Page 40 of Reclaimed

“Yes, yes, we can,” Mom begs, her voice thin and fragile. “I’ll make sure he stays away, I-I promise...”

The sound of a slap echoes. “You were already supposed to do that, remember?”

“I’m sorry.” She starts to sob. “I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”

“Better?” he scoffs. “Better would have been if you’d taken the money I’d given you and used it for the abortion, not to put more coke up your nose.”

“I thought it’d do the job,” she sniffles. “Two birds, one stone?”

“Stupid bitch,” he scoffs before a crashing thud follows. “No you didn’t, you thought I’d leave Imogen for you.” She screams again, followed by another crashing noise. “But having some Fringe riffraff as the mother of my child, the heir to the empire I’ve built, was never an option.”

“B-baby…” she stammers. “You don’t mean that. What about all the–”

“All the what?” He laughs callously. “All the pointless bullshit I've bought you? Or how about this very fucking house, huh?”

“Stop, please,” she cries. “Baby, I’m–”

“You’re what? Too good to do the one thing you’re good for?”

“No, I… that’s not what I meant.”

There’s a scuffle, then I hear Mom cry out.

“Ow! That hurts!” she wails, her voice breaking into ragged gasps as he grunts and growls.

Tears stream down my face as I shift to my side, pulling my turtle stuffie over my head and trying to silence it all.

The unmistakable smell of Miller’s ego burning to ash floods my nostrils, anchoring me in the present as I jerk his head up. His pink and red flesh festers and bubbles, stringing from the burner to where it slides off his skull like cheese from a pizza. His eyes are glossy– one with tears, the other seared shut with a sheen of pus and grease.

“It's almost cute isn’t it?” I muse. “Your reckless disregard almost kept me from advancing with the Syndicate when you shot an Asset that night and didn’t wanna own up to it. And now here we are seven years later, and I'm at the top of my game, not just ending your career, but your life, too.”

He moans something incoherently, lips half fused together, hands feebly trying to push me away.

He lets out a guttural scream as my thumb presses into his good eye, the resistance giving way with satisfying pop like one of those boba pearls in the drinks Slade would beg his dad to stop for after Judo practice. Blood garbles from the good corner of his mouth, and as much as I want to skin him and watch hypothermia take its course, there’s no way I’d get a clean enough cut to provide accurate results for my hypothesis. So with a sigh, I take the jagged bottle neck and drag it over his throat, skin opening up with a wet rip.

Blood gushes from the opening, and like some sort of twisted kismet, it squirts out and coats my hand just like Jersey did earlier. And it’s a real close call of whose squirting I enjoyed more.

His body goes limp, and I let go, watching Miller’s corpse thud to the floor. Pulling out my pack of cigarettes, I light one on the stove before twisting off the burner, dragging in an inhale as I look around at the mess I’ve got to clean up. It’ll be a pain in the ass, but the sight of his body racking with the last few residual muscle convulsions before going still fills me with an intoxicating feeling of satisfaction that more than makes up for it.

15

JERSEY

A311

“Pony,” Kenzie says, holding out her hand.

I slip the hair tie off my wrist and pass it back before plucking a beige chunk from the prepackaged fruit cup and popping it into my mouth, suppressing a shudder as its grainy flesh collapses into mush against my tongue.

I miss meat.

Actual meat– not this gray slab of meatloaf on my dinner tray that you couldn’t pay me to risk eating.

Kenzie warned me not to touch anything that doesn’t come sealed, because apparently Enforcers have been known to drug food when they want an Asset to be particularly compliant. During her last stay, a girl had an allergic reaction to whatever they slipped her, and Kenzie overheard Miller explaining how to record the death as an undocumented medical condition so no one would have to answer for it.

“And, done,” Kenzie announces, flicking the finished braid over my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I say, twisting around on my cot to face her.