“McRae?” Belle wondered how he was feeling at that instant. “Hey, McRae?”

She walked along the edge of the embankment and saw a twitch in the grass. Bingo.

“I see you.” It was almost singsong.

Was that a whimper? Belle moved quicker, with purpose, to her target. She could see it—him—trembling, like each one before. That’s right, she thought. Keep sniveling. There’s nothing you can do now.

...

He moved closer, ignoring Belle’s weak cries. His red-eyes gleamed with malice.

“No!” She pleaded. “Please, stop. My mother is in the other room, if she sees you she’ll—”

“Your mother already knows, dearie, and if yesterday, or last week, or the week before are any indications, she’ll continue to pretend nothing’s wrong.” He smiled, that yellow and black grin, the one that filled Belle with revulsion and hate and every evil emotion her body could withstand.

“Face it, sweetie,” he spat in her face. “There’s no way out. You’re mine.”

“No!” But it was no use. It never was.

...

Now she could see him, gripping his leg and looking as pitiful as a wounded doe, reminding her of how she must have looked those times to Red-Eyes. Now she would be the one to make them tremble, she would see the terror in their faces, and be the one to deliver the blows, she would wield the power of others’ lives. She saw Red-Eyes’ face in all of theirs, and the memory always served as a trigger. She would not show mercy. She would not falter. No one would ever treat her like that again.

McRae raised his face, and Belle saw his eyes were as blank as the mud around him.

“Don’t do this, please.” But it wasn’t McRae. His eyes sparked bloody-red, the same eyes of her nightmares, and she could suddenly see the yellow glint of his decaying teeth reflecting from her flashlight.

She stiffened her back and raised her pistol, eye-level. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.