He doesn’t approve of me being smart, either, and reading everything I can get my hands on. But Emilia always said education’s the key to a better life. I really hope that’s true, because if anybody needs a better life, it’s me.
The glint in his eyes is different tonight. I bend my knees slightly, knowing I’ll have to be quick—much faster than him.
The instant he launches toward me, leading with that broken bottle, I jump out of the way. I grab for the cleaver in the crappy knife block. The only other blade in there is a paring knife.
Reggie chuckles, his tone rich in sarcasm. “Now, what you think you gonna do with that, boy?”
I stare at him head-on. “Whatever I have to.”
He comes at me with that broken bottle aiming for my throat and I swing with all my might at his arm. He lets out a roar of pain when the blade slices deep through his wrist. Dropping the bottle to the floor, he wraps the fingers of his other hand around my throat and squeezes.
I gasp for air, and he only grins, squeezing tighter. “That’s right, boy. Ain’t nobody gonna miss you.”
Spots float in front of me, my vision going blurry, but somehow, I still hold on to the cleaver. It can’t be the end for me.
This won’t be the end.
This monster made me stop believing in God and angels, because what kind of god lets this happen?
Even so, something makes me plead silently. Mama, if you’re up in heaven watchin’ over me, please help me.
I can’t explain it, but a surge of strength suddenly fills me. It’s enough to have me tightening my grip on the cleaver and raising it to the side. When I slam it against his shoulder, it causes him to loosen his hold of my throat, and I swing even harder, but this time, at his neck.
Over and over, I keep swinging until he staggers back and loses his balance, plopping hard on the floor.
His eyes go wide with shock as he clutches at his throat, and his hands come away drenched in blood.
It’s like I’m detached from my body, watching it play out like a movie. I swing the cleaver again and again until there’s no life in his eyes and he doesn’t have a pulse.
When I finally drop to the floor across from him, the cabinets at my back, my chest heaves like I’ve run a marathon. But I don’t take my eyes off the monster lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. I can’t take any chances.
Especially not now that I’ve become a murderer.
4
MAC
Mandarin Springs, Florida
Chirping birds from outside are what first break through my sleepy haze. With that, awareness trickles in.
The sunlight streaming through my windows is far stronger than usual for when I normally wake up. It’s more powerful…like late morning.
I jerk upright in bed, alarmed that I slept in—which I never do—only to hiss at the onslaught of pain in my ribs that nearly renders me breathless.
“The fuck?” I heave out.
My eyes sweep downward, my gaze immediately landing on my naked body atop my sheets. Dark, angry bruises along my stomach and vicious scratches along the tops of my hands incite a panic that threatens to swell my throat shut.
I blink rapidly, trying to remember how the hell I got injured, but come up empty. I remember sneaking out of the guy’s motel room, but that’s it.
What the hell happened? I thought I’d been doing better at managing my blackout headaches, but last night, I hadn’t even felt the onset of one.
I’ve been dealing with these episodes for a while now—on top of my intermittent sleepwalking. Both are terrifying as hell since it happens out of the blue and without any warning.
There’s no rhyme or reason to it. I’ll often wake up with unexplained injuries. They’re always the result of me passing out from my debilitating headaches or when I stumble during a sleepwalking episode.
With a loud groan, I drag myself from my bed and plod over to the bathroom to get a look at myself. The instant I see my face’s reflection in the mirror, I breathe a sigh of relief.
A derisive smirk pulls at my lips while I stare at myself in the mirror, my sarcasm-laced words spilling out. “No more damage to the already marred masterpiece.” Thank fuck. I can’t afford for my face to scare anyone else more than it already does.
Gently, I press my fingertips around my ribs. They’re sore as hell, but I think they’re just badly bruised.
I rake my hands through my messy hair before twisting it up and securing it with a clip. Lowering my head over the sink, I turn on the faucet and splash some cool water on my face, hoping it will jolt my brain into remembering something.
Exhaling a frustrated breath, I cup more water in my hands and splash it on my face again. Instantly, my body jerks with the flash of memory of doing the same exact thing…except the water dripping off my face and hands and swirling around the sink drain is red.
I stare dully at the blood, and for some reason, I’m not horrified as much as I’m resigned. It’s as though I expected this outcome.
It’s only when I raise my head to stare at my reflection in the mirror that something odd happens. Buried deep, somehow, a minuscule memory fragment suddenly rears its head. My hands clutch the sink’s edge to steady me while my heart beats wildly.
With a myriad of purple and blue blotches, my right eye is swelled shut, and both my top and bottom lips are busted, the thinnest scabs formed over them. An angry slash of red mars my left cheekbone.
The man’s voice echoes in my head as if it’s on loudspeaker. “I’m the only one you can trust… I hate having to punish you…”
My entire body jerks upright. Water drips down my face as I stare into the mirror, my lashes wet and eyes barely blinking. My reflection shows nothing out of place. My face is exactly how it’s been.
What the hell was that? Was that a memory? And who was that man?
Drawing in deep and slow breaths, I stare at my reflection and try to compel my brain to show me more. But, after a long moment when nothing happens, I give up.
With a sigh, I slather toothpaste on my toothbrush and stick it in my mouth. Yanking the lever for the shower, I adjust the water temperature before stepping inside.
Water pours over me while I brush my teeth, and I wish like hell this shower had the capability to revive my memory’s missing gaps.
If only.
5
MAC
Public transportation is a circle of hell in itself. If Dante were still alive, I have no doubt he’d agree and revise Inferno to include it.
You might dismiss my claim, but I can back it up.
First of all, there’s no industrial-strength cleaner that holds the power to rid a city bus of the extremely noxious lingering body odor, unexplained stains, and the amalgamation of perfumes and colognes from countless people.
Trust me on this. It’s enough to cause the hairs in your nose to shrivel up and disintegrate…or come pretty damn close to it.
Second, the majority of people who use public transportation are positively clueless—or flat-out ignorant—when it comes to personal space and social niceties.
You’re probably wondering why the hell I’m taking the bus, then, right? It’s because I have no choice in the matter.