Three years later under a chicken factory...

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Thick, red liquid oozes over my fingers where they grip the neck of a man jerking far too much for me to enjoy my birthday present. Partnered with terrified screams that pray for his God, the hysteria surrounding me fills my ears with white noise, lighting my skin with sharp prickles. Similar to the reaction I had when Mrs. Cullen tried to gift me a choker for my fifteenth birthday. Rosalie claims it's fashionable at the moment, trendy - I think otherwise. The sensation of cool wire wrapped around my throat has yet to fade a week later. Even now, I can feel it threatening to strangle me.

My body trembles, but from what, I won't tell. I can't. Even if I was scared, I'd never, ever admit that to myself. There's absolutely no room in my life to be consumed by fear.

My hand slips through the mess again because I'm too fucking small to get a good grip, so I sit back on his thighs and try to breathe. I rake my hair back with a frustrated exhale, attempting to ground myself with the sickening smell of blood, with the pain in my knees from kneeling over his lap. I center my thoughts around the glorious image, however disturbing, of the man tied up and seated beneath me. Bloody fingers smooth out a wrinkle in his silky blue button up and the dark stain I spread looks like cancer. His head lolls, somehow still alive despite having a ridiculous chunk missing from his throat. It's actually kind of hilarious - the way it looks - and a bubbling giggle nearly resembling a sob pushes up my throat.

Bloodshot eyes roll around until they blink rapidly and focus on my face. Tears are streaking down his olive cheeks, dark orbs begging me to stop. The fear is palpable, laughable and his helplessness reigns in my growing panic.

I comb my fingers through his sweaty curls, pushing them back to see him clearly. Italian-bred, but not pure blood with navy blues like that. Kneeling over another disgusting man like this has my skin itching, the haze of a past life poking at the side of my consciousness. I shake my head and the man tries to shake back, to remove my hands. I refuse to let the memories come and as I stare up at him, a glass film slides over me, smothering my insides. Suddenly, I feel calm. I am numb. I feel nothing. The muffled whimpers finally reach my ears through the static that had consumed my senses.

Sitting back on my haunches, I wet my lips and make a face at him. The tangy flavor of iron, the taste of a metal fork when eating pie straight from the tin, floods my mouth. Huh. Blood somehow reached my face, but none of his veins have sprayed in the way the movies do. That's kind of disappointing actually. My fist flexes around my knife and the pull of drying blood gains my attention. I stare down at the dark stains. Oh.

Cool fingers burrow in my brown curls, brushing along my scalp and down in a soothing motion. This is Antonio checking on me. No one else would dare touch me like this. My throat tightens and I worry of what he thinks. That I've failed? That when push comes to shove, I can't stomach what I asked for? He was so excited to give me this experience.

"Tesoro, I have a surprise for you. Per il mio piccolo guerriero."

Remembering that warm smile shining down on me, the likes of a God, as he passed me the prettiest blade I've ever laid eyes on comforts me. I look down at the gift with a growing smile. The handle carved out of white pearl, jagged blade cut from onyx. The perfect combination of Heaven and Earth, the life force of a soul. It wasn't the kind of sleek silver, neat and Marine Grade, cut to perfection like you'd find from any ole store on the block. The appearance was rough and missing slivers from the organic material cut manually, shiny and smooth in all the right places.

Much better than a necklace.

His gift cements my position. This task, although something I've begged and fought and trained for these past three years, is my initiation. To become his little warrior. His piccolo guerriero.

And I am excited. I asked for this.

Father will not be dishonored. He will not be disappointed.

Leaning forward, I grab the man's face and press my forehead to his, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His bulky body is trembling and I like the way it feels in my tiny hands. A mad smile cracks my face in half as I whisper, "Your God won't save you."

I will not disappoint myself.

With renewed vigor, I grit my teeth and grin through the forceful effort of sawing back and forth through his stupid neck. His screams join me. The jagged edges aren't meant for slicing through bone, but I'll make due since I started this. I'll work for my kill. I'm okay with that. The bump bump bump sensation as the teeth slice over hardened calcium is slightly jarring, but this excites me, reminding me that I've never cut through a person before.

It reminds me of the power I wish I had had back then. Of what I'll have from now on. This will make me. I'll be worthy of Antonio, of myself and this life. And slowly, with every slice, I feel myself becoming whole once again.

I have half a mind to look back at Antonio, to see if he's smiling like I am, but I don't want to miss a second, not a fucking second, of the look in these pathetic eyes. I'll stare him dead until his spirit slips from his body, until I'm bathing in the blood of my own Resurrection.

With a fistful of hair, I snatch his head to the side and stand on the sides of the chair for a better position. Gripping my knife tightly, I yank my hands apart with everything I have. His head gives and the loss of connection sends me wobbling backwards. Antonio is there, wrapping an arm around me to steady my fall.

"Wow, Isabella, look at you! Guarda il mio piccolo guerriero!" The praise rumbling through my back is a relief. Comforting in a way I would never expect because I've never received a hug from Antonio. "Carlisle owes you an apology, tesoro. Look at his face."

Standing straight on the chair once more, I barely give the russian a glance, too focused on the lifeless eyes of my kill, head swinging and slightly heavier than I expected. Blood has covered the front of my dress, seeping into my flats. I'm still heaving from exertion. Tearing a man's head from his body was more difficult than I thought it would be. No wonder Antonio looked at me the way he did when I mentioned my preferred method.

Tremors wrack my form as something deep inside my chest threatens to explode. Tears prick my eyes as I realize I'm one step closer to freedom. I've done it and it feels good. I've accomplished a first of many to come and it's one less shackle, another buckle snapping under the weight of torment and shame. I lift his head and release the emotion building in me with a tiny roar.

Now, he knows. He knows, as surely as he thought himself God of his Domain then, that I am God now.

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per il mio piccolo guerriero = for my little warrior
guarda il mio piccolo guerriero = look at my little warrior