Cynthia slowly edged open the door, revolver in hand, she quickly fired a couple of shots and was delighted to hear a groan of pain and something heavy slide across the floor. She widened the crack between door and frame, stealthily tumbled in, and rolled behind a marble desk.
She'd rolled into something wet.
And very sticky.
Blood.
It covered her hands and stained the back of her jeans. It had already begun to congeal at the edges and there was a smear where Cynthia has fallen into it. It's sweet, coppery scent washed over Cynthia and she inhaled softly.
Then she remembered the intruder.
And the need to know where the source of blood came from.
This blood was too old for her bullets earlier on.
And she wasn't that good a shot, those bullets would have only grazed skin, if that.
She looked to the ceiling for clues and noticed a deathily pale, ghostly hand hanging over the edge of the table. She'd been lucky not to knock it, the whole body would have then given away where she was hiding.
That is if the hand was actually attached to anything: Cynthia noted. She examined the severed nerves and tendons, the ripped muscle tissue, the peeling skin and the slow flow of blood that was now dripping onto her head.
Shit, it'd take her ages to wash it all out.
Cynthia had seen too much death to be affected by it. She could stare at a corpse with calm detachment. Life had taught her not to cry over spilt milk.
Or blood.
Suddenly she heard a scuffle to her left, readying her gun, she prepared to jump...
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
AçãoA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
