The Story of Becca
Megra’s eyes are wide with fear, her lips trembling as she pleads. Her voice is a desperate whisper, filled with a panic that only fuels my resolve. She looks so small, so helpless, chained and bound.
“Please, Becca,” she begs, her voice cracking. “Why are you doing this? Why?”
I pause for a moment, staring at her. My eyes bore into hers, searching, dissecting. It’s like I’m looking right into her soul, seeing every little thing she’s ever taken from me, every single moment she’s made me feel small, insignificant, unwanted. I want her to feel that pain now to understand what she’s done.
“I don’t think you should die just yet,” I say slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “without knowing the whole story.”
I grab a wooden chair from the corner, dragging it across the floor with a slow, deliberate scrape that echoes through the room. I’m savouring the moment, relishing the fear in her eyes. I set the chair down in front of her and sit, crossing my legs calmly,
