Page 17 of They Call Me Wicked
“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up in front of me peacefully before whistling at Gizmo and Snitch. They answer quickly, their furry bodies scurrying down my form before heading over to the beer-bitch.
Rest in fucking peace, twatwaffle.
I’m not a monster, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s fucking terrible the way she had to go. I’d much rather her live a long healthy life, while at least twice a day getting her belt loop caught on a door knob while she’s in a hurry. Like minor, annoying inconveniences, ya know?
But I’m not going to mourn her. She was a dreadful person who literally beat me to a pulp. Yeah, no. Most people might like to pretend they would feel inconceivable grief over situations like these, but they’d be lying to themselves.
I hope.
That, or I’m just a terrible person. Who knows?
The smell of beer gets stronger as I step closer to the body. That and the pungent scent of urine and the metallic tinge of blood, mixing together to create a very unpleasant burning sort of situation for my nose. I contemplate breathing through my mouth, but quickly scrap the idea. No need to risk my taste buds too.
Following the echoed outline that is broadcasted from Gizmo and Snitch, I reach up and place my hand directly on the cold, stiff foot of the woman. That being the only thing I can touch where she’s still strung up like a puppet on strings.
A blurred scene appears in front of me. I can’t make anything out visually, but the pain…the pain is very, very clear. Each injury that I sported the other night is magnified tenfold on the woman’s body, along with a burning sensation on her stomach where I know words will be carved into her flesh.
“Please, no. No more. No more.” Her voice is rattled and coarse in her throat as she tries to form words. A shadow surfaces in front of her, yet she’s unable to focus on it through the haze. She sobs at its appearance, knowing there’s more pain to come, her ribs creaking with the force of her despair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Wicked the tongue that tells such lies. Wicked the woman with sorrowful cries.” The voice is warped, deep in nature, but not quite right. Like her ears aren’t quite picking up its true sound. Then the shadow moves from her eyesight before her head is snapped backwards, forced to stare at the darkness of the sky. “Wicked the mournful, transformed malign. Wicked the bitch who touched what’s mine.”
Only one tear drop paves a path down her skin, disappearing into her hair, before a pain so visceral, so terrible, erupts across her face. It takes only a few moments for blurriness to become blackness–a familiar and terrible sight.
Her mouth is forced open before she can even react to the newest trauma, a sharp pain following a cold object being shoved down her throat. Down and down it goes–so far it seems impossible–until it finally stops. Something is placed into her nose and now breathing is almost impossible. Her struggles are useless, her arms shackled and restrained.
For a moment, nothing else happens, but then a gloved hand strokes down the side of her face almost lovingly. “Hello, Izabella.”
Something snaps and the woman’s body is flying upwards before coming to an abrupt stop, pain sharpening from the binds twisted around her wrists and ankles. She can’t even cry, after all, she has no tear ducts left to gather moisture. Throat blocked by the tube, so she’s unable to make a sound.
“You might want to leave now.” The sound of rushing liquid reaches the woman’s ears. “I’ll be watching.”
I close my connection.
“He obviously knows all of my limitations and abilities. Every single one. He took steps to prevent me from getting much of anything from the scene. But not only that, he fucking spoke directly to me from the past. Like…like he knew I would be watching.” Shaking my head, I massage my forehead in frustration. “I don’t get it. He must have drugged her or…something! She couldn’t see or hear properly at all, even compared to the standards my visions usually are. But the pain…she felteverything.” I rub at my neck, trying to rid myself of the ghostly sensation of the tube in my throat that’s leftover from the vision.
“And you haven’t felt anyone following you? No familiar…signatures constantly around?” Alan questions as he continues jotting down everything I’m telling him.
I couldn’t recover from the vision that quickly, so now we’re back at the precinct and sitting in his office. The quiet, relatively safe place helping me to steady myself.
“No. Besides, you know my limitations. I can’t read people’s signatures unless they’re relatively close to me physically.” And that, right there, scares me more than anything. I can’t even sense whoever it is that’s watching me. Nothing has been out of the ordinary. I suddenly feel extremely small and vulnerable in the world. Unsafe.
“We’re taking you to one of our safe houses. You can stay there under a protection detail while we figure out who this guy is and get him behind bars. You’re staying off this case. I’ll call you if I need your particular abilities, but otherwise, you’re not coming anywhere near this again. And I mean it this time, no running off and trying to do it yourself.” Alan suddenly stands, all rough and authoritative.
“What? No. Hell no!” Shock glues me to my seat, but I somehow manage to find my voice.
“Wicked, you can’t tell me you’re safe living alone while this guy is out there.”
“I’m fine, Alan, I can-”
“Take care of yourself? Really? You can’t even win a fistfight on your own.” He sighs, his aura suddenly exhausted and defeated. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m not saying this to insult you. I’m just trying to protect you!”
“I don’t need your protection. I’m fine! I have Gizmo and Snitch.” I run my hands through Snitch’s fur as I speak, his comforting purr grounding me.
“Gizmo and Snitch can’t protect you from everything, Wicked. What if they get hurt trying? You would never forgive yourself.”
“Low fucking blow, Chief.”
“I’m only being logical. You’re blind-”