Holding Grudges

File VIII - Part II

The ropes cut into her wrists, raw and unforgiving, but she was too far gone to fight them anymore.

She sat slumped against the cold, rusted chair, her breathing shallow, labored. The dim glow of a single flickering bulb above cast jagged shadows against the concrete walls. The air reeked of damp wood, rust, and the faint, lingering stench of old blood.

She whimpered softly, her head lolling to the side. I could see the withdrawal setting in—the twitching fingers, the glazed, unfocused eyes.

She was weak. They always were in the end.

"You look tired." My voice was smooth, almost gentle.

She shuddered, blinking up at me, trying to force her brain to work, trying to piece together the fragmented thoughts swimming through the haze.

"Please," she rasped. "Just—just one more hit."

I smiled. Pitiful. Even now, even now, she was bargaining. Not for her life. For her next fix.

I crouched beside her, brushing a strand of greasy, sweat-damp hair from her face. She flinched. Good.

"You really don't get it, do you?" I whispered, leaning in close enough that I could feel the shudder of her breath.   

"This is your last fix."

Her eyes widened just slightly, the dull haze of addiction cracking just enough to let in the icy grip of fear.

I tightened my grip on the blade in my hand, watching her, waiting for the moment she would finally understand.

And then, with a flick of my wrist—

I carved my knife across her skin.

She screamed, her body jerking violently against the restraints. Blood welled up, warm and sticky, trailing down her arm in slow, crimson ribbons.

She thrashed, her nails digging into my arm in a wild, desperate attempt to fight back. A sharp sting tore across my forearm—a scratch. A pitiful little wound.

I inhaled sharply. "That," I murmured, lifting my arm to examine the thin line of blood beading against my skin, "was a mistake."

She sobbed. Good.

I pressed my fingers against her fresh wound, digging in, savoring the way she bucked against the pain. She wasn't strong. She wasn't special.

She was nothing.

But the fight had drained from her now. She sagged forward, her body shaking. The realization was hitting her, creeping in like a slow-working poison.

There was no deal to be made.

There was no escaping this.

She was going to die tonight.

I untied her wrists, grabbing her by the collar of her torn, sweat-stained shirt. She didn't even resist. She knew.

Dragging her through the warehouse was easy. Her feet barely moved, her spirit already gone before I even finished the job.

The bridge loomed ahead, the water below black and endless. A perfect grave.

I leaned in one last time, my lips at her ear. "Any last words?"

She let out a small, shaky breath. She looked at the river, then back at me.

And then she laughed. A small, broken sound.

"So this is how it ends," she whispered, her voice eerily calm. "And I never got my last fix."

And before I could even react—

I let her go.

She slipped from my grip, her body tumbling over the edge.

The river swallowed her whole.

I stood there, watching the ripples spread across the surface, listening as the current dragged her down into the depths. No struggle. No fight. Just... gone.

She didn't scream.

She didn't beg.

She just let it happen.