9. Sophie

9

SOPHIE

I turn quickly, my heart hammering in my throat. My hands tremble, and the knife feels impossibly heavy in my grip, but I don’t hesitate. I drive it into him.

The blade sinks deep into his abdomen, and my stomach lurches with the motion. It’s not quick or clean; it drags, tearing through flesh. The sickening sound of it fills my ears, wet and visceral. He doesn’t make a sound at first. His eyes are wide, confused, as if he can’t comprehend what just happened. As if he didn’t think I’d do it.

I twist the knife, and his breath catches, a thin gasp escaping him. Blood floods out, dark and thick, quickly staining his shirt. I shove him against the wall, my hands slipping, coated with blood. He claws desperately at his side, trying to stop it, but his hands are useless, trembling and slick.

I press harder, my pulse roaring in my ears, my breath shallow, ragged. My hands are numb now, but I don’t stop. He doesn’t get the chance to fight back.

I twist the knife again, deeper this time. He gasps, choking on his own blood as it spills from his mouth, staining his teeth. His body goes limp, hands falling useless to his sides. His knees buckle, and he crumples to the floor.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t beg. His body just goes down with a soft thud, and I stand there, watching it happen like this is someone else’s life.

I step back. His blood pools beneath him, spreading into the dirt of the alley. It’s thick and dark. I tell myself it looks normal, like it’s been there all along.

I feel it. The terror. It’s not gone. It’s still there, burning in the pit of my stomach, knotting my gut into something heavy and cold. I didn’t think it would feel like this—so wrong, so sharp, so final.

But I’m still standing. And he’s not.

I don’t look at his face. I can’t. I don’t know what I’d see there, and I’m not sure I want to. But I know one thing: I did what I had to. Even though my hands are shaking, even though my skin feels tight and wrong.

I hear footsteps—Mom. She’s looking at the body, the blood on the ground, but her face doesn’t change. She doesn’t even blink. She just tosses her coat my way, which should seem odd given that it’s the dead of summer, but it’s my mother, so it feels perfectly normal.

"Let’s go," she says, motioning for me to put it on. “We can order room service.”

I don’t argue. I don’t even hesitate. I slip my arms into the coat, feeling the weight of it settle over my shoulders like an old, familiar burden.

In the car, on the way back to the hotel it’s quiet. The city lights blur past the windows, but my mind is stuck in the alley, with him. I can still see the look in his eyes, the way he tried to fight, the way he never had a chance.

Mom doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches me, her gaze intense, like she’s trying to see something beneath my expression .

Finally, she speaks. “You did good.”

She wants a response I can’t give her.

“You handled it,” she says it like it’s no big deal, like it’s nothing.

I turn away, focusing on the passing lights. I can still hear him gasping, see the blood on my hands.

“You’re still alive,” she continues, her voice detached. “That’s what matters.”

I can see she wants me to say something. But what is there to say?

She sighs wistfully, almost like she’s satisfied with herself. “Next time will be easier.”

Next time .

That thought bothers me more than the blood I can still smell on my skin.

Mom leans back in her seat, her tone softening just enough to be noticeable. “Don’t worry, Soph. You’ll get better.”

The words are meant to encourage me, but they settle heavy in my chest.

Easier.

Better.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying not to think about the man’s expression when he realized what was happening. I think about those unread texts instead. I wasn’t going to respond, I was going to let it go, like I know I should. Now, I’m not sure.

I think Mom is right. Next time will be easier.

That’s what scares me.