Page 39 of Reclaimed

I pull his gun from my waistband, the click of the safety snapping his attention up.

“She was more of coke-whore than a bitch,” I muse, aiming the barrel at his forehead. “Coke was her vice, and her infatuation with it is what killed her.”

Stepping over to Miller again, I sink into a squat, the dark denim of my jeans pulling tight as I crouch above him. The muscle in his neck feathers, his pupils shifting slightly to the side. Then he makes a pathetic attempt at pulling the knife free, aiming to drive it into my side.

I shift forward in one smooth motion, my knee digging into his elbow and pinning it against the floor. The knife skitters away as I ram the pistol into his mouth. He gags and chokes around the barrel as I force it to the back of his throat, my knuckles grazing his teeth.

“How hilarious would it be if you died by your own gun?”

His other hand comes in with a sloppy hook that my ear takes the brunt of, and I yank the gun back. Miller sputters and coughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as I rock back and push to stand, reaching for my glass of whiskey again.

“I’ll fucking end you, you worthless bastard,” he spits, sitting upright and swiping a hand over his mouth. “Once I report you to the Vanguard, they’ll issue a death directive.”

I chuckle as I slip the gun back into my waistband and pull out my phone, connecting to the Bluetooth through a VPN scrambler and queuing up the Transit album. Retrograde’s signature rapid fire drums and jagged guitars churn from the speakers, their annoyingly catchy lyrics punctuated with the occasional screamed hook. It’s perfect to swallow any sound he could make as I grab the whiskey bottle for a refill, shaking my head with another laugh.

“You think the Vanguard is funny?” he sneers.

I take a pull straight from the bottle, savoring it. It’s fucking good whiskey– it’d be a real shame to waste it.

“I think it’s funny you don’t see the flaw in your logic,” I murmur, eyeing the label again.

Oh well.

Fisting the neck, I swing the bottle full force against his stupid face. It explodes on contact, shards of glass and whiskey raining down around us.

“Dead men can’t narc.”

His chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, blood beading to the surface of the cuts littering his face. I snatch him by the front of his sweatshirt, pulling him upright and dragging him into the kitchen.

“You can’t kill me,” he huffs. “Don’t you remember who my fath–”

The crack of his skull hitting granite reverberates through the large open-concept condo as I cut him off. “Even with the help of a metric ton of laxatives, I wouldn’t give a singular shit whose balls you leaked out of,” I say, fisting his hair and twisting his face upward. Blood flows from his shattered nose, dripping onto the counter. “Not only can I kill you, but I will kill you.”

I reach for the stove knob and twist, the gas line clicking before a flame blossoms and dances beneath the grate. “My only regret is not doing this sooner, before you could hurt her again.”

“Her?” he slurs, blood coating his teeth and chin as his face screws up. Then realization dawns, and he scoffs. “Which whore is it?”

I don't say a word. I just twist the dial further, the flames growing higher.

“Let me go, you fucking freak,” he snarls, spitting a glob of saliva and blood onto my face. “I should’ve cut your throat that night instead of your fucking eye. You’re nothing but orphan scum, a pathetic errand boy for better men.”

If he’s trying to talk me out of killing him, he’s doing a terrible job at it.

The edges of my vision tinge black, a sharp, shrill sound piercing my ear drums. The world around me goes silent as I shove his face down onto the burner.

His mouth hinges open, but if he screams, I don’t hear it. All I can hear is my father’s words; his fucking posturing while making every excuse as to why he could hardly look my way, let alone acknowledge my existence.

“Goddamnit, Lena!” he yells, glass shattering as she screams at the top of her lungs.

My arms wind tighter around my knees as I rock in the corner of my closet.

He won’t come in here. I know that. He never does.

I promised I wouldn’t leave my room again, not even for the bathroom this time. It wasn’t even the trip to the bathroom that got me in trouble– it was because I remembered Mom finally broke down and let me get the superhero juice bottles, and I really wanted one. It’d been quiet, it was late. But he was standing in the living room on his phone.

He wasn’t even facing me, and I was sure I’d make it to the fridge and back undetected. But before I took a step, Mom shouted my name. She ripped me by the arm, dragging me into my room and shoving me into the closet. I heard the lock click while she muttered something about how this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I can’t keep this up, not any longer,” he shouts, his voice clear through the wall separating us.