I’m tired of being a plaything in a world ruled by powerful men who think they can just take what they want.
I’m tired of having to fight them off, shout to be heard, beg to be left alone.
I whip around fast. My hands don’t shake anymore. The gun is steady in my grasp as I turn it on him.
I have the satisfaction of seeing his eyes bulge with fear.
And then I shoot.
This time, pulling the trigger feels like the easiest thing in the world. My hands are steady. My aim is true.
And when the bullet reduces his face to a mess of blood and bone, it’s not disgust or guilt or anger than I feel.
It’s power.
The man’s body hits the ground with a dull, lifeless thump. I sit up a little straighter, the gun still clutched between my hands.
I take a deep breath, staring at the body in front of me, savoring the way he lies there, unmoving.
I remember the way I felt after my first kill. Mischa—the man in Tamara’s apartment I’d stabbed again and again.
That guilt nearly ripped me in half.
This time is different.
I don’t know what that means just yet.