Page 5 of Biker's Enemy

Holy fucking shit.

This can’t be real.

Three

QUIN

The knife slashes at my chest. I roll onto my stomach, but no matter how much force I try to use to push myself back over… my body won’t respond. I’m stuck. I grunt and press my palms to the floor, but it doesn’t work. I feel searing heat across my shoulder.

When I feel the warm gush after, I know he cut me. He suddenly yanks me onto my back, and for a short second I make eye contact with him and see the insanity burning in his eyes.

He has his hands around my neck.

I’m trying to breathe, but nothing is getting into my lungs.

He dropped the knife.

I knee him in the balls. I feel the surge of adrenaline at this slight victory and then grasp the handle of the knife.

Everything after that is a flash of blood and a torrent of pain. But in the end, I’m crying and he…

Is dead at the bottom of the stairs.

I killed someone.

Holy fuck, I just killed someone.

Not just anyone. My brother. Eugene.

I scream so loudly I feel like the force will push my eyeballs out of my head. When my lungs nearly collapse from the force of my scream, I possess enough self-awareness to stifle my next scream with the crook of my arm.

The last fucking thing I need is the cops coming here and seeing this mess. Eugene dead. Me holding the knife. Our long history of having the cops called on the house by neighbors. I can’t breathe. I wish I could, but it feels like someone is making a balloon animal out of my windpipe.

This doesn’t look good. The cops have been here twice before. Both times, Eugene manipulated his way out of trouble and portrayed me as his mentally troubled ethnic minority sister who he needed to protect.

After the panicked screams come the loud sobs as my body moves on autopilot. I can’t look at where he lies at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not like in the movies. His eyes aren’t closed or open. They’re stuck frozen in between. His body lies in this unnatural, mangled position and his tongue pokes out of his mouth awkwardly.

Blood surrounds his head in a large, spreading pool that moves as slow as corn syrup across the hardwood floor.

I don’t have to handle the body until the end of it. I need to clean the floor upstairs first, which is enough of a task with the gash on my shoulder and the pain all over my body from the rough beating Eugene delivered before I finally… whatever I did.

I must have pushed him.

And stabbed him.

Bitch, you are going to jail.

The thought forces me to clean where we fought like I need to eat off the floor. I scrub until my body aches. I have to take breaks. Lots of breaks. I am covered in a thick and extremely stinky layer of sweat when I’m done. I get most of the blood down the tub. I get the floor scrubbed with bleach. I wear through three pairs of gloves and I have a limited number left to finish the job.

But I still have the stairs, the body, and all of downstairs.

I don’t even register that I can leave the house.

I’ve been trapped here for so long hiding the abuse. Hiding my fear. It just doesn’t feel real… I keep cleaning in that unreal state of mind, doing shit that will ensure I’ll go to double jail or triple jail if I get caught.

When. When you get caught.

I ignore the lump in my throat and change out of my clothes, mostly because they’re soaked in sweat and I can’t handle all the smells going on right now. I still haven’t figured out what to do with my adoptive brother’s body.