What Might Kill Us(6)By: M.N. Forgy
I laugh. I laugh at how stupid he is. “You’re not even a Gomez, he’s playing you!” I yell at him, my face turning red.
He steps over to me in a hurry and fists my hair. My scalp burns at the bite of pain and I wince.
“Maybe I’ll have to make a little Gomez bitch my wife then,” he threatens, his tone grim.
My lip curls and my teeth grit. My heart beating so hard I can feel it thud in my temples.
“Over my dead body,” I whisper.
And he smiles sinisterly.
“That can be arranged.”
I slap him hard in the face, done with his empty threats, and he lets go of my hair to touch his smarting cheek.
“Stay the fuck away from me.” I point at him as I make my way over to the bed. My voice cold as ice and filled with hatred. He wipes at his bottom lip, side eying me as he takes a seat back on the sofa with a look that suggests this isn’t over.
Folding my legs, I sit there and stare out the window again as thoughts of betrayal and what I need to do for myself sit heavy within.
Tonight. Tonight I will escape.
Waking up in the middle of the night, I find Alvaro sleeping on the chair. Walking up to him, I nudge his knee, testing to see how hard he’s sleeping. He doesn’t budge, so I tiptoe over to the door and lightly hit my knuckles against the wood.
“What is it?” A guard responds, his voice muffled by the door. There is always someone on watch, at all times.
“I’m hungry,” I respond softly, not wanting to wake Alvaro. I let out a slow breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Breakfast will be served in three hours,” the voice states in a matter of fact tone.
I shift on my feet, trying to think about how to counteract.
“Please, I feel like I might throw up,” I stall, trying to think. “You’ll have to clean it up if I do because it will just make me throw up more,” I try and convince, but am met with silence.
I cover my mouth and pretend to dry heave, taking this to a whole other level.
“Don’t!” The guard barks. “I’ll find some crackers or something, fuck!”
I can’t help but grin, nerves fluttering in my stomach and excitement making me feel like I need to pee. I glance over at Alvaro, finding him fast asleep still.
The door clicks open slightly a few minutes later and I grip the colorful braided string tightly in my hand.
The guy pokes his head in with crackers in hand and instantly I wrap the string around his neck. He stumbles with surprise and I jump on his back. Kicking the back of his leg, I take him down to the hall floor. I squeeze the braided string, little strands snapping in my hand from the harsh tug. He pulls at my fingers, choking. Blood tinges his fingertips as he tries to pry it free, the sharp string cutting into his skin.
My eyes sting with the urge to cry, the idea of what I’m doing not settling well. Even it if is to survive, it’s still inhumane.
My morality sifting away with the life I’m taking. The reaper standing by proud and ready to leap at the soul I’m so graciously giving him.
I cry, a sob wracking my whole body as I pull the life out of him. His movements start to slow, his fight giving out. He gargles, a spurt of energy trying to fight for his life one last time.
“Just die,” I whisper, wanting it over. Warm tears falling onto my bloody hands. I pull tighter, the string cutting into my own fingers. My blood mixing with his. My sins running as deep as the crimson string slicing through my fingers, surely to scar and remind me for life of the Gomez that resides within me. Darkness I will never escape.
He stills, his eyes bugged out and face blue and lifeless as I finally release him. Using the back of my hand I wipe at the snot and tears, smearing warm blood across my face. Pulling the string lodged in the flesh of my fingers I wince. It’s deep. God, there’s so much blood. Only, I’m not sure if it’s his or mine.
Did I strangle him or cut into a main artery? I shake my head, there is no room for vulnerability. I look at his torso for a weapon. My heart jumps when my eyes land on the handle of a gun sticking out from the front of his jeans.
Using my foot, I push his heavy body over and grab the gun.
It’s cold and heavy. I’ve never held one before and as soon as the metal grazes my palm I feel intimidated by its boldness.