Page 9 of Ruthless Kings of Vengeance
A warning…a reminder…a piece of a puzzle I can’t quite solve with so many pieces still missing.
"What am I trying to remember that is so important that it keeps nagging at me?”
The bunny doesn’t respond.
It just watches me, its gaze unblinking, and I feel a chill run down my spine. There’s a familiarity that I should recognize, butthe harder I try to remember, the more it slips away, leaving me with nothing but a gnawing sense of unease.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, holding the bunny in my arms, staring into its eyes, searching for answers that never come.
The silence presses in on me, suffocating, and I feel a growing sense of panic bubbling up inside me.
What’s wrong with me?
How did I even get out of this white prison?
Just as the panic threatens to overwhelm me, I hear it — a voice.
“I like bunnies.”
The sound is soft, almost childlike, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. I spin around, my heart pounding in my chest, and there she is— a little girl, standing a few steps away from me.
She looks like me.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
She’s younger, her features softer, her eyes wider, but there’s no mistaking it. The silver hair, the sharp cheekbones, the faint scar above her left eyebrow, and the big nerdy glasses that sit low on her nose. it’s me.
The me that got bullied, abused, and rendered useless to the world…
She’s dressed in white, just like I am, but her gown is simpler, more innocent. Her feet are bare, her toes curling against the cold, white floor. She’s holding a white bunny in her arms, its red eyes glowing just like the one in my grasp
But it’s her expression that catches me off guard.
She looks serious, almost solemn, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed as she studies me. There’s no warmth in her gaze, no curiosity, no fear.
Just…calculation.
She takes a step closer, her movements slow and deliberate, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. The bunny in her arms shifts, its red eyes locking onto mine, and I feel that whisper in my mind again, louder this time, more insistent.
Remember!
The word echoes in my head, but it’s not her voice. It’s deeper, darker, more familiar. It’s a voice I know, vibrations that have made my skin crawl with goosebumps and brewed anger in the depths of my emotions.
Their identity is at the tip of my tongue, taunting me so effortlessly, and then it’s gone.
The little girl stops a few feet away from me, her head tilted to the side as she studies me. Her gaze is piercing, almost unnerving, and I feel exposed, and vulnerable, as if she can see straight through me.
“Do you remember?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.
There’s no emotion in her tone, no hesitation. Just a simple question, delivered with the kind of certainty that makes my stomach twist.
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.
My mind is a jumble of thoughts, memories, and emotions, but none of them make sense. They’re fragments, shards of something larger, something I can’t quite grasp.
The little girl watches me, her expression unchanging, and I feel a growing sense of frustration bubbling up inside me.
What the fuck am I supposed to remember.
