Page 9 of Twisted Ties
Too fucking pathetic.
A drop or two of my blood?
Too much.
I examine my hands. Slide the littlest ring off my pinky fingers. It might be too big for her, but she can wear it on a chain around her neck. In fact, I like that idea better. My ring resting against her heart. A leash around her neck.
I pinch the ring between my forefinger and thumb and examine the silver skull. I stole it from some kid in our neighborhood. Took it from his hand, finger and all.
Fun times.
I smile.
I peer up at the window again. The Enforcer is still there. He’s not going. It pisses me off. I won’t be able to give my gift to her myself.
But I find another way, creeping up on some nurse smoking a cigarette round the back of the clinic.
I pull out the knife. I stroke my fingers along the hilt, feeling the carvings with my coarse fingertips.
Never used a knife before. Never plunged one into a gut, sliced one through a neck.
Wonder what that would be like. How it would feel.
Not tonight though. I need the nurse alive. Otherwise he can’t deliver my gift.
“Hey,” I say, and the nurse jumps a foot off the ground,his cigarette tumbling from his fingers and singeing the front of his uniform. The smell of burned fabric pierces the air.
“Fuck,” the man says, flicking the cigarette away and flapping at his shirt.
I get tired of waiting, and spin the knife in my hand.
The movement catches the man’s attention, and he freezes.
“I don’t have any money,” he says quickly. “But you can have the packet.” He shakes the cigarette box in his hand. “It’s almost full.”
I step closer. I can see the blood pumping in the man’s throat. Bet he’d make a fucking fountain without me even trying. Just the touch of her knife through his skin. Skin really is shit. So thin. So weak. So pathetic.
“You want to help me?” I ask, coming closer still.
He nods, his eyes wide with terror as they look up at me.
I love that.
“Shame,” I sigh. Guess, I was hoping for an excuse to kill the dude after all.
“Wh-what?” he stutters.
“See this ring,” I say. I open my palm. His eyes dart down to look, though he’s watching my knife hand out of the corner of his eye. “I want you to give it to the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The one who looks like she fell out of a fairytale.”
“What’s her name?”
“Rhianna Blackwaters,” I say. I like her name.
“I’ll give it to her,” he says, holding out his hand, eager to end this conversation and get away. “Who should I say it’s from?”
