Chapter 12: Py Their GameLater that night, after a long shower and several stiff shots of cheap whisky, I sat on my sofa and stared out at the rain that pounded against the patio door, shattering the glimmering city lights into a defuse glow. The storm had finally broken. Dressed in a fluffy robe with my smooth legs curled up beh me, I slowly ched and unched my hand and found that I couldn’t dispel the invisible weight of a broken beer bottle.

  That asshole--what was his name, Jeff?--would never know how close he came to dying today.

  Instead I’d made my way back through the bar. Given Frank some bullshit excuse, a tearful apology about how I couldn’t get up on that stage, how I thought I could but I couldn’t, I wasn’t that kind of girl. . . . Really melodramatic, you know? And he’d been surprisingly uanding, which was a good thing because I’d still been in a fighting mood, tense and ready to kick the guy is if he gave me any hassle. Instead he gave me his card, told me to call if I ever ged my mind. Yeah, don’t hold your breath, Frank.

  I should’ve killed him. Jeff. My shadow. I would’ve e. Another ce to strike back at Steele, at this goddamn maniac who’d destroyed my life. My hand ched tight again and I felt my anger bubble up within as a physical presence, a stifli that left me flushed and hot. Somehow I’d find the bastard. Make him pay. Steele was the ohat I wao make bleed--not some anonymous stalker-for-hire.

  Killing Jeff would’ve given me away. Better to maintain the illusion. Fool him, fool them all. They had a profile. How, from where? Probably from the ic--K had said something about Steele’s men hag into their records. So they knew what dy was like, had her profile and psychological evaluations and all that shit. And as long as I acted differently than what they expected, as long as I wasn’t the twenty year-old chick they expected. . . .

  They’d be watg.

  Fine. I’d py their game. I’d be the girliest fug girl they’d ever seen. I’d dress pretty and live this shitty life they’d fore and no one would ever suspect that behind this painted smile and i wide eyes, someone--something--else entirely lurked. Eventually my followers would wander off. I’d be free. They all seemed to have these goddamn profiles, character sketches of who I was. David Saunders. dy Belmy.

  They didn’t have a fug clue of who I really was.

  I’d be watg. And waiting. And when their attention wandered elsewhere I’d be the one following. This was their game but I was damn well going to make it mine.

  With sudden resolve I surged to my feet and stalked to the middle of the room. I dropped to me knees and stretched out across the floor. I rested both hands, palms ft against the floor, oher side of my chest. A deep breathe, another . . . and I pushed.

  First in my triceps, then both shoulders, and finally my chest: the burn, and then the ache. My arms trembled. I pushed and strained and slowly lifted off the floor. . . .

  I held it for five seds--five eternal, agonizing, magnifit seds--arms fully extended, wobbling and weak, eyes watering with the effort; and then my strength suddenly evaporated and I dropped back to the floor, tits fttenih me.

  All of fifty kilos--and fu’ A! I could do at least one!

  Tomorrow, I’d do two.

  Author's Notes:

  If you're impatient to read on, you find everything avaible on Patreon: patreon./fakeminsk, as well as fanart and a few side projects.

  And of course, ents and feedback are always appreciated!