Page 22 of Sins of Winter
The entire time, the sensation of unseen eyes upon us was palpable. Either Liam had shitty perception, or he was too focused on a potential escape route to notice. An instinctive voice screamed within me that I couldn't follow him through it.
My eyes caught sight of a fire extinguisher box mounted on the wall, opposite the janitor’s closet. I strode over to it, my hands trembling. Reaching for the small hammer chained to the box, I took it in my hand and swung it at the corner of the glass. The impact sent a spiderweb of cracks racing across the surface.
A second, more forceful swing shattered the barrier, allowing me to carefully reach in and pull out the axe nestled inside. The cold metal felt heavy and solid in my grip.
Liam eyed the axe warily as I pulled it free. “We have no idea what’s waiting out there or who. This is better than nothing," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We resumed our walk, the tension between us unspoken. As we neared the door, I knew time was running out. With his back turned to me, unaware of my resolve, I gripped the axe handle tighter. Then, with a surge of adrenaline and a silent apology to the universe for what I was about to do, I swung with all the force I could muster.
Liam spun around just as the axe came down, changing its lethal trajectory to a debilitating wound. The blade sank into his shoulder blade with such ease my stomach lurched, and a guttural scream tore from his throat. He reached over, his fingers wrapped around the handle, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
“What are you doing?” he shouted, disbelief and agony etched into his every feature.
“What I have to,” I replied, my voice betraying none of the tremors that coursed through my limbs. With a grimace, I adjusted my grip on the axe's handle, now slick with the dark sheen of his blood. I braced myself and pulled.
The blade made a sickening sound—a wet, tearing noise as it cleaved through the already mangled flesh, severing sinew and muscle with grotesque fluidity. His next scream was a visceral thing, tearing down the hall and echoing.
Blood, a dark crimson almost black in the low light, poured forth in a gush, staining the tile floor beneath him. A constellation of it spread across my face and clothes.
He turned and stumbled forward, his movements erratic, a hand clamped over the wound, his arm hanging unnaturally.
With a desperate sprint fueled by pain and fear, he managed to burst through the door into the night. I watched, unmoving with adrenaline surging through my veins. He made it only as far as the top of the first set of stairs before his legs gave out, and he fell, tumbling down the steps in a macabre ballet of flailing limbs and cries of agony.
Breathing heavily, sweat coating my skin despite the cold, I walked towards the door, following him into the unforgiving night. The air bit at me mercilessly, a stark reminder of my inadequate attire, fleece pajamas offering little protection against the winter's harsh caress. My coat, hastily thrown on, felt like nothing more than a thin barrier between me and the elements.
My hair, still damp from the shower taken what felt like a lifetime ago, hung in loose, wet strands around my shoulders and down my back.
Each breath formed a misty cloud in front of me, dissipating into the night as quickly as it appeared.
I glanced down at the snow underfoot, once a blanket of untouched purity now marred with a crimson trail. I followed it to the rail that divided the stairs and looked down at Liam’s fallen form. The sight of his blood steaming slightly in the icy air sent a replace shudder down my spine, not just from the cold but from the reality of the situation.
I was torn between the instinct to flee and the moral dilemma of leaving him in this wounded state. I wasn’t a killer; at least, I hadn’t been before tonight. Every second that ticked by was another droplet of blood that stained the snow. The scent of iron and fear mingled and rose wafted on the breeze.
Liam was known and celebrated as a brother, a son, and a star athlete. He was the kind of person who attracted admiration and affection with ease.
To most, he was a beacon of the community people felt inherently drawn to. I didn't harbor hatred for him; nor did his affair carve the deep scars of betrayal into me. If anything, there was a stark indifference, a detachment from the emotional turmoil cheating usually brought.
Standing there, looking at him, vulnerable and wounded, I understood this was not about him, any shared history, or lingering connection between us. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, a stand-in for what could have been any faceless participant in Lucian's dark orchestration.
It was a cruel twist of fate, and in that moment, my conscience wrestled with the decision before me.
It came down to simple, undeniable humanity that I felt being altered with my every breath.
As I debated what to do, a figure emerged from the darkness behind me so quietly I didn’t even hear him coming. Lucian.
Two other masked figures ascended the stairs, their approach methodical and unrelenting. Liam, his hysteria mounting, began to plead before his realization dawned. A bitter understanding reflected in his eyes as he looked up at us brokenly. “It's you, isn't it? You sick fuck!” he cried out, his voice breaking.
Lucian responded with a mocking tone as he descended the stairs, reaching down to grip Liam's partially severed shoulder right where the axe had bitten into flesh. Liam screamed in pure anguish and tried to get away.
Lucian applied more pressure, digging directly into the sinewy tendons and muscles, causing more blood to gush and Liam’s eyes to roll back as he passed out.
“Get him loaded up," he commanded the others, who promptly obeyed, hauling Liam's limp form through the snow toward the parking lot.
“What are you going to do with him?” I demanded.
Fear for Liam and for myself vied for dominance within me as I tried to ignore what I had just done.
“You'll find out soon enough,” he replied casually. “It's time for us to leave.”