Page 153 of The Night Shift
I pull out my scalpel from his thigh and make a long, deep drag from the base of his sternum, splitting his flesh apart like wet paper.
Nate’s chest spasms. Exposed and bloody.
I set the scalpel aside and grab the hammer from the floor, tapping it lightly against his chest, right above the sternum. “Let me tell you a story about the human body. Apparently, it can tolerate a buttload of pain before finally giving up.”
I bring it down.
The first strike lands hard, shattering the first rib with a wet, splinteringCRACK. The sheer force of it sends yet another spray of blood across my face, beading along my lips.
The second hit causes a jagged fragment of bone to jut outward, white against the glistening meat of his insides.
One by one, I smash each rib apart, working downward. Blood seeps between the fractured gaps, spilling down his sides in thick, slow-moving rivers.
He’s not dead yet. But he can feel everything.
Good.
I pick up my scalpel and cut into the costal cartilage. The resistance is tougher than skin, but I saw through, slow and steady, slicing through, deeper and deeper.
A fresh wave of hot, sticky blood pours over my wrists. My pulse pounds, my breath quivers. It takes a good amount of time, but eventually I see it.
His heart. Dark red. Slick with blood.
Trash.
It keeps pounding frantically in its open, gaping cavity. The muscle convulses, spasming erratically, hammering against the exposed walls of his chest like a trapped animal desperately trying to escape.
I reach in and touch it.
The frantic, quivering muscle pulses against my palm. The very last thing keeping him tethered to this world.
“I was just trying to protect her.”
“She wanted it.”
“No one will believe you.”
Tears sting the back of my eyes.
Images flash. New ones — bruised skin, blue eyes, black hair matted with blood, a broken hand.
My fingers tighten, my sharp nails digging in. Piercing with ease.
They say you should never make a decision when you’re angry. I wholeheartedly disagree. Why label a single emotion as bad? In the right hands, anger is a weapon. And to deny someone of their anger is to deny them of power. Take right now for example. Every decision that has led me to this moment is a result of my pent-up rage.
“Long ago, you took everything from me.” I squeeze his heart once. It twitches in my hand like a dying rat. “Do you know how it felt?”
There’s a horrible, wet squelch. A fresh gush of blood explodes from the mangled mess in my fist, pouring over my wrist, down my arm.
I crouch lower so he can see the exact shape of my smile. I dig deeper, my nails sinking into the twitching muscle like claws. “It felt likethat.”
And then nothing.
Silence. He’s gone.
Chapter 31
Theo
