Anger

I jolted awake, startled by the sudden weight of something landing on top of me. Shouting, I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing. An old man, hunched and grizzled, tossed another bag of trash onto the pile I’d been using as a bed.
“Get outta the trash, boy! Go home!” he barked, waving a knobby hand at me before shuffling off, muttering under his breath as he disappeared down the alley.
My hands trembled as I brushed myself off, glancing around to orient myself. I still clutched the small purse I had lifted earlier, my fingers tightening around it as if it were my only support. The thought of food flickered in my mind like a faint, desperate hope.
Back on the street, I realized I had no idea where I was. The buildings here were unfamiliar, their facades worn and sagging as if the weight of years had bent them in place. I didn’t know how far I had run–or even where the keep was anymore. My surroundings felt foreign and hostile, the rough cobblestones beneath my bare feet only adding to my misery.
Each step sent a jolt of pain through my aching soles, but I forced myself to keep moving, clutching the purse like it could save me from the gnawing weakness in my body. I staggered along, my legs wobbling beneath me as the hunger hollowed me out further with every passing moment.
Eventually, my aimless wandering brought me to a side road. A small, weathered sign hung above a doorway, the painted letters just barely legible: Food, Drinks, Women.
I hesitated, my hand tightening instinctively on the purse. The thought of food gnawed at my resolve, pushing me forward despite the unease bubbling in my chest. My stomach growled loudly, and with one last glance around the quiet street, I stepped through the open doorway.
“Yer too young to be ’ere! Out with ye!” an older man barked from behind the bar, his weathered face scowling at me.
“P-please, ser,” I pleaded, holding out my stolen coin in trembling hands. “Just a’b-bita f-food.”
I prayed he wouldn’t ask where the coin had come from, wouldn’t press questions I couldn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at my hand, suspicion flickering briefly in his gaze. But then he shrugged, motioning for me to come forward.
The bar was mostly empty, the quiet of the early day hanging in the air. I slid onto a stool, pushing the coin toward him, and he pocketed it without a word. Moments later, he placed a bowl and a quarter-loaf of bread on the table in front of me.
I snatched the bread up immediately, sinking my teeth into it. The loaf was old and stale, but I didn’t care. The taste, rough and dry though it was, made me hum softly with relief. My stomach, long since starved of real food, welcomed the sensation.
I dunked the bread into the greasy porridge, letting the thin liquid soften it. Each bite melted in my mouth, the grease clinging to the bread just enough to make it palatable. I forced myself to eat slowly, determined not to repeat my mistake from the storeroom.
This was no banquet, not by anyone else’s standards. The bread was dry, the porridge thin and watery, but to me, it was a feast. Each bite felt like a small victory.
When I finished most of the bread, I carefully tucked the remaining pieces into the pocket of my pants. Waste wasn’t an option—not now. I tipped the bowl, scooping the last of the porridge into my mouth, savoring every drop before setting it down.
The bartender ignored me once he’d served me, retreating behind the counter as if I weren’t there. I sat quietly, letting the moment stretch out, the food settling in my stomach as I leaned back with a sigh.
My thoughts drifted to what would come next. I had enough coins left for a few more days—maybe a week, if I was careful. But then what? I would need more. More food, more coin, and perhaps a plan to ensure I didn’t find myself back on the street or in worse trouble.
For now, though, I let myself enjoy the rare quiet, if only for a little while.
People began filtering in from the street, their voices breaking the quiet that had lingered in the room. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as they were pulled out, the newcomers calling out to the bartender for food or drink. The low hum of conversation filled the air, each voice blending into the growing din.
I tried to keep my head down, not drawing attention to myself as the room slowly came to life.
Then, a group of soldiers entered, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as they made their way to a corner table. Their presence was unmistakable—loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore. They set themselves up as if they owned the place, their laughter and shouts cutting through the other conversations.
My pulse quickened, the sound of their voices tightening a knot in my chest. I forced myself to breathe evenly, to remain calm. You’re fine, I told myself. Just another face in the crowd.
But my heart picked up its pace anyway, beating faster with each glance they cast in my direction—even if it wasn’t meant for me. I hunched over slightly, keeping my gaze low and my movements slow.
I didn’t feel the urge to run—not yet—but the tension coiled within me like a spring, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble.
Not until they walked in.
Them. The two guards.
My body tenses the moment I saw them, the shorter one pawing at a passing server as she walked by. She smacked his hand down sharply, her expression a mix of annoyance and disdain, before continuing on her way. He laughed, loud and grating, while his taller companion sneered.
From my chair, I watched them warily, my heart pounding in my chest. They circled the bar with a swagger that made my stomach churn, finally joining the group of soldiers in the corner. Their arrival was met with back slaps and boisterous laughter, their loud voices cutting through the room like a knife.
Fear, resentment, and anger simmered in my chest, each emotion feeding into the other until I felt as though I might burst into flame. My hands clenched into fists beneath the table, trembling with the force of my rage.
What had I done to deserve their treatment?
The question repeated in my mind like a drumbeat, louder with each passing second. The pain they had caused me–physical, emotional–fueled the fire inside me, my anger burning hotter and brighter.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as I pushed back. For a moment, the world tilted, the dizziness hitting me like a wave. My legs buckled beneath me and I collapsed back into the chair, gasping for breath.
My body was weak, trembling with exhaustion and hunger, and the realization struck me like a blow: I am in no shape to do anything.
My head fell into my hands as I struggled to compose myself, my thoughts spiraling. What could I do? What could anyone do against men like them?
That voice—the one that whispered from the back of my mind—spoke up again, stronger this time, insistent.
You can gather your strength.
The thought unfurled like a spark in the darkness, feeding off the embers of my anger.
You could show them what it means to hurt someone helpless. Someone who was… innocent.
A shiver ran through me as the weight of that word settled in my chest: was. I could never take back what had been stolen from me, never undo the pain or the scars they had left behind. But what they did to me—they might do to others.
Other girls might face even more hardship from their hands.
The voice grew louder, more determined, as though it were someone else entirely urging me on. They have no right to walk free, to laugh and boast as if their actions mean nothing. They should know what it feels like to be powerless.
My trembling fingers curled into fists, my breath shallow and quick as my mind churned.
I could stop them. I could make them feel the pain they caused. I could save someone else from becoming their next victim.
The fire inside me, stoked by fear and fury, began to burn hotter, though my body still felt too weak to follow through. But the voice persisted, driving me forward even as I faltered.
Gather your strength.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my ears. This wasn’t just about revenge—it couldn’t be. It was about survival. Mine, and others who might one day face what I had.
The anger inside me grew, fed by every thought of what they had done. Each memory sharpened my resolve until it felt like iron in my chest. The ones who had hurt me—the ones who had stolen so much—they had to pay.
Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself to my feet. My body protested, weak and unsteady, but I refused to let it stop me. With deliberate movements, I pulled the cap lower over my forehead, shielding my face as best as I could.
Without glancing back, I walked out into the streets, the noise of the bar fading behind me. The sun was higher now, its warmth brushing against my skin, and for a moment, the light felt almost blinding. But I didn’t stop.
I had strength now—not much, but enough. Enough to keep moving, enough to begin. I needed shelter, somewhere to gather myself. Somewhere to plan.
This wasn’t the end. Not for me.
Months passed with me surviving on the streets, flinching what I could from distracted pockets and careless purses. I used as little of the gold as possible, buying only scraps of food when I was desperate, hoarding the rest for something greater. My life became a delicate balance between survival and preparation, though neither seemed to sustain me fully.
I cleaned myself up as best I could, using whatever water I found and patching my clothes when they began to fall apart. But no amount of effort could hide the toll those months took on my body. What was once full and healthy was now thin and brittle, my ribs visible beneath my skin. My strength, which had already been fragile, dwindled further. I needed more sleep than I could ever get, and every movement felt heavy, laced with weakness.
I knew, deep down, that I could never confront two men and walk away the victor. Not like this. That realization consumed me, gnawing at my thoughts with relentless intensity.
I didn’t eat if it meant putting gold away. My hunger became secondary to my anger, to my need to find a way to make them pay. Each coin I saved felt like a step closer to that goal, even as my body cried out in protest.
The bitterness of my resolve was all that kept me going. I refused to let what they had done end with me.
I found myself flinching more than gold eventually. At first, it was small things—pieces of bread, a clean scrap of cloth, anything that could help me scrape by. My clothes, taken from the guard’s storeroom so long ago, had begun to thin and tear. Holes formed at the knees, where I had collapsed too many times to count, unable to rise again until my strength returned.
The more I took, the easier it became. Each successful theft dulled the sting of guilt, the little voice in the back of my mind growing fainter with every passing day. It used to whisper reminders of who I once was, of the things I had never allowed myself to do. But as time wore on, that voice became an afterthought, then a murmur, and eventually, it stopped altogether.
This was survival.
I no longer questioned what I had to do. Each stolen loaf of bread, each flinched coin, became part of the rhythm of my life, a necessity rather than a choice. I lived only for one purpose now, a single, all-consuming goal that burned within me.
No matter how long it took, I told myself. I would see it through.
I couldn’t risk having my flinched gold taken from me. Every coin was a hard-won salvation, and I would not allow it to slip through someone else’s grasp. My old garments, worn and riddled with holes, found new purpose as makeshift money belts.
With care, I crafted two belts to fit snugly around my thin waist. Each was nothing more than a strip of cloth, folded and sewn to hold a few gold pieces in hidden compartments, then tied securely around me. These belts became my armor, my safeguard against the streets.
Purses could be flinched, taken as easily as I took them from others. But the gold hidden against my body? The only way anyone would find that was if I were dead.
And I didn’t plan on that—not yet.
I did go back to the inn where it all started.
The hag was still there, bustling about the main room, her sharp voice cutting through the air like a blade. She placed trays of food on tables, dishes that looked as unfit to eat as they ever had been. Her sneer deepened as she barked orders at a serving girl, young and fragile-looking, just as I had been when I worked here.
The girl moved quickly, her head down, flinching at every word. Bruises mottled her arms, dark patches against pale skin, and a small, fresh cut marred her cheek.
I stayed outside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, staring in. My fists clenched at my sides as anger flared hot and relentless inside me. The sight of that girl, trapped in the same nightmare I had escaped, was enough to make my vision blur with rage.
It was all I could do to keep from storming in, from letting my fury boil over. My chest heaved as I fought to stay rooted in place, my nails digging into my palms. But before I could act, a wave of dizziness hit me like a blow.
My stomach cramped violently, doubling me over. I stumbled away from the doorway, gasping as the pain swept through me. I leaned heavily against the wall, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, letting the sharp agony pass as best I could.
When the spell subsided, I straightened slowly, my legs trembling as I forced them to move. One step at a time, I left the inn behind, the rage simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment I could finally unleash it.
I plotted, and I planned.
I walked through this city that I thought I knew, but in truth, I had only scratched its surface. Beneath the bustle of its daylight streets lay an underbelly that festered with rot—a hidden world of shadows and filth that those who walked in the sun would never see. Evil thrived in the cracks, unnoticed by the unknowing and unseen by the unwilling. In this world, I was just another shadow, another figure slipping through the streets. No one cared about an extra person wandering aimlessly.
During the day, I sought refuge in the forgotten corners of the city. I slept beneath stairwells, curled beside chimneys where the warm bricks eased the constant ache in my bones. But rest was elusive. Even in the rare moments when I managed to sleep, they found me.
Their faces haunted my dreams, grotesque and leering, their cruel laughter echoing in my mind. Each time I closed my eyes, they were there, waiting for me in the darkness. It became easier to avoid sleep altogether, to keep moving, to stay awake no matter how my body screamed for rest.
But exhaustion had its own tricks. I would lose track of time, my mind fogging until, without realizing it, I had drifted off. Those were the only times they didn’t haunt me—when sleep stole over me unbidden, bypassing my fear.
Even then, I woke feeling no less burdened, no less hunted.
My life had fractured into two distinct events: before and now.
The before haunted me, a constant reminder of what had been stolen from me. The now hunted me, relentless in its cruelty, offering no solace.
For a time, I tried to find the rich nobleman from before. I didn’t know why I bothered; maybe I had clung to some flicker of hope, the desperate belief that he might help me. That he might have seen enough in me that day to care, to intervene.
I asked about him cautiously, my voice measured, my questions framed with feigned curiosity rather than the panic that always threatened to seep through. People gave me strange looks—some filled with pity, others with vague curiosity, and still others with blank indifference.
“There are many rich men here,” one man had said with a scoff. “That’s like lookin’ for a needle in a bleedin’ haystack.”
Was it something I had imagined? The man’s face, his dismissive words? I wasn’t sure anymore.
My anger, sharp and unyielding, didn’t dull, but I lost my drive to search for him. He was just another demon in my growing nightmare, another pair of eyes that had glanced past my plight without seeing it.
So, I turned my anger elsewhere. It burned brighter, hotter, feeding on every memory, every face that had leered at me, every hand that had struck me. My fury had no outlet yet, but I knew it would find one. And when it did, I would make them pay.

I often returned to the bar where my resolve had first taken shape. From the shadows, I watched the two guards, their familiar faces twisted with the same arrogance and cruelty that had haunted me.
They drank their gold away, laughing loudly as they slapped coins on the counter, oblivious to the world around them. What they didn’t spend on ale, they squandered on the whores who lingered in the corners, feigning affection for the promise of a few coins.
I stayed hidden, watching their movements, studying their habits. Every visit added a piece to the puzzle forming in my mind. My plan was coming together—slowly, carefully, but with the precision of someone who had nothing left to lose.
I didn’t rush. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength yet to face them directly, but I had patience. Watching them squander their gold while I starved only sharpened my resolve.
They didn’t know they were being watched. They didn’t know what was coming.
But they would.

On a day when I could manage to keep myself awake, I made my way to the local whorehouse. My steps were careful, my purpose clear.
I approached one of the women, her tired eyes softening when I began to beg. I pleaded for an extra dress, spinning a tale of a beau who would be mightily pleased to see me dressed so finely—a beau who might even ask for my hand in marriage if I could impress him just so.
She smiled at me, the kind of indulgent smile you give a small child who declares they’ll grow up to be the governor of Linhir. There was no malice in it, just weary amusement.
With a small sigh, she knelt beside a modest wooden chest in her bare, sparse room. After a moment of searching, she pulled out an old dress, its fabric faded but still intact. She held it up to me, her practiced eye assessing.
“Yer a’bit small,” she said with a click of her tongue. “But this’ll do.”
I smiled as brightly as I could manage, mustering a curtsy like I might have before. “T-thank y-you so m-much,” I said earnestly, clutching the dress to my chest.
Before she could change her mind, I left, my pace quickening as I stepped out into the street.
Another piece of my plan fell into place. I had no intention of returning the dress, and something in her knowing smile told me she already understood that.

A few more flinched purses, and I finally had enough to pay for the final piece of my puzzle.
I forced myself to stay awake through the night, waiting until morning when the apothecaries opened their doors. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, but I pressed on, traveling to each shop I knew of in the area. At every stop, I purchased all the herbs they had for inducing sleep.
“M-my m-mother is ailing,” I explained to the shopkeepers, my voice shaky but low. “Her only c-comfort now is s-sleep.”
They asked no further questions, pity in their eyes. Gold in hand, they sold me the herbs without hesitation. No one questioned a customer who could pay, and I had enough gold to spare.
By the time I stepped out of the last shop, my belt was considerably lighter, but the weight in my satchel felt heavier than gold ever had.
I slipped into a back alley, rolling out my belt with careful hands. One by one, I added the herbs to the empty pockets where the coins had been stored. My hands trembled, both from the lack of food and the weight of what I was about to do. I knew I should eat—my body screamed for it—but eating would only delay the inevitable.
And I didn’t want to delay anymore.
I no longer wanted food or rest. I no longer cared for warmth or comfort. I only wanted to finish what had been started—what seemed like it had begun years ago now.
My resolve was complete.
A few weeks later, the time had finally come to put my plan into motion.
I waited at the back of the inn, my eyes scanning every face that passed, my breath shallow with anticipation. It didn’t take long before I saw her—the young girl, head bowed, her steps quick and timid. She rounded the corner and headed toward the inn, her posture heavy with the weight of fear.
I hung back, keeping to the shadows, waiting for the moment I could slip in behind her unnoticed.
She knocked on the door, and it swung open violently. A rough hand shot out, grabbing the front of her dress. “Yer late!” a voice snarled, dragging her inside before the door slammed shut behind them both.
I waited, my pulse quickening, and then stepped forward to try the door. Locked.
I hissed under my breath a curse I had picked up from the soldiers at the bar. I stepped back, my mind racing as my eyes flicked upward to the windows. Which ones had the broken locks?
The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and I shaded my eyes with my hand, squinting up at the second floor. I knew there was a way in—I just needed to wait.
Settling back into the shadows, I watched and waited, my body tense with readiness. A few times, exhaustion betrayed me, and I nodded off, only to jerk awake when I realized my vigil could not falter.
Finally, my patience paid off. The back door creaked open again, and the young girl stepped out, struggling under the weight of several bundles. She shuffled off toward the side of the road, her movements slow and burdened.
This was my chance.
I darted up from my spot and slipped into the back hallway, my steps quick and light. The musty smell of the inn hit me immediately, a blend of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and rot. I forced myself forward, knowing the hag would be in the front room, preparing for patrons or tending to the few who stayed overnight.
My heart began to pound, its rhythm erratic and deafening in my ears. My breath came fast and shallow, fear clawing at the edges of my mind. Stop it, I willed myself. You are not scared. You are not running.
But that wasn’t the truth, not entirely.
Every step toward the back room felt heavier than the last. The urge to turn and flee was strong, but something deeper pushed me forward. It was more than fear, more than the nightmare that had brought me to this place. It was the smoldering ashes of what remained of myself—the part of me that demanded this, that needed to see it through.
And so, I walked on.
I made it to the back room, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs, the relentless thud thud thud echoing in my chest. My hands trembled as I knelt by the dirty pile of blankets, forcing myself to focus.
Don’t look back.
The spot where… I shook the thought away, shoving it deep into the recesses of my mind. There was no time for memories, no time for hesitation. I pushed the blankets aside, revealing the loose board beneath. This was where she kept her gold and other valuables.
The board came up easily enough, and beneath it lay the bottle I’d been searching for, half-empty and reeking of her favorite brew. My fingers worked quickly, pulling the cork free with a faint pop. I emptied the herb packet into the bottle, careful not to spill a single bit of powder. The bitterness of the herbs mingled with the sour smell of the liquid inside.
With shaking hands, I replaced the cork and returned the bottle to its hiding place. The board slid back into position, and I hurriedly pulled the pile of blankets back over it, trying to make it look undisturbed.
And then I heard her.
The familiar shuffle of her heavy footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway, growing louder with every passing second. Panic surged through me like ice in my veins, and my eyes darted around the room. There—a cabinet against the far wall, its edges worn and splintered with age.
Without thinking, I jumped up and pushed the blankets hastily back into place before squeezing behind the cabinet. The space was narrow and stifling, my back pressed hard against the wall as I crouched in the shadows.
My heart beat wildly, its frantic rhythm roaring in my ears. It felt impossibly loud, as though it might betray me with its intensity. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed as her footsteps came closer.
I waited, crouched in the cramped space behind the cabinet, unsure of what I would do if she discovered me. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a painful reminder of how vulnerable I was.
She shuffled into the room, her heavy steps dragging across the floor. The sound of her weight dropping onto the straw sack she called a bed reached my ears, followed by a low grunt. I stayed as still as I could, my breath shallow and silent, straining to hear her every movement.
More waiting. More listening.
The faint creak of wood made my stomach lurch—she was prying up the board. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the edges of the cabinet as if holding onto it would keep me grounded.
Please, I thought, the word repeating like a mantra. Please, just drink it. Just take the bottle and drink.
A faint pop broke the silence, and I dared to peek through a crack. She tilted the bottle back, the liquid gurgling as she guzzled it down greedily.
I chewed the side of my lip, my body rigid with tension. I had no idea how quickly the herbs would work—if they would even work at all.
Her voice broke the silence, slurred and muttering. “Strong liquor,” she grumbled, followed by a low groan.
Moments later, I heard the sound of her collapsing onto the straw sack. My breath caught as the room grew quiet again, save for the faint mutters that turned into groggy sighs. She was lying down.
The plan was working, I couldn’t believe it.
I waited, crouched behind the cabinet, straining to hear her breathing. Each rise and fall of her chest was slow and heavy, the intervals between breaths growing longer. I counted them, each one steadying my resolve.
When I was certain she was deep in sleep, I slipped out from my hiding place. My steps were quiet, deliberate, as I moved toward her prone form on the straw sack. She lay there, sprawled out, her mouth slightly open, the remnants of her drink clutched loosely in one hand.
Standing over her, my anger rekindled. The sight of her—so careless, so oblivious—fanned the flames within me, sharpening my resolve like a blade.
I lifted my shirt, pulling out the belt I had fashioned to carry my gold. Carefully, I set the few coins aside, their small weight insignificant compared to what I was about to do. My eyes flicked to her ratty blankets, torn and frayed at the edges.
Without hesitation, I ripped strips from the blankets, the fabric tearing easily under my weak grip. The sound felt louder than it was, but she only grunted in her sleep, turning slightly.
I moved quickly, my hands steady despite the storm of emotions within me. Grabbing her limp arms, I pulled them behind her, tying her wrists tightly with the makeshift strips of fabric. She stirred, muttering incoherently, but didn’t wake.
The sight of her bound and vulnerable stirred something within me—not triumph, not yet. Just the faintest edge of control.
The final touch was the gag. I placed it roughly into her mouth, tying it tightly to ensure she couldn’t cry out. Then I stood over her, glaring down at her helpless form. Anger roiled in my chest, burning hotter with each passing second.
I wish she were awake, I thought bitterly, so she could look into my eyes and feel the same fear she had let me endure.
My hands shook as I reached for my belt, now empty of its coins, and placed it around her throat. My movements were steady, deliberate, as I pulled the cloth tight with what little strength I had.
Her body jerked violently at the sudden pressure, a convulsion that nearly knocked me off balance. I grunted, my muscles straining as I held on. She thrashed, her bound arms pulling against the ties, her legs kicking wildly in desperation. Her eyes bulged, wide with terror and realization.
I clenched my jaw, tears streaming down my face as I fought to maintain my grip. Her writhing grew more frantic, the sounds of her muffled cries and labored gasps filling the small room. Every part of me screamed with effort, but I didn’t dare let go.
This wasn’t just anger—it was everything she had done, everything she had allowed to happen. The years of torment, the helplessness, the pain—I poured it all into that moment, into the belt I held tight around her neck, my hands gripping the ends of the belt as I held them to the floor, leaning my weight into them.
And then it stopped.
Her body slackened suddenly, falling away from me. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by my own ragged breathing.
I staggered back, my arms trembling from the strain, the belt still clutched tightly in my hands. It felt like I had held her there forever, cursing her existence, cursing what she had done to me, cursing the sad, broken state my life had become.
I sank to the floor, tears still streaming down my face, as the weight of what I had done settled over me like a suffocating fog.
I wiped at my face, my sleeve dragging across my cheeks and nose as quiet sobs shook me. Her body lay motionless in front of me, a cruel reminder of what I had done.
I hated her.
I hated myself.
I hated everything—my life, my choices, the bitter, unrelenting taste of hate that burned my tongue like bile.
I wrapped my arms tightly around my knees, rocking back and forth as the weight of it all pressed down on me. My teeth sank into my arm to stifle the scream building in my throat. I bit down harder until the metallic taste of blood spread across my tongue, a sharp sting that finally forced me to let go.
My breath came in uneven gasps as I uncurled myself. Shaking, I crawled toward her lifeless form, my mind fogged with both fear and resolve. I removed the gag from her mouth and untied her hands, throwing the strips of fabric onto the pile of rags in the corner.
I paused, frozen in place, straining to hear any sound from the hallway. My heart raced as I listened for footsteps, for the girl who might have heard the struggle and come to investigate. But there was nothing—just the heavy silence of the room.
Carefully, I reached for the bottle. Its contents, tainted with the herbs I had added, now seemed grotesque in my hands. I emptied the remaining liquid into her chamber pot, wiping my trembling hands on my pants. Then, I placed the bottle into her limp hand, arranging her fingers around it with deliberate care.
It will have to suffice.
The urge to flee pressed down on me like a weight. I didn’t want to be in this room any longer. The air felt thick, suffocating, and everywhere I turned, I imagined the eyes of ghosts watching me.
Two ghosts.
Two people who had been killed here.
That I had killed here.
I left the back door open behind me, slipping out into the streets as quietly as I could. Fear stalked my every step, its shadow looming over me as I darted between corners and alleys, my head low and my heart racing.
The adrenaline that had carried me this far began to fade, leaving a raw, hollow ache in its wake. My stomach twisted sharply, and I stumbled into a side alley, clutching at the wall for support as the cramping overtook me.
I retched violently, my body heaving until there was nothing left. My legs gave out beneath me, and I crumpled to the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
That voice—the small one, the one I had thought long gone—whispered to me from the recesses of my mind.
I don’t do this… Two lives, two lights, snuffed out by my hands.
The words echoed, cutting through me like shards of glass. I curled into myself, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees as the weight of the voice bore down on me.
Then the rage rose.
It surged upward like a beast awakening from its slumber, clawing its way to the surface. A scream tore from my throat, raw and guttural, echoing down the alleyway. I screamed again, and again, my voice breaking into hoarse cries as my body rocked with the force of the memories flooding back.
His lips on mine.
Her voice, selling me.
Their heavy hands against my skin.
Each thought came like a blow, relentless and unforgiving.
Them taking me, using me.
Over and over and over and over and over…
The screams turned to moans, low and guttural, the sound of anguish escaping in waves as I rocked back and forth on the cold ground. The alley spun around me, the walls closing in as my past consumed me, and I was powerless to stop it.
Eventually, I came back to myself.
The storm of fear and rage ebbed, retreating like a tide, leaving me raw and hollow. My body ached with the aftershocks of emotion, and my throat burned from screaming. The memories still lingered, their edges sharp, but I forced them back into the recesses of my mind, refusing to let them replay endlessly.
I took a deep breath, shaky and shallow, and pushed myself to my feet. My legs trembled beneath me, but they held. The cold air of the alley clung to my skin, a reminder that I couldn’t stay there any longer.
I stepped out onto the street, the noise of the city around me both jarring and grounding. My thoughts still simmered with anger, but the intensity had dulled, giving me enough clarity to keep moving.
With no hesitation, I turned my steps toward the old bar.
I left the place where it had all started.
Towards the place where it all would end.