Queen of the Underworld

68

THREE WEEKS LATER

At this point it didn't even matter.

It didn't even matter because even if I chose to leave or not, I would never truly be gone.

I had changed; I felt it. Like my heart now beat at a different rate, like my blood now flowed in another direction. Like the way I breathed was different, the way I saw was different.

So, yeah, it didn't even matter, because even if I were to take advantage of that door being unlocked and little Katerina fallen asleep with the keys hanging from her fingers, I would never truly get away.

These walls have been seared into my mind. This cage was been marked into my skin. A part of me stays here, inside this little barred box, even if I'm not physically here.

In the time I've been here, I've discovered things I never knew could exist. The bruises and damage that I've lived through in this time will be the highlight of my life.

A bright, fucked up reminder of the fucked up life I live and the fucked up person I am.

In these three weeks, I have changed. In these three weeks I have changed for the worse.

And it didn't even matter, because it was bound to happen all along.

**

It's been two hours, nineteen minutes and thirty eight seconds. Katerina has been asleep for half that time. Angelo and Michael left, giving Katerina the task to lock the doors.

"Like you'd be able to get away," she taunted, and left them unlocked. She had twirled the keys in her fingers, showing them off to me. Bad move.

Elijah— what was left of him— was awake. He was staring right at her, just like I was. For a second, I let my eyes focus on him.

His entire face was unrecognizable. Dried blood was sticking to his head and neck. A deep cut was going along his abdomen. Burn marks covered his legs. Fingers without nails laid limply on the armrest of a chair that was once occupied by his partner.

That was the other thing. His partner.

I looked back to the lifeless body that at one point resembled Armando. No bullets wounds, because he didn't get the chance to die a painless death. Far from it, in fact. His death was painful, excruciatingly so.

I looked at the place where his face should have been. At the mouth that no longer had a tongue or teeth. At the arms that were missing patches of skin, making the red meat in his body attract a few flies. I looked at the hands that were missing entire fingers; the bone peeking out in some of them. I looked at the way his body laid unmoving, the way it has been for seven days.

Seven days and I could still hear the screams. Loud as a bell. Sharp as a bullet.

Seven days and, even while awake, those screams found their way into every nook and cranny of my brain, soul and conscience, reminding me of what went down.

Screams that made goosebumps rise in my skin and prompted my heart to beat faster.

Screams that I provoked. Because I killed him.

Not Lady Devil, or Angelo's collectible. I, Anastasia Rios Bianchi, killed him.

And I didn't on my own free will.

It wasn't him or me. It wasn't him or Elijah. It was proposed and I obliged.

I killed him with my bare hands. The bloody knife and slit on his bare stomach proves it so.