One palm still crushed my throat, while his cigarette-toting hand gripped my wrist, and he glanced downward. “Memento mori,” he read from the tattoo on my forearm. “You’re one of those dark bitches who fantasizes about death all the time, is that it?” That wasn’t it, at all. In fact, the tattoo was a reminder of humility, but what did the dumb ass know about that?
