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Blood on the marble, on the walls.

The music stops, but the fireworks don’t, stupid fireworks, they should be for her, only for her, a celebration of life she never got to finish.

I reload in the middle of the panic.

It’s not revenge, it’s grief, dressed in bullets, a requiem for the only thing that ever made me human.

The clip clicks empty.

I pull the trigger again. Nothing.

Click.

“…Fuck,” I whisper. I’m too tired for rage.

I drop the gun, pull the knife from my belt, it’s small, sharp, personal.

The man in front of me screams before I even move.

One step, one clean slice across his throat.

He gurgles as he drops, and I just keep walking.

The Governor’s trying to run. Stupid. Slow.

I catch him outside the garden, panting, red in the face, begging already.

He falls backward as I approach, boot to his chest, pinning him down.

“This is your house?” I ask, calm.

“Y-Yes! Yes, please?—”

“Okay,” I nod. “Good.”

I slice his ear off like I’m cutting steak.

He screams, high-pitched,animal.

I drag him by the collar, through the blood-slick grass, past bodies and glass and bone.

The fireworks keep going. Loud, bright, like celebrations are still happening.

It makes me sick.

I sat him in a chair in front of the house, the one they used for toasts, for speeches.

His ear’s in on the ground, his blood’s on my hands.

I step inside, find the kitchen without thinking, lighter in the drawer, cabinet full of alcohol, curtains dry as kindling.

I soak everything. Trail the liquor across the floors. Over rugs. Tables. The drapes. I even splash it across a painting. His fucking legacy.

I walk back out. He’s still in the chair. Shaking. Crying.

I flick the lighter.

“This is what my Fourth of July looks like,” I tell him. Then I dropped it.