wrist. My arms fall free, the sudden release sending a fresh wave of pain lancing through me. My body is a ruined thing, a collection of wounds barely holding together.
I try to move—to lash out, fight, or do something—but my limbs betray me. They are weak and unresponsive.
His fingers clamp around my arm, iron-hard, as he drags me toward the door. The sudden motion rips a gasp from my throat, but I swallow the sound. Refusing to break.
Each step up the stone staircase is a jolt of fresh agony. The world tilts dangerously, black spots creeping into my vision, but I grind my teeth, forcing myself to stay conscious. I won’t pass out in front of him.
Light. Too bright, too sharp. My eyes struggle to adjust. We’re in a house—not his, or at least, not one I recognise. The realisation slithers down my spine.
Another staircase. Wood now, creaking beneath our weight.
At the top, a door opens, revealing a bedroom. Bare. Devoid of personality. A bed in the centre. A prison dressed up as comfort.
He shoves me forward.
My legs crumple, and I hit the mattress hard, a fresh explosion of pain tearing through my ribs.
His voice follows me down, cold and final. “You’ll stay up here as long as you can behave.”
Then, silence.
I don’t move. I can’t. My body is wrecked, trembling, on the verge of shutting down. But my mind?
My mind is still my own. And as long as I have that, I am not broken.
I’ll fight in the morning.
