WEEK 29: You’re sick

Prompted by: Ember-Raine Winters

The crazy author says: Totally forgot I already gave dude blue eyes last week when I made em “pitch black” this week, eh? Went back and fixed my boo-boo. They’re officially black. Unless I forget again. Thanks for reading my (obviously) random crap. Seriously, thank you.

He hasn’t budged.

After we’d come to a stop, the vehicle had been left idling for a bit, purring like a well-trained tiger before the ignition was cut, followed by…

Nothing.

He still hasn’t budged.

I was seriously starting to wonder if the crazy bastard had grabbed his 50 cal, turned it around, jammed the silencer between his pearly whites, and pulled the fucking trigger.

No.

I would’ve heard it.

There’s no such thing as a truly silent shot. Not even close. Did you know that? Simply doesn’t exist in real life. Ever seen Die Hard 2? Or any of the James Bond movies? Take your pick. They’re all bullshit. Complete and utter Hollywood bullshit. Exploding gunpowder is loud. Incredibly loud. As loud as a fucking jet engine. Silencers merely suppress the noise to a certain extent. And considering my husband’s torrid love affair with hand cannons?

I definitely would’ve heard it.

Loud and clear.

So, he hadn’t blown his brains into a serving of finely pureed baby food.

Maybe he’d slit his throat instead. Maybe he had unsheathed his trusty KA-BAR, pressed the straight edge firmly to his jugular, sliced the blade across in one smooth motion, and was now bleeding out in the driver’s seat.

No.

I’d feel it.

I’d feel him dying.

I know I would.

I just know.

Because I knew before.

The last time I saw him? The last time we were in the same damn room? The last time we breathed the same fucking air?

He’d been brutally murdered.

By another man.

By another douchebag.

I had watched another douchebag take a baseball bat and proceed to execute my asshole of a husband. Attempting to decapitate him on the very first try. Nearly taking his pretty little head clean off with a single swing.

Right in front of my eyes.

He was supposed to die.

There was no way anyone could’ve survived that initial blow.

No fucking way.

Or the endless bludgeoning which followed, each subsequent strike more lethal than the last.

No fucking way in hell.

A lone bullet to the chest had been delivered for no other reason than added peace of mind.

Because he was already dead.

And yet, I knew.

I always knew he really wasn’t.

I always knew he was alive.

I just knew.

Obviously, I wasn’t wrong.

The suicide door finally opened and then quietly shut. Footsteps slowly neared, barely disturbing the ground beneath, hardly displacing the tiniest speck of dirt. The strides were unhurried, exceedingly calm, entirely relaxed. Until they ceased altogether.

He popped the trunk.

I found myself being lifted, cradled momentarily in a familiar embrace and set gently on my feet.

Too gently.

It was dark.

He’s pissed.

All I could feel was his rough palm reach up to cup my face, a calloused thumb sweeping tenderly over my cheek.

He’s really fucking pissed.

I was being tugged forward, enveloped by impossibly strong arms…

Pissed enough to kill me.

When I suddenly cried out in agony.

What the fuck?

The sound was strangled to shit, effectively muted by a barricade of fabric.

Fuck!

Pain erupted, consuming my left side in a fiery blaze.

Holy fuck!

I couldn’t believe it.

He actually stabbed me!

That lovely combat knife I’d envisioned him dragging through his own flesh?

The asshole had fucking stabbed me with it.

He’d buried seven inches of Cro-van steel deep inside my shoulder. Right down to the mother-fucking hilt. Still gripping the leather handle, he twisted it ever-so-slightly while violently tearing the gag from my mouth with his other hand.

Gasping, I staggered.

But even as my knees buckled, even as he wrapped my ponytail around his fist, even as he jerked my head back and forced me to meet the Devil’s gaze…

I refused to give him what he wanted.

He wanted to hear me scream.

I’d never give him the satisfaction.

Ever.

Biting my lip, I waited patiently until enough blood was drawn before spitting it into his achingly beautiful face.

Pitch black eyes narrowed, glittering dangerously in the night.

Glaring back with only a death wish, I stiffened my spine and growled, “You’re sick.”

Replying with only a vicious smirk, he leaned down and kissed me.

What’s the prompt for next week, guys?

Make suggestions below. 7 words or less.