Page 1 of The Ache That Stayed

CHAPTER 1

The Stranger

The man had stopped screaming ten minutes ago. Now he only made wet, choking sounds every time I hit him.

Rain hammered the bridge overhead hard enough to drown out the sound of breaking cartilage. It lashed against the asphalt relentlessly until my body settled into its rhythm. Wind cut through my clothes, the kind of wet cold that settled into bone.

The tunnel under the bridge reeked of piss and mud. Moss crawled along the stone walls, slick with years of neglect, while graffiti bled through damp concrete. The guardrail rattled when the wind pressed against it like old bones shifting beneath skin. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, steady as a metronome.

Nobody used the old bridge anymore. The new motorway a few miles north made sure of that. The place had become a haven for junkies and dealers. Tonight, one of them had been easy to pay off, desperate enough to look the other way for cash and stupid enough not to ask questions.

I found an old plastic bucket and sat on it, lighting a cigarette. The hood of my sweatshirt kept most of my face hidden, but the flare of the lighter was enough. I watched the panic spread through him the moment he realised I wasn’t angry.

I was patient.

Because men knew what to do with anger. Calm was worse.

The heaviness in my chest was back. I drew in a deep breath and let the smoke burn my lungs. The nicotine rush dulled the ache, but only temporarily. It never fully left.

I’d had my fun with this man. My bruised knuckles bore witness to it. He tried to get up but slipped, gravel tearing into his palms as he dragged himself forward.

There was only one way out. Kill me and escape.

But I’d battered the motherfucker so bad that he could barely stand. He tried to crawl away, palms skidding uselessly over wet stone. His breath came out in broken gasps, teeth chattering louder than the rain. His face was already swollen with one eye sealed shut. Blood streaked down his chin, turning thin and pink beneath the rain. It ran in thin rivulets, disappearing into the cracks in the concrete.

He coughed wetly, spit stringing from his mouth onto the ground beneath him.

“Please,” he sobbed. “I didn’t know—”

I walked toward him slowly. I stubbed the cigarette right in the middle of his forehead as he screamed. Burning flesh and tobacco briefly masked the stench of piss.

I hit him.

Once.

Twice. My fists were steady, deliberate, with each strike measured with practised ease.

“I didn’t know she mattered to you,” he gasped through blood. “I swear, I just watched. I thought—”

I punched him again. He folded with a wet sound, face smashing into the ground. More blood mixed with the mud and rain—dark and thick, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

I pressed my boot on his face, letting him choke on the mud. His breath hitched wetly beneath the sole, each gasp bubbling through filth and rain. His hands flew up instinctively, grabbing my boot, tapping, clawing, doing whatever he could to get me off his sorry face.

I crouched in front of him.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Anger made men sloppy. Calm violence left cleaner endings.

My hands didn’t shake. Gore didn’t bother me—it never had. Blood was just blood. Flesh was just flesh.

What mattered was intent—the difference between punishment and erasure.

I grabbed his hair and hauled his head back. My grip tightened until tendons stood out along his neck and his eyes bulged. He squealed, high-pitched. Pathetic.

“You should’ve stopped at thinking,” I spoke into his ear.

My thumb pressed into his windpipe. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to make him panic. He thrashed against my hold, slipping. His shoes skidded uselessly on the wet ground. He wheezed, face turning an ugly shade of red. Spit and blood spilled from his mouth as he tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come.

Adrenaline pushed the emptiness into the background.