Sonja was a sensitive girl. She hosted sensations of hate in her body for the man who'd seduced her with vodka and pills, taking her finally against her will in the moment when her defenses succumbed to the potent embrace of the chemicals. Each movement of his was a soul-rupturing death she felt acutely with astral awareness, though her physical faculties would not permit her to move. In the midst of her martyrdom she planned each motion of her revenge, a choreography of purposeful movement in a rigid rhythm of time. He must feel the vitiating deaths that he had lavished upon her. There must be reciprocity...

She knocked on his door. He answered. The cold metal of the weapon and the frigid stare of her eyes forced him back as she entered and pressed him by sheer will onto the couch where it had happened. She allowed him some moments of fear, waited for beads of sweat to form, waited for him to tremble and whimper for his life. And then she ended his existence. The first shot emasculated him. The second scrambled his brain into an ugly stew. It always took less than five minutes, as her internal clock perceived. Finally, with the power of her sensitivity, she threw herself back in time ten minutes previous, to appear at his door again, and repeat what from her perspective had just happened. She had counted each of her deaths, and would return them to him in equal proportion.

Story #270

Note from Indeterminacy: A big thank you to the strange and beautiful Argimpasa, for kind permission to use her photo.