He gives me a smarmy smile. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl. No one’s coming for you. Who do you think led the lamb to the slaughter?” The guy laughs as he sees doubt creeping in. “That’s right, sweetheart. Your precious boyfriend doesn’t give a shit about you. Neither do his friends. Sweet talking you out of your panties was all part of the plan. Now, you’re at our mercy.”
My hand starts shaking. No, he’s bluffing. He has to be bluffing. But why isn’t Kingston here yet, I wonder?
“You’re lying!” I scream, although there’s no conviction behind my words.
He holds his arms out to his side. “Am I? You don’t sound too sure.”
My hand is shaking violently now. I scream when he lunges for me, tackling me back to the ground. He’s twisting and squeezing my hand painfully, trying to get the knife but I refuse to let go. That is, until I hear a snap and excruciating pain forces me to release my grip.
He straddles me, raining blow after blow against my face. My eyes are filled with tears, making my vision blurry. One eye is so swollen, I can barely keep it open. The pain from my injuries are so intense, I’m drifting in and out of consciousness.
I keep fighting and screaming though, knowing it’s my only hope. This man is too enraged and nothing is going to stop him unless he’s incapacitated. I manage to land a solid blow to his nuts, causing him to bellow out in pain. The smile quickly dies on my bloodied and cracked lips when it feels like I’m being stabbed with a white-hot poker. Instinctively, I reach down with my broken hand and feel blood oozing out of my stomach.
My gaze locks on my attacker as I choke on the hot, metallic liquid rising up my throat. I turn my head, vomiting blood.
“Oh, shit, man!” the other guy yells. “You stabbed her! You fucking stabbed her! We need to get the hell out of here!”
The bastard stands up. “Look what you did, you dumb bitch. You could’ve just spread your legs and this would’ve never happened.” He gives me a swift kick to the stomach to punctuate his statement before both men flee.
I double over, clutching my wound, trying to stay alert, but I’m not very successful at it. I’m not sure how long I lay there in my tattered dress. It could be minutes. It could be hours. My mind races as my battered body accepts its fate.
It’s funny the things you think of when you’re dying. Like, I wonder what kind of birthday cake Ainsley got? I was hoping for chocolate, maybe with a raspberry filling... although, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Or... it’d be really cool if I was walking on the beach right now, feeling the ocean tickle my toes as the waves crash against the shore. I bet some local going out for a jog will find my body. Haven’t you ever noticed that? Runners always find the dead bodies. I can see the headlines now:
Teenager Stabbed to Death in Quaint, Mountain Town
It’ll shake up this community temporarily, but before you know it, I’ll just be that poor girl who died by the water’s edge. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh as a chill courses through my body. Damn, it’s cold up here. Of course, the one time I actually wear a dress, I get stuck out in the wilderness.
What really pisses me off—and yes, I have every right to be pissed as I lie here bleeding out—is that I can’t stop thinking about the fact the people responsible for this will get away with it. They’ll graduate high school, go off to college, eventually get married and pop out pretentious little babies, never looking back. Never knowing what it’s like to have consequences for their actions. These people will always live in a world where you can solve any problem, get away with any vile act, by throwing a little money around.
My body sinks into the ground, the smell of mud and copper assaulting my senses. I really should get help, but moving isn’t exactly an option. Screaming isn’t one either—I’ve already tried that and all I have to show for it is a raw throat. My head lolls to the side, eyes falling to the glassy surface of the lake as the fingers on my non-broken hand flutter over my abdomen, unsuccessfully trying to staunch the flow of sticky blood.
As I stare unblinkingly at the full moon reflecting off the lake’s surface, I realize the irony of my situation. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by it. When you’re impoverished, or craving your next fix, you’d be surprised what people will do when desperation sinks in. That’s why my mother taught me to be vigilant, to take precautions. I took her lessons to heart and managed to survive over seventeen years without incident.
It fucking figures that when I actually do become a victim of violence, it’s in a place drenched in wealth.
I suppose that’s what I get for trusting a liar.
The last thought I have before losing consciousness is that I’m going to make them pay. If I get out of this alive, I will make every last one of them pay for what they’ve done. And if I don’t make it... if this is the end for me... I’ll haunt those motherfuckers from the grave.