She pulled out a wrench. A heavy, rusted thing. And aimed it at my hands.
"No—Celeste, wait—AHH!!"
Ten fingers. One by one. Shattered.
But what hurt more than the bone, the flesh, the agony... was the hollow crack in my chest.
I collapsed to the ground, my lips tinged purple, blood bubbling between them. Celeste stood over me, wrench in hand, her body trembling.
"If I hurt you," she muttered, "I'll go to prison with you."
I spat out blood. Then, with the last bit of strength left in my mangled fingers, I fumbled at my shirt, tearing the buttons off.
"You want the truth?" I croaked. "I'll show you."
I pulled the fabric open, revealing the disfigured skin beneath—raw, scarred, grotesque.
Celeste froze. The wrench slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
