One Word | H.S.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Blessed be the Mystery of Love.

There's heaven in tragedy, trust me.

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Red's POV | Present Day

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I'm the captain now, bitch.

The past thirty-minutes have been internally riveting, sparking my mundane life with the scratching desire to make it out of whatever-the-hell mess Dead-Alive boy got us in.

I don't know what happened, if my brain took a momentary pause on safe thinking, but I just killed three big, scary men. The fleeting time jumped so quickly, the pause to breathe limited as I did what had to be done.

Little me was coming down from the wondrous highs of my token panic attacks, internalized trauma still nipping away as my brain continued to shamble. Focused on the freshly painted quotes, the reason behind them still unknown, I was simply unprepared.

But, my nipples are always prepared.

I've said it a multitude of times before, everyone around would flash concerned expressions as my questionable antics proved heroic, live-saving. If there's any-a-time you're on the verge of being viciously murdered, flash your nipples and stab them following the display.

The big, bad nice-guys were utterly distracted by my forward move, batting my eyes as they weren't armed with any bulbous weapon, only one bearing an itty-bitty pocket knife that couldn't even slice through expired cheese.

Falling behind schedule, they were. I mean, how idiotic can idiots truly be?

Before they even struck down with their big, macho muscles, they informed me of the very plan Judas formulated, expressing how they'd whisk me away from Wonderland and into their captivity.

So, I flashed my nipples and grabbed one of the stake-like sticks, fearfully pointed at the very tip with the dash of untamable-thinking, maniac decisions. Thought they were powerful in comparisons to myself, thinking that the little girl with pubic hair on her head stood little-to-zero chance against their black-clad clothing, inked skin.

One slice to the forearm, ripping across as I've seen it in my crime shows, seen all of it. Pretty Boy always would use my mystery obsession against me, though I've got the gravest feeling he flipped the television to the same show.

Time was moving in slow-motion, jabbering with my consciousness as the broken table-arm continued to drag along their skin, the madness catching them off guard. Simply put, people with dense brains are unable to comprehend what to do when the smallest event doesn't go according to plan.

First it was the aggressive one's stomach, his ginormous fucking arms slamming my back against the table as it split in two. My body is most-certainly broken, shattered to the teeniest bits, but the adrenaline is vibrant as opposed to the dull pain shooting to the tips of my fingers. Then came the second bozo who thought he honestly stood a chance against my broken mind, the pulsating rage meshing with the engulfing sadness that turned to an overall tantrum.

He's long-gone, out the window, bye-bye.

That one did mess me up a bit, gliding the pocket-knife against my cheek as my color seeped from the flesh, only droplets. What a glorified asshole, I'm not sure how Judas managed to recruit these hefty men who looked as though they should've been guard-dogs, pitbulls.

And last, but by no-deadly-means-least, the final loser fell onto one of the split chairs, impaling himself as I accepted my break earlier than normal. Erupted soft giggles when he choked on his self-infliction, losing the fight of his life to me of all people, an embarrassment.