7
JP: Chapter 6.
The Butcher pressed the rough handle of his cleaver against my throat, forcing the air out of my windpipe. I spluttered, clawing at whatever I could grab, gasping for air. Air I couldn’t get. My fingers disappeared in sweaty rolls of fat and aimlessly, I flailed around. If he kept up this pressure, I’d find myself in the same tough spot as before. Without oxygen, with my consciousness slipping away, with my life slipping through my fingers. And this time, Regan wasn’t here to save me.
My fingers coiled into the muddy earth, grasping for something that could help me. Anything. It didn’t have to be much. A rock. A stone. A twig. The tent.
Through my spotty vision, I found the fabric of my tent. With leather boots. And two fat legs. The Butcher was standing on it. Exasper
