The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins by Claire C. Riley Read Free Book Online Page B

at me, jumping back as I charge past him and slam the door closed.
    “I was attacked, Ken, not that you care. I was attacked—twice.” I shudder. “My cell phone isn’t working, I need to call the police, there’s a woman at the store who might be in trouble.” I think about the man I buried my tire iron in. “And a man, that,” I look away, “a man that I think I killed.”
    “Ho-ly shit, woman! You’ve really done it now, haven’t you?” He whistles through his teeth. He follows me through to the kitchen, with Phil at his heels, as he continues to talk. “You need to get the hell out of here, I’m not getting sent to prison for hiding a fugitive.”
    I grab the phone off the counter and listen for a dial tone but the line is dead. Not engaged, but dead—completely silent. I slam the phone back onto its base, grab the bottle of scotch off the counter, and take a swig straight from it, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. Slamming the bottle down, I start opening cupboards and drawers in search of weapons.
    Ken comes to stand in front of me, his hands on his hips. “Did you hear me? I need you to leave or I’ll be the one calling the police.”
    I look up to meet his gaze, noticing the sneer on his face. I cast a glance to Phil, who is still puffing away on a cigar and looking uncomfortable. My hand touches on the metal meat tenderizer in the drawer and I grip it and stand up, meeting his hateful gaze with one of my own.
    “I suggest you stay out of my way, Ken, or I will be forced to do something that you will regret. Not me, I won’t regret a damn thing.” The mallet feels heavy in my hand, and I see Ken’s gaze travel to it.
    He backs up a step with a shake of his head. “You really are one crazy bitch, you know that?” He looks over his shoulder at Phil, who is staring at us in horror. “You hear all this, Phil? Because I will be pressing charges against her.” He looks back to me, meeting my stare with ice-cold hatred. “Go on then, do your worst.” He laughs.
    I think back to all the abuse: the fists, the kicks, the bite marks, and the burning hot pan on my hand. The excuses I’ve made for him, the lies I’ve told for him, and the tears I’ve shed for this pitiful man. I realize how much I hate him in this moment, how much I want him dead. Not in a flippant you’re dead to me kind of way, but a real, I want you to be dead and gone from this earth, my life, and out of my way.
    The metal has warmed in my palm, and my hand feels twitchy to swing it and hit him across his head like I did the man in the parking lot.
    Ken sneers at me again, his lip turning up in disgust. “You are pathetic, you know that?” he growls out.
    I see red and swing the mallet as hard as I can.
     

Four.
     
    His mocking laugh reverberates inside my head, and I scream as I lash out with the mallet. He grabs my wrist before I make impact, and snatches the makeshift weapon from my hand. He shoves me hard in the chest, and sending me flailing until I sprawl backwards, and hit my head against the corner of the open drawer. I scream again as pain shoots through my skull, and I slump to the floor, clutching a hand to my head.
    “Hit me, will you, woman?” He kicks me hard in the ribs and I gasp. His foot lands heavily over and over again until I feel something snap—possibly a rib—and I scream out with a sob for him to stop.
    I look up through tear-stained eyes and hold a pleading hand up to him. My vision is blurry and I can’t seem to catch my breath. The air rattling in and out of my chest sounds like lumps of milkshake being sucked through a straw.
    “Stop,” I plead, and cough, spitting out blood and grabbing at my ribs. “Please stop, Ken.”
    He takes a step closer and I brace myself for another kick, but he doesn’t kick me. He stares down at me, his lip curled up in disgust before he spits on me. It hits me in the cheek, his warm saliva trailing down my face.
    “You are pathetic,” he