Her breathing grew a little shallow, and my chest tightened with the thought I’d injected her with too much etorphine. I slapped her face. She flinched like her sleep was disturbed, and the uncomfortable sensation faded. I didn’t care about this girl. I just didn’t like killing women. Though, after my brother and I did nothing but watch while our mother choked on her own vomit, it wasn’t exactly an oddity. Some women deserved death. Especially my mother. And Mila’s for that matter.
