That was the only thought in my mind, so I did.
My bare feet burned from touching the hot concrete, but I didn’t care. With everything in me, with all the power I had, I ran until I had no strength left.
I fell to my knees on the rough ground as I breathed heavily, trying to control my rapidly beating heart.
I heard him move; he was behind me.
“Sapphire.” His disgusting voice softened as he said my name. “Come with me.” My hand moved to my abdomen where my baby lay, and a determination like never before hit me as I stood up. “Good girl. Now let’s go. We need to get out of here.”
He’d ruined so many lives. I wouldn’t allow him to touch my child or continue living in this world. Turning around, I pointed the gun in my hand at him and he froze.
“Put the gun down.”
My hands trembled as all the memories we shared flew through my mind.
How could he do it? How could he live in this world after taking away so many lives?
And more importantly, how could he think I’d go with him willingly after he killed the man I loved?
“Goodbye,” I whispered as I pulled the trigger.
With a guttural groan, he fell to his knees. He held his hand to his chest and looked straight at me with hatred in his eyes. Then he collapsed on the ground, dead.
My hands fell to my sides. Tears slid down my cheeks, but not because of him, no. The bastard didn’t deserve it. My tears were for all the evil he’d done.
The sounds of sirens in the background snapped me out of my stupor, and after a second, or an hour, or maybe more, a man softly touched me, covered me with a blanket, and helped me into the ambulance.
“Don’t worry, honey. Everything will be all right,” one of the paramedics said, gently squeezing my hand reassuringly as I gazed numbly at the ceiling of the ambulance. My lips were dry and they hurt. The last thing I could remember before oblivion consumed me was D’s kisses and how I would never have him again.
Everything was finally over.
In that moment, I allowed myself to weep and let the grief overtake me.
Five Weeks Earlier
New York, 2011
The man in the chair was pinned to the wall with several straps across his chest. He cried out in pain as I relished the exquisite torture my hands inflicted on him. It was truly a work of art to make a man suffer agonizing pain, but not enough to die.
I’d mastered it for many years, learned everything there was, and practiced my craft religiously.
Knives, guns, chains, wires.
Nothing was off limits for me.
I loved this—the feeling of power and knowledge that I could play with my victim for days, and sometimes, if the mood struck me, for weeks. When I finally had enough, and it was always about me, I’d kill the fuckers quickly. They tended to get on my nerves with all their whining.
The most boring part in the whole process was disposing of the body—not much work there—and then covering my tracks so the traces would never bring anyone to me.
However, the idea of anyone suspecting me of such things was laughable.
I was the one who sent condolences to their wives and families, if they had any, and the one who actively participated in police searches.
People were very naïve sometimes. They had no idea appearances could be deceiving.
What they thought was good, might be dark.
What they thought was dark, might be the only salvation to human kind.
“Mercy.” The fucker was choking on his own blood; his voice was barely a whisper, and his eyes were wide with fear. It made me chuckle.
“Never.” I held the knife, small but sharp, and engraved small patterns on his back, which earned me another cry of pain. The familiar, disgusting smell of urine filled the air. How many fucking times could this guy piss his pants? Adjusting my nose mask better on my face, I continued to write the names on his back, so he would know what the fuck he suffered for.
You’d probably think I was a monster.
Well, you wouldn't be wrong.
I loved torture and pain, but only when I was the one to inflict it.
I was the witness, judge, and executioner all at once.
No one knew better than I did what it was like to be in their position.
And in pain.
Always in fucking pain.
No one was born a monster.
He made me the person I was, and I was glad for his ‘gift.’
Sociopath took care of men like him, made sure they suffered to death. They would never get an easy death from me. I’d make them suffer for all the shit they’d done. It was fun and well deserved.
Mercy. What a funny concept.
I would never have mercy for anyone in this world, let alone for people who were the same monsters as I was.
Life wasn't that generous.