Just like it did with Mom.
Behind me sits her discarded mug. It’s likely been there since she died—forgotten.
Just like her.
I'd like to think this is Mom extending the hand she never extended when she was alive. A peace offering, maybe.
Subtly, I loop my finger through the handle, and he pauses a few feet away. Right out of arm's length, making me sigh.
If only she gave that much of a shit.
Time stands still, except for the consistent beat inside my chest, reminding me that I'm still alive. I'm still fighting.
Then, he lunges, and I'm swinging, the mug in my hand cracking against his temple. Ceramic shatters, and a shard cuts into my palm.
He roars, and his arm swings out wildly, attempting to grab ahold of me. But if there's one thing I learned about people with more artificial chemicals in their bodies than blood—they have no fucking aim.
I duck and tackle him to the floor while he's unbalanced, the back of his head smacking off it harshly. A curse flies out of his mouth and he's grappling to get a leg up so he can flip me over. But I'm already on top of him, a piece of the mug gripped between my fingers and pressed against his jugular.
It only lasts half a second, and he’s carelessly knocking away my hand before sending a fist flying toward my face. Just barely, I flinch to the side, his knuckles clipping my cheek and sending a shooting pain throughout my face.
But my desperation outweighs the sting, and I’m rushing to get my knees over his biceps. Several times, he deters me, nearly throwing me off just for me to crawl back onto him. Finally, I send my own fist into his nose, allowing me to stun him long enough to get his arms pinned beneath my knees, putting all my weight onto him.
I press the piece back into his jugular again, the shard having already shredded my own skin from the struggle.
“Make one fucking move, and I'll slit your throat, asshole,” I spit through heavy pants.
My hand trembles against him, my vision narrowing until all I see is his disgusting face, contorted in rage with gray scruff covering his jaw.
“You're a pathetic man,” I snarl. “And there isn't a single soul on this planet that will care when you're gone.”
He laughs, and his rotten breath fans across my face. I dig the sharp end deeper, a bead of blood blooming from the tip.
“That don't matter to me, baby. Come on, you know better than that. Even if I was a fucking stand-up citizen, I'd go down in history like everybody else. Forgotten. My name carved in some stupid gravestone that people pass by and don't look twice at. And ya know what? The same thing will happen to you.”
“Yeah, you're right,” I say, my voice breathless and trembling. “But at least when I go down, I'll be able to say I took as many of you sick fucks as I could with me.”
Another full belly laugh releases from his throat, though the desperation is evident. He doesn't want to die, and at any moment, he's going to renew his fight.
So, I make a quick decision and slice the opposite side of his throat. He'll bleed out eventually, but it won't be over before I'm ready.
His eyes widen, and his mouth flops while he chokes on his own blood. Blood that spurts onto my face, neck, and chest.
“Fucking bitch!”
Uncaring, I lean forward until his eyes find their way to mine, his pupils little pinpoints.
I shake my head. “No. You don't get the privilege of seeing me while you die.”
Dropping the ceramic, I cup his face between my palms and place my thumbs over his eyes.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, though the words are garbled. His fingers wrap around my wrists, attempting to pull them away. But the blood loss has made him weak, and he fails miserably.
It takes a few seconds of pushing until I feel his eyes pop. His answering scream is loud, broken, and full of agony. It's a sound I've grown accustomed to with other girls in Francesca's house. Before, it shattered my heart when I heard it. Now, I feel nothing.
Crimson puddles in the craters of his pulverized eyes, flooding my hands, and down either side of his face. A sea of red.
I chuckle aloud. “Moses probably wouldn’t appreciate me calling your face the Red Sea, huh?” I laugh again, the sound hoarse and broken. “Then again, he probably isn't appreciating any of this.”
I don't stop until I've smashed them into his puny brain and his struggles cease.
The earth got a little cleaner today.
His hands drop from my arms, and as he goes completely limp, so do I. I just… deflate. Like his eyeballs, I suppose.
That thought wrings another tired giggle out of me.
I'm covered in blood, sweat, and probably other shit I don't want to know about. My heart is racing, and my lungs are incredibly tight.