My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки Чейз

slipping out from between the sharp blades, but I stubbornly pressed on the handle until I heard a quiet crunch – it had broken through the bone. One down, nine more to go.

      I couldn't decide which was more terrifying: knowing that the sword of Damocles was hanging over you, or realizing that there was someone even more frightening than the sword of death. Hearing the gunshots behind me, or the crunch of breaking bones. The third finger gave me a blister on my palm, and the seventh scratched my skin until it bled. Trying hard to control my gagging, I cut off the last pinky finger. Jason shoved the pieces into the bag and picked up the rifle. This was it. Now he was going to kill me for sure.

      Instead, Jason swung and forcibly brought the rifle butt down on Stu's head. The impact caused the mangled arm to slide off the cowboy's flabby belly and thud on the bunker floor. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to hear that sound, and I didn't want to see the skull turning into a bloody mess. But I could still feel every blow. Worst of all were the words that came out in the sudden silence: