Everyone Dies in the End #72

Katarina

She paced her cell, eyes flicking from one pale green wall to the next, from the next pale green wall to the bars (where the smoke from Dan’s ever-present cigarette drifted by), from the bars to the stainless steel sink jutting from the wall, and finally to the empty, bloodstained milk carton resting on a corner of that jutting steel sink.

Once again she was strong. For all the good it will do me, she thought, backhanding the carton from the sink. Two drops of the precious liquid dotted the wall, the larger leisurely transforming into a thin, red line which crept toward the floor. Bending, she wiped the blood, and then licked her finger clean, savoring the fresh taste, the coppery aroma. For an instant she envisioned that the blood was Vader’s, the coppery smell rising from his corpse. The fantasy birthed a smile.

But the fantasy was quickly replaced by memory. He had bedded her. Tied her to the soft, thick bed in his chambers, and had his way. When he had finished, Dan had dropped her into the cell, given her the milk carton of still-warm blood, and resumed his station on the far side of the barred door. Dan hadn’t spoken, he sat just beyond her sight, against the wall, smoking.

She retrieved the milk carton from the floor and walked to the bars. “Get me more.” The chair scrapped and Dan shuffled into view, cigarette protruding from a corner of his mouth, large, lumberjack shirt covering an ample belly.

He coughed. “Can’t do that, sister.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she sneered. “Pig.”

His gaze fell and he shrugged. “Never said I like doing this.”

She threw the carton at him, the plastic rattling loudly against the bars. He didn’t even flinch. She glared, breathing heavily, her hands trembling at her side. Trembling with rage. She spoke quietly. “But you do it.”

A puff, and then he looked into her eyes. “You damn right I do it.” His voice rose. “It wasn’t me in that bedroom, was it? But you damn right I do it. I do whatever Vader asks, because you don’t matter.” He thumped his chest. “Hell, I don’t matter.” He was breathing hard now. “Only one thing matters. My baby girl, and whatever, whoever, I need to do to keep her safe, keep her clothed, fed, and distant from people like the monster I work for, from monsters like you,” he poked a finger through the bars at her, “I’ll do it.”

It was all she needed, one second the finger was pointing accusingly, the next it was in her hand. She jerked hard, dislocating the shoulder, pulling Dan fast against the bars. He grunted, the cigarette fell to the floor.

“Where are they,” she hissed through the bars.

He panted, “Wha, where are what?” She bent the finger ruthlessly, the bone snapped, Dan cried out.

“The keys, give me the keys, or I’ll rip your arm out.”

“He’ll kill me if I do,”

“Well, I guess that’s one hell of a dilemma, isn’t it? Because I’m going to kill you if you don’t. “She grabbed another finger and started to bend.

“Okay,” he yelped. “Front left. They’re in my front left pocket.”

It was the side away from her, she couldn’t reach the front left.

“Hand them to me.” He hesitated, she snapped the second finger and he screamed. “You want to live, hand me the fucking keys, hand them now.” He did.

It only took a moment. She kept him tight against the bars with one hand while the other found the lock hole, inserted the key and turned, and then she was in the cell corridor, face to face with Dan.

He didn’t grovel, she had to give him that. He looked her in the eye and in his she saw no fear. “Let me live, sister. Not for me, but for my baby girl.”

There was a knife in a scabbard on his hip, and it made it easier. The blood poured from the gash in his neck, she drained him dry before letting the fresh corpse drop to the tile floor, slick with his own blood. “I guess your baby girl will have to take care of herself, no?”

She snatched his scattergun from where it leaned against the wall and walked away, the night strong in her veins.