Heir of Beasts

Ch. 1.7- Little Tiger Girl

Hello again! This is the end of O'otani's section. Next chapter we're back in Kama with Shira!

As always, thanks for reading

- Swpoet

_______

I react without thought. There is only impulse and action, and a mind blank save for the rage that consumes all rationality as flames consume kindling. Restraint turns to ash and I'm leaping over the desk that divides us, one hand going for his neck and the other for the butter knife. My muscles fall into old patterns of attack; my mind snaps into the killing place easily.

I'm dimly aware that I should stop. I should not be flying over the table, scattering the bread and jams, knocking over the steaming tea, and colliding with Sholu. I should not be pressing the knife to his throat and cursing his name over and over again through snarling lips. I should be a girl, not a wild animal.

But the voice of the girl is weak and easily silenced, and the wounded howls of the animal echo from hill to hill, demanding an audience.

I give myself over to visions of red. My mortal dress falls from me easily, leaving a goddess in its place. She unfurls herself, all flashing metal eyes and righteous anger, a goddess of retribution brought to claim what is hers by right.

He belongs to you, something inside of me whispers, and the truth of the statement envelopes me. He took from you, and now you will take back. A debt has to be repaid.

I think, for a moment, that it will work. The knife will find its mark, and whatever happens after be damned, the world will have lost one more monster.

But he slams my hand away easily, his grip hard enough to cause me to cry out. I think he breaks a finger. Then he uses his weight to throw me off of him, to throw us both onto the floor, because he isn't letting go of my wrist. His grip tightens, trying to force me to drop the knife.

We grapple on the ground, twisting and twining over one another like snakes. I wrap my legs around his hips and try to hold him still, I manage to wrest my hand free and get the knife close to his neck again, but he knees me in the stomach. I scream, and as pain blossoms from my midsection he grabs my arm and slams it down above my head.

"Stop it," he spits, all of his weight pressing me down into the thick Seramichen carpet. "Stop it, you can't win."

I try to wrench myself free but stop when his grip on my arm turns punishing. He pulls it in an unnatural angle, his eyes threatening a break if I keep fighting. I do, of course, too far gone to see self-preservation, too far gone to see anything but a vision of his viscera spread out on the floor before me. He applies more pressure, then more, until I'm panting and swearing at the pain.

"Fuck you," I spit. "Fuck you, you weak, goddess-damned son of a whore-ha-"

The grip tightens; my bone feels stretched. He's close to breaking it, to breaking me. Sinews threaten to snap and a haze of black creeps in from the edge of my vision. Unconsciousness threatens. I whimper, the animal in me kicked and cornered.

The pain finally overcomes the red haze of rage, the flickering edges of the red silk tent, and I know it's over. I relax my grip on the knife, and it falls aside, useless from the start. Never sharp enough to do the kind of damage I wanted.

It was over before it began, really. I might be a trained fighter, well-practiced, but he's almost twice my size and he fights like the street scum he is. Ruthless, lightning fast, yet precise. I can't beat him, certainly not with no plan in my head and a butter knife in my hand.