Paint It All Red (Mindf*ck #5)(36)



“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way,” I chirp.

I kick him over to his stomach, grab his cuffs from his hip, and pin him down with my knee against his spine as I roughly jerk his arms behind his back. He’s still too dazed to fight with me, so I hurry before he gets his bearings back.

I have a deadline, after all.

Reaching down, I grab him at the collar of his shirt and start dragging him toward the bathroom, ignoring the groaning fabric. His fight comes back, but it’s futile at this point. I grab him by his hair as we reach the bathroom, and force him to his feet.

The idiot tries to head-butt me when he’s standing in front of me, but I’m much shorter, and simply dodge it, spin around him, and kick him into the open tub.

A pained grunt escapes him as he lands on his back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, staring up at me while his legs hang over the sides.

“Using you to fulfill a fantasy,” I quip as I close the shower curtain. “Two fantasies, actually.”

Staring at the white, plain shower curtain, I pull out my knife. A dark smile curves my lips before I start playing the music from my phone, and I stab him through the curtain.

A cry of pain and surprise echoes off the bathroom walls.

But I stab again.

And again.

And again.

Until he’s just gurgling sounds.

Then I jerk back the curtain, smirking. “Life goals,” I say to myself, still smiling as I leave the dying man in the tub. I walk through the house and back to the living room where his service weapon is still on the table.

It’s the only loaded gun in the house, and shooting the sheriff—with his own gun—is just too poetic to pass up.

The song continues to play as I walk back in, and blood is flowing from all the wounds and the sheriff’s mouth as I watch him from the doorway.

His eyes are barely staying open as I point the gun at his groin. Words try to form, but he’s too injured to make an intelligible sound.

I grab a stack of towels and drop them to his lap, then I press the gun against the towels and fire. The sound is still loud, despite the muffling of it against the towels, but at least my ears aren’t ringing.

I hate guns.

But again…too poetic.

The sheriff jerks as I pull the gun back, and the white towels get redder and redder as he bleeds out. The tub catches all the blood, taking it down the drain as he continues to spill his shade.

I wipe my knife off as the sheriff slowly dies, and I listen to the song that is playing on repeat.

I shot the sheriff…

Then I take a picture for Jake once the life finally leaves the sheriff’s eyes.

Just to be sure, I check for a pulse. It’s gone. Then, to be doubly sure, I slice the knife across his throat, leaving his blood to continue to drain.

I wipe the knife off again, place it back in its sheath on my hip, pull my hood up, and walk out with my phone still playing that song.

The town is like an old western ghost town now. I half expect tumbleweeds to start rolling by me as the wind blows. The sun is three hours from setting, but the endgame is moments away from starting.

Everyone expects sundown to be the endgame time, since that’s what we told them.

But we have another set of rules we’re playing by.

And we’re ready.

Jake is already in my old house when I step inside the familiar home. This house is in the perfect location.

My heart thumps a little faster when I see the inside, because it’s like stepping into a different vortex. No pictures of us line the walls the way they used to.

The carpet has been replaced with hardwood. The blues have all been replaced with neutral colors. And they knocked out the wall between the living room and kitchen.

Everything is different, yet there’s a pang of familiarity in my chest.

He’s put in all his monitors, ready to start this process.

“You took longer than you were supposed to,” Jake says as I step in and strip out of my hoodie.

“I shot the sheriff,” I start singing, and he grins.

“Time to shoot the deputies.”

I strip out of my clothes, and start pulling on my kill clothes. I can’t wear a baggy hoody or restricting pants. This is the ultimate kill zone.

“Phase nine complete?” I ask him.

“As soon as you step into the middle of town, all I have to do is press a button. The next button gets pressed when you step inside. Then you’re on your own. You know the charges are set; you know the small window you have to get out; and you know to keep your head down. Don’t get killed on a part we could skip.”

I tug on my leggings, making sure to do the splits and double check their flexibility.

Jake watches me grimly.

“I’m not skipping this part, Jake. They need to feel the same fear. Just dying isn’t good enough. And risking someone surviving isn’t any good either.”

He blows out a breath as I grab my tank top, ready to brave the chilly air while being sleeveless. I’ll warm up once I start fighting.

After getting my boots back on, I grab the bulletproof vest that is thinner and less constricting than most—thank you, Jake.

Then I start packing in all the weapons into my many holsters, and use the action game assembly Jake has laid out.

“I’m having a moment,” Jake says, biting down on his knuckle as I finish loading the last of the weapons into their designated spots on my body harness.

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