>>19031283Colby feels the sharp stinging in her cheek, and a chill creeping down her back. When she brutalized Lightning Nika by the pool, it had been partly from a desire to avenge Carmody, but it had been an action that would have seemed abhorrent to the person she thought she was. After she'd done it, she expected to regret it, to feel sick every time she thought about it. Instead, it made her smile. It brought her a distant form of pleasure. Colby Jefferson had proven to herself on that day what she was capable of; she had learned something about herself. And it had been on behalf of this ungrateful little shit.
>"If that's really what you want, Carmody."There is one last thing she can do. Priscilla's wrath, when invoked, could be a truly terrible thing. She'd find unique levels of cruelty to deal with Carmody. But she'd also lose interest if somebody else had beaten her to it, taking Carmody out of the picture first. It wouldn't bring Colby any joy (probably), but she could do it in a merciful way, taking care of her little sister in the final way that remained to her. She'd have to be more thorough and precise than Nika was, she supposed.
Colby's hand goes into the pockets of her tactical pants and finds her brass knuckles there. She closes her eyes and tries to say a prayer for forgiveness, but whatever connection she'd felt to any greater spiritual presence before her confrontation with Miss USA is now gone again. No matter. Her fingers slip into the knuckles, and she approaches Carmody, who is staring, transfixed, at an old family photo. This would be easy, like one of the old farmers who lived around their childhood home, slaughtering a docile animal that had no idea what was coming.
She walks towards Carmody. Carmody's eyes begin to move. It's now or never.
Colby unleashes a deadly brass-knuckles-laden punch aimed directly at her little sister's head.
