Page 8

This wasn’t going to be a pretty view.

Emma didn’t waste a second.

She was already at the vanity, fingers closing around a bottle of mint body wash. She flipped the lid open with a little pop and squeezed a generous amount into the water. Green ribbons of soap spiraled and dissolved beneath the surface.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Mint stings. On cuts. On sensitive skin. In places water isn’t meant to reach.

I was holding the iron now, the weight familiar and oddly comforting in my hand, as it belonged there. The cord trailed behind me like a lazy snake. Emma kept pushing the chair closer to the tub until the front legs bumped against the porcelain.

Then she tried to shove him, but by the look on her face and how hard her chest was in and out I'd say she was having a bit of difficulty pushing him in. Still, when I tried to step forward, she waved me off—little miss independent. After she struggled and huffed and puffed—yes, it sounds just as pathetic as I made it sound, she did it, the man was shaking his body, making it harder for Emma to carry out her action, he was trying to scream—pathetic really—until Emma took the ball gaga off and the man spoke.

“What the fuck you crazy fuckers.” the man yelled as Emma kept one hand on the chair. Squinting her eyes, she slapped the man, before yelling, “Crazy—this isn’t even crazy. I’ll show you what crazy is.” Within that moment it was like she was rushed with adrenaline or the molly and cocaine we had taken before —her eyes went wide and Emma got irritated by his one sentence and tied the ball bag back around the man before an unholy smile returned.

The chair tipped forward and for a single thought I was sure it would fall back, but she took all her energy, pushed until she couldn't anymore and he tipped over. Water surged up and over the sides as his body crashed in, drenching the tiles. His head went under with a heavy splash, bubbles bursting at the surface. His bound feet kicked uselessly, knocking against the side of the tub with hollow, frantic thuds.

He was absolutely helpless.

He tried to scream, but the gag turned everything into broken, bubbling sounds. He flailed, fighting the water, fighting the chair, fighting the panic already clawing at his lungs. But you can’t fight physics. You can’t argue with the weight of water filling your mouth, your nose, your chest. I walked over to Emma and plugged the iron into the plug socket. I then rounded her to the other side of the tub before I slammed it into the water.

There was a crackling sound, a vicious hiss as the current met the bath. The surface of the water jumped, shivered, as if something alive had just skimmed across it. The smell of hot metal and steam and something sharper—ozone, maybe—filled the room.

His whole body arched, muscles seizing so hard the chair knocked against the tub. He kept trying to scream, but he couldn’t. His lungs were too busy drowning. He convulsed, jerking and twisting, sending more water sloshing over the edge, soaking my feet, the bottom of my jeans.

He didn’t last long.

I watched the fight drain out of him. Watch the frantic, jerky movements slow into something weaker, more pitiful. His chest hitched, then stalled, then hitched again. His heart—invisible, but loud in my imagination—felt like it was stuttering.

Emma reached in and grabbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into his wet skin. She hauled him up, dragging his head above the surface. Water streamed off his face, out of his nose, around the gag, pouring in little rivers back into the tub.

For a moment, he looked like a drowning animal that had just broken the surface.

False hope.

I wish we’d taken photos.

He sucked in air through his nose in desperate, noisy gulps, chest heaving. Each breath sounded like it hurt.

Two minutes.

That’s all it took for his breathing to slow into something that might, to an optimist, have looked like recovery.

We are not optimists.

We couldn’t have that.

Emma shoved him down again. No warning. One second, he was there, wheezing, dragging in air; the next her hand was clamped on the nape of his neck, pushing his head back under with steady, unhurried force, his knees following as they basically touched the bottom of the tub.

The water swallowed him with a thick, glugging sound.

This time, I was ready. I lifted the iron out just long enough to feel the heat licking at the metal, the cord taut and humming between my fingers. Then I plunged it back into the bath.

The reaction was bigger.

Stronger. Crueler.

He didn’t last five minutes.

And then, just like that, he was gone.