Shifting the aim on the semi-automatic so that it’s pointed at the center of Sam’s face, I thumb back the hammer.
“Ring around the Rosie,” Sam sings, “a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . .” When he says down, he extends the end of the word so it sounds like it is literally falling dowwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.
But then, what the f**k am I saying? This man isn’t Sam at all. Sam is dead. I killed him. I—Killed—Sam. Put the poor soul out of his misery.
“Come with me my little kitten,” The Skinner says through Sam’s mouth. “Your own little kittens are waiting for you.”
My vision, clouded in a haze of tears and red hot anger.
“f**k. You.” I say.
Then I pull the trigger for the second time.
