This would hurt.
But it wouldn’t kill me.
I took a slow, shaky breath and looked up at my wrists. The silver cuffs were snug, embedded into bruised skin turned almost black. Blisters formed where they pressed, the metal still sizzling faintly like it enjoyed eating into me.
"Okay," I whispered to no one. "Let’s do this."
I twisted my wrists first—angle by angle, slow and precise, like a puzzle I had to solve with nothing but pain as currency. The cuffs bit into my skin, peeling it back layer by layer. I could feel the tendons beginning to fray, the slick warmth of blood seeping between my fingers, coating the cold iron like oil.
The pain was blinding.
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth until I thought they might crack, and pulled harder. Every nerve
