MIKE STILLS, HIS eyes fixing at the upper right corner of the screen, where the video feed is. The video looks jerky, as if it is stuck on repeat, the stick figure on top repeatedly moving, arms up down up down, every other piece of the clip still, frozen. The body beneath her thrashes, her movement becoming that of a bucking bronco for a short moment before the man’s upper torso raises, the girl shimmying up his body with greedy movement, before one final downward swipe causes any and all motion beneath her to cease.
He exhales, closing the top of the laptop, not sure if he could take any more, the image branded on his mind, contrasting sharply with the sunny smile he has grown attached to. He knew she had a dark side, had gotten a taste of it when she did the impossible five months ago. But that video, seeing the image of her physically taking a life… it paints over every image of her with a dark brush, adding shadows and depths that scare the hell out of him. He’s spent the last days hating that man, cursed him during bouts of clarity during those two days of hell. Hated him more than he’d even known was possible. Still—he feels a reaction to watching him die. A bit of pity, guilt settling into his stomach as if for a long residence. The last few minutes have taught him a lot about her. A lot that he hadn’t really known. He shoves the laptop to the side and closes his eyes. Swallows a wave of nausea.