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Jimmy hefted the weight of the crowbar in his hands.
Dark, jagged, uneven metal. Rusted from previous mishandling and the company’s inconsideration.
He traced the length with cold and calloused fingers, shamelessly aware of the blood beneath his nails, and of the fact that nobody was left to notice.
All were gone but one— two, barely, if he had the strength to admit it. But he had all intents and purposes to beat that reality to a bloody fetal pulp.
A few practice swings. The weight distribution was off, causing unnecessary strain on his shoulders.
God, it was an ugly weapon. And Anya was an even uglier woman. But since when did he care about looks?
He eased his grip, stepped forward, and let the metal dangle beside her face. From above he saw the reddening whites of her eyes, old crocodile tears and a sad slack jaw, but little else. He kneeled. A hand to her throat, he noted a weak pulse pumping poisoned blood to her stale brain. Like she was hanging on, just for him.
If the bitch thought she could feign death, or outlast him in any way, she was sorely mistaken. He saw through her better than anybody else.
When the cold metal pressed flat against her cheek, she went through the most peculiar of sensory processes. Froth bubbled from her mouth, her nose, from the corners of her eyes which rolled up like pinballs.
Like a loose and trembling prey animal, her body voided in its final tingles of fear. Piss pooled darkly between quivering thighs, mingling with the acrid scent of bile in the air. The puddle quickly spread to Jimmy’s knees, forcing him to his feet.
He wondered, scowling, Could she still feel shame?
He hoped so. That’s the least she could give him, though it wouldn’t mean very much for long. They were both going to die tonight.
The crowbar was sharp and heavy enough to rend her guts; that’s all that mattered in this infinitesimal moment.
With luck, it would split the wretched bitch in two.
The metal hooked into the soft bell curve of her stomach, just beneath the navel, and Jimmy thought he could hear the splints of broken baby bones impaling her womb. Internal shrapnel. Anya jolted, eyes bulging against the force. Froth sputtered through glued lips, suddenly more red than pink, more blood than bubble.
Good. That meant it was working.
He was fixing it.
He was making everything right at last.
Down, down, down she fell, crumpling in on herself. He allowed her body a moment to writhe in thoughtless agony, twitching away like a living, pissing seizure. The beaten dyke’s dented stomach granted new flexibility to curl. He couldn’t discern blood from drool from tears with the way she ground her filthy face in the floor, smearing everything.
The gash in her belly bled steadily, but he wasn’t satisfied yet. He needed to go deeper. Should this death trap be found ten, twenty, a hundred years from now, he couldn’t leave anything behind. He spaced his ID through the airlock. He burned his uniform. Pray they’ll never piece together the puzzle of his bullet-blown skull.
Jimmy’s breathing went funny. Anya’s stopped altogether.
He hilted his boot beneath Anya’s shoulder and flipped her onto her back. Down came another screaming blow, this time to her ribs, shattering the tender cage. With no more circulation keeping the red fresh, her carnage pooled stagnantly, drowning the dreadful thing inside of her. If it was still inside her at all, that is. It could’ve been flung to some insignificant corner of the medbay, or mashed to oblivion. Fine enough. It couldn’t live without its host.
He hated the way she looked at him. Rather, the way she never looked at him. Never locked eyes with him. Never laughed at his jokes or sat at the table with him, even before all this.
It was infuriating how she managed to deflect him even in death. A testament to just how frigid she was.
Jimmy tore the bar from her chest. He would’ve raped her again if she wasn’t so soiled. Her face still had some fleeting warmth to it, but the last thing Jimmy needed was hot bile burning his cock.
She owed him, and she would always owe him. Death made no difference in their eternity together. He hoped her soul found solace, that she sang with the angels. That way she could look down and weep as she watched him take back all that was rightfully his.
Jimmy beat her until his elbows buckled and the crooked bar bent straight, crowned in bits of her flesh and bone. At some point it slipped through his hands, gone numb from exertion. Then he just stood and looked at her a while. A calm came over him like no other. He felt truly even.
Blood freckled Jimmy’s serene face. Anya looked like she’d just lost a game of paintball— and what a sore loser she was. Flat on her back, simpering and resigned, her eyes begged skyward to some merciful god Jimmy would never meet. And that was alright.
He swayed off, so high he could never fall, and fiddled with the lockbox.
He didn’t need heaven, only relief.