Her sharp, manicured nails bit into my shoulders, leaving marks. I leaned against the wall, my back against it, as I slowly curved my lips into a satisfied smile, taking in the sight of her eyes, now red with anger.
She had only wept twice in her life.
One time, in our third year of high school, when she saw my skin split open, my mom pulled me by the hair to the side of the road, ready to throw me into the Yellow River. She stabbed my mom eighteen times.
And now, with this boy’s manhood crushed, her fingers gripped my shoulders, demanding answers for my cruelty.
“How rare,” I murmured, “to see the great Faye Ellison panic.”
I laughed without the slightest hint of remorse.
“You’re a man too, Chester! How could you do something like that to him?” Faye demanded, her voice slicing through the tension in the room.
“You said it yourself, Faye. There’s no divorce between us. Only death can separate us,” I said.
I closed the distance between us and then taunted, “If you can’t kill me, then I’ll have to kill both of you.”
For a moment, the only sound was the soft drip of blood.
It hit the floor, sharp and steady, echoing in the stillness.