He wrenches my head to the side, drives his knee into my chest, and exposes my jugular.
I hold my breath, tears clouding my vision, waiting for the pain. But, in that intense moment of anticipation, I realize I’m wrong.
How I die doesn’t matter for me because dead is dead. But how I die will matter for this beautiful boy whose thumb is poised on the syringe’s plunger. After all he’s lost, all he’s been through, he won’t be able to handle the guilt.
But If I can escape with him and then I don’t make it, well, that’s my fault. Not his.
The cold point of the needle touches my skin.
"Okay, okay!" I cry. "You win. I'll go to the Zombie Ball with you. But only if I can wear a costume; not as real zombie."
Opening: Anita.....Continuation: Anon.