Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Why the fuck can I do it?
The muscles in my arms flex, and my finger twitches on the trigger, but not enough to fire the gun.
“I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to go through with it.”
I'm so startled, I almost lose my grip on the gun. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I whisper to my brother, slouched in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “How did you get in?”
River brushes dark hair away from his forehead, giving me a clear look at the way he rolls his eyes. “How do you think? The same way you did.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward the back door I never closed.
“You thought you had to follow me here? You didn't think I could handle it? I got everything I came for.”
“Not everything, evidently.” His arms folded, he nods at Christian’s crumpled form. “He’s still breathing.”
“I was getting there.”
“Please. I watched you. You were going to puss out.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Fine. Maybe I came all this way because I didn't want to let you have all the fun. You're not the only one this bastard made miserable.”
He walks slowly into the room, snarling at the man on the floor. “Sick, twisted fuck. I would swear he got off on it, all of it.”
“He probably did,” I agree. “And he deserves to die.”
I don't think I have it in me, is the thing. Beating the shit out of him, that I could do. Terrorizing him until he pissed his pants, sure. I can't seem to take the final step.
Which is why I extend my arm, holding the gun out for my brother to use, instead. “You do it. You deserve a little bit of fun, too.”
“I have a better idea.”
My eyes widen at the sight of the knife he pulls from his back pocket. “Where did you get that?”
“Where do you think? The kitchen.” The small blade gleams when he holds it up. A paring knife. “Why give him the mercy of a quick death?”
I was thinking the same thing before I came in here. As always, he's willing to take it that far, when all I do is think about it. I couldn't even pull the fucking trigger.
“Don't worry,” he says with a snide grin. “You don't have to get your hands dirty.”
“I already have,” I remind him. The relief I felt when I first saw him is gone thanks to his attitude. He never knows when to stop. Especially not when there's a chance to make me feel inferior.
“You tied him up and pistol whipped him. Don't expect a medal.” He places the blade of the knife between his teeth before pulling Christian’s sweatpants and shorts down to his ankles. My insides twist up when I realize what he's about to do.
But that's not all I'm feeling. Somehow, this seems right. What he deserves. He shouldn't die quickly. Not after everything he's done. He should bleed out in agony.
“Hey. Hey, Christian. Wake up. You don't want to miss this part.” When Christian doesn't respond, River gives him a vicious backhand that makes his head snap to the side.
That wakes him up. River crouches over him, waving the knife in front of his swollen eyes. “Time to make your outside look like your insides.”
“Wh-What?” he whispers.
“You never had the balls to be a real man, so you had to beat up on kids to make yourself feel good. You obviously don't need these.” He taps the flat of the blade against Christian’s balls.
“No,” he squeaks, twisting in terror, struggling against the duct tape. “No, don't do that. I gave you everything you wanted! I told you everything! I was trying to help you!”
“You gave us information,” River explains, speaking slowly like he would to a kid. “But that's not all we want. Not after all the shit you pulled. And not only with us. How many fucking kids did you torture?”
“I was only doing what was right! Please, don't do this!” His high-pitched pleas only make River laugh while I watch, fascinated.
River turns to me, grinning. “I might need you to hold him down. Wouldn't want to cut myself because he can't stay still.”
Christian fixes his gaze on me, his head swinging back and forth while he flops around like a dying fish. “Don't do this. Please, don't do this!” he pleads, sobbing, sweat soaking through his shirt, tears cutting through the blood drying on his face.
I have nothing more to say to him. River’s right. This is what he deserves, and the symbolism is the cherry on top. When I crouch beside my brother, leaning all my weight against Christian’s legs to pin them to the floor, his sobbing turns into breathless panting. He's too far gone to speak, to plead, anything. Because now he feels the tip of the blade biting into his sack.