Claiming Crusher (Savage Brothers MC #4)(74)

*

I feel like I’m disconnected from my body. The pain is intense, but it’s almost as if I’m above it all looking down. I keep going in and out of consciousness, so I’m not sure how long Michael has had me. I don’t know why I’ve held on. Maybe I really am stupid like Michael says. Surely a smart person would have already given up and died. I don’t want to live, I’m pretty much done and yet, somehow my body refuses to let go.

I’m being moved. I can hear voices over the pounding in my head. For a brief moment, I thought I felt the warmth of the sun on my body. I’m not sure. I can’t open my eyes, their swollen shut. I don’t exactly remember when that happened, I just remember the repeated blows from Michael. I’m burning up…fever…infection…the thoughts are jumbled in my head, but I know that’s what it is. I’ve lost blood, but nowhere near enough. Michael is a master at going to the limits of what a body can withstand. Still, he wants me dead, so this beating, this punishment is so far beyond anything he’s ever done before.

I hear the slam of a door and then we start moving. A car…I’m not in a seat though. I’m pretty sure they’ve thrown me in the trunk. There’s a moment when they go over something that jars the car and I bounce, causing even more pain than when they moved me. Railroad tracks. I let the hum of the car take over in my head and try to…die. It doesn’t happen. Breathing is getting harder though. Each breath is painful and shallower than the last. Is this a sign that it will all be over soon?

Eventually, the vehicle comes to a stop. I can hear the soft thud of doors closing. At least I figure that’s what they are, because the car rocks after the sound each time. Above me I hear the trunk lid opening.

My left arm is broken and useless, also the hand itself feels…different. The sleeve of my jacket has been split and there’s a large cut in the skin there. My right arm still seems to be working, but I hold it close to my stomach. I want them to believe it is as useless as the left. I also want them to believe I am completely out of it.

If Michael thinks I am unconscious, then I might be able to store up enough energy to use the knife I still have in my jacket. They’ve cut off the rest of my clothes. I don’t know why they left my jacket. Perhaps I have pure dumb luck? Maybe God decided he needed to answer one of my prayers after all and this is His way. I probably am going to hell soon. I don’t see me making it to the pearly gates, but if I do, I intend on filing a grievance against the whole prayer selection process.

Someone is lifting me and the shift of my bones is so sudden that the pain is blinding. My head is hanging down and straining my neck, the pounding in my head, along with the pain from the rest of me is so all consuming that I almost black out. I can’t let that happen.

I’m tossed down on the ground with a thud. I wait. It seems all I’ve been doing is waiting my whole life. Waiting for Michael to kill me, waiting for someone to rescue me, waiting to feel normal, waiting to feel alive, and waiting to die. That has been my life. Here in this moment I’ve come full circle. Only, this time I know that I can’t wait anymore. I can’t. I can’t wait for someone else to give me, my death. I can’t wait for a rescue. It ends here.

I hear talking off to my right. I can’t make out the words over the drumming pain. It doesn’t matter anyway. My hand pushes under my jacket to the inside pocket. It takes time, I don’t know how long exactly, but enough time to get my fingers and hand to cooperate and find the handle. My hands are covered in blood and the handle keeps slipping out of my grasp. Finally, I get it positioned just right and pull it out of the pocket and lay it under my breast. I do my best to work and try and get my thumb to hit the release button for the blade. I can’t find it, and I can’t see. I have no strength, so I have no idea if I will even be able to push it in. I want to scream at how useless it all seems. I try…I try…and I try. I just can’t seem to get it.

Then, I hear Michael’s voice, “Is she dead yet?”

“She’s not cold, though I don’t see how the bitch could still be breathing,” Donald answers.

“She’s like a f*cking cockroach, that’s how,” I hear Michael answer and desperation swamps me.

With renewed strength, I push until I feel the spring snap and the blade unfold. It is Crusher’s hunting knife. I saw it before I left and had to take it. I had hoped to use it on Michael, but since that opportunity didn’t present itself, I have to do what I can.

I want to yell at Michael and give him a great big, f*ck you. I can’t. I’m too weak and they might stop me before I can carry this out. All I can do is be satisfied with the fact that I am ending this. Me—not Michael. I’m taking the only thing from him that I can—his pleasure in taking my life.

I should have done it long ago. I just didn’t want to accept that it was my only choice. I’m glad I didn’t. If I had, I would have never met Zander. I would have never got to love him and somehow that is worth all the pain. I do wish I could see his face again, or hear his voice one more time, but perhaps its better this way.

With that thought, I summon up what strength I have left and plunge the knife into my chest. I was aiming for my heart. I don’t think it made it. My hands are shaky and so weak that I know instantly it didn’t do the ultimate damage, but I can feel the blood leaving my body and know it was enough.