Chapter 2
If audio player doesn't work, press Stop then Play button again
She felt a certain disgrace that she had been so careless and had been fooled by his appearance - she had simply underestimated him. Vanity comes before the case. Super saying, he did not contribute in the least to the improvement of their situation.
"Save such thoughts and focus on change" The sound of her own voice drifted lonely through the room. A sad, lost noise. Her eyes fell again on the plastic table and the strange instruments. Maybe she could find a knife or a pair of pliers there. She leaned forward and shifted her weight to her legs until all four chair legs blew in the air.
She jumped forward with small leaps. The distance to the table was estimated at about 3 - 4 meters. In her situation a small marathon. After the first leaps, her hair fell into her face, the ankle shackles rubbed painfully against her ankles, and the muscles of her thighs, which had become rusty from the long sitting, fluttered like butterfly wings and burned.
"Go on." she fired herself. "Can you rest when you reach the table?" Professionally she was well trained and had a good condition. She moved on in small leaps. Her breathing was intermittent, her muscles cramping painfully in the stooped posture.
In the rhythm of her jumps she kept repeating his name. Sum-mers-by, Sum-mers-by ?. That helped - adrenaline was a top-notch engine.
Sweatbathed, she reached the table. Slowly she lowered the chair legs back to the floor and sat down. Sweat ran cold over her body and burned her eyes. Just rest, who knows when the pig will come and work with you? As far as possible, she tried to relax her muscles. She forced herself to breathe in concentration and consciousness.
Her tongue felt thick and furry, like a fringe in her mouth. What would she have given for a drink of water? She slowly counted to 100 and looked at the instruments on the table. Scalpel-like blades, staples, and tweezers lined up like tin soldiers.
She chose an instrument with a scalpel-like blade-was it perhaps a scalpel? She did not know about medical instruments. But who should you resent the wrong term? Sitting, she could not reach the blade. When she stood in a stooping posture, the legs of the chair formed an insurmountable barrier.
"Think, think, think - throw the table over and lie down on the floor with the chair." The overturning of the table was a no brainer. She leaned forward and used the chair legs to overturn the plastic table. The table toppled over and the instruments spread out on the floor. In order to reach the blade, she had to lie down with the chair on the floor. This was much more complicated. She hopped around the lying plastic table and positioned herself near the blade. By which method would your body be the least damaged?
She looked skeptically at the hard concrete floor. If she fell forward, her knees would be affected and if she lost her balance, she would land unchecked on her face.
She hesitated - three parts of her body - she was pragmatic enough to think about other alternatives. Side with the chair tip over - shoulder and arm would certainly prevent her struck her head. If she was lucky, she came away with a few bruises. As a left-hander, she decided on the right side. She did not want to do without a limited function of her left arm. She took a deep breath, leaning to the left to gain momentum, jerking her upper body to the right.
The chair tipped over the right chair legs and crashed on the floor. Her shrill scream echoed off the walls as the right side of the chair's back pierced painfully into the inside of her upper arm. The crushed nerve endings sang "hallelujah". She quickly turned to a kneeling position to relieve pressure on the upper arm. Breathing heavily, she allowed herself a moment's rest. Carefully, she slid down to her right side, and pushed back, toward the scalpel-like blade.
It seemed like an eternity until she could feel the metal with two fingers. Her sweaty hand tightened on the handle and pushed the blade up until she could feel the cable tie's resistance. Slowly she moved the blade up and down in short movements. She cut herself several times in the right hand. The wounds were not deep, but the sweat on their skin burned them like fire. She pulled her right hand outward to put more tension on the cable tie. Slow, slow, just do not lose patience. she admonished herself again and again.
During this annoyingly long-lasting procedure she thought again of Constantine Summersby. For the first time in her almost 10-year career as a contract killer, she had accepted the job not from an individual or a couple but from a group of people. She described herself as a contract killer with level. For very personal reasons, she specialized in the scum of humanity, child molesters and child killers. She had never planned her professional career, she had literally slipped in somehow.
She, Samantha Harriette Baxter, the daughter of an American bar bitch and a nameless crack junkie - whom she had never met - had been dropped off by her mother in a church at the age of eight. The last thing she heard from her drunken mother was the babbling words, wait here for me and do not move away.?
She had spent hours sitting on the hard wooden bench, waiting for Mama to pick her up. Quite the brave daughter who vainly vied for the affection of her emotional mother. If the attentive priest had not come and the pressure on her bladder had not been so great, she would probably still sit there with her pants all neat and wonder what she had done wrong.
The priest gave them to the youth authority and she put them in the nearest children's home. The search for her mother was discontinued after 3 unsuccessful years.
The genes of their degenerate producers had blessed them with an attractive appearance. She was 1.74 m tall, with a slender, well-trained figure, which rounded with age in the right places for women. She wore her golden curls from the age of ten up to over the shoulder blades, eyes of an intense green, framed by dense, long eyelashes, which she now regularly dyed dark, full sensual lips and finely modeled facial features that looked angelic.
Her appearance, which was breathtaking at a young age, had not escaped the male nursery staff. She had to learn very early to defend herself against sleazy overtures. Over time, she developed an unmistakable instinct for situations in which men wanted to nudge her.
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
She felt a certain disgrace that she had been so careless and had been fooled by his appearance - she had simply underestimated him. Vanity comes before the case. Super saying, he did not contribute in the least to the improvement of their situation.
"Save such thoughts and focus on change" The sound of her own voice drifted lonely through the room. A sad, lost noise. Her eyes fell again on the plastic table and the strange instruments. Maybe she could find a knife or a pair of pliers there. She leaned forward and shifted her weight to her legs until all four chair legs blew in the air.
She jumped forward with small leaps. The distance to the table was estimated at about 3 - 4 meters. In her situation a small marathon. After the first leaps, her hair fell into her face, the ankle shackles rubbed painfully against her ankles, and the muscles of her thighs, which had become rusty from the long sitting, fluttered like butterfly wings and burned.
"Go on." she fired herself. "Can you rest when you reach the table?" Professionally she was well trained and had a good condition. She moved on in small leaps. Her breathing was intermittent, her muscles cramping painfully in the stooped posture.
In the rhythm of her jumps she kept repeating his name. Sum-mers-by, Sum-mers-by ?. That helped - adrenaline was a top-notch engine.
Sweatbathed, she reached the table. Slowly she lowered the chair legs back to the floor and sat down. Sweat ran cold over her body and burned her eyes. Just rest, who knows when the pig will come and work with you? As far as possible, she tried to relax her muscles. She forced herself to breathe in concentration and consciousness.
Her tongue felt thick and furry, like a fringe in her mouth. What would she have given for a drink of water? She slowly counted to 100 and looked at the instruments on the table. Scalpel-like blades, staples, and tweezers lined up like tin soldiers.
She chose an instrument with a scalpel-like blade-was it perhaps a scalpel? She did not know about medical instruments. But who should you resent the wrong term? Sitting, she could not reach the blade. When she stood in a stooping posture, the legs of the chair formed an insurmountable barrier.
"Think, think, think - throw the table over and lie down on the floor with the chair." The overturning of the table was a no brainer. She leaned forward and used the chair legs to overturn the plastic table. The table toppled over and the instruments spread out on the floor. In order to reach the blade, she had to lie down with the chair on the floor. This was much more complicated. She hopped around the lying plastic table and positioned herself near the blade. By which method would your body be the least damaged?
She looked skeptically at the hard concrete floor. If she fell forward, her knees would be affected and if she lost her balance, she would land unchecked on her face.
She hesitated - three parts of her body - she was pragmatic enough to think about other alternatives. Side with the chair tip over - shoulder and arm would certainly prevent her struck her head. If she was lucky, she came away with a few bruises. As a left-hander, she decided on the right side. She did not want to do without a limited function of her left arm. She took a deep breath, leaning to the left to gain momentum, jerking her upper body to the right.
The chair tipped over the right chair legs and crashed on the floor. Her shrill scream echoed off the walls as the right side of the chair's back pierced painfully into the inside of her upper arm. The crushed nerve endings sang "hallelujah". She quickly turned to a kneeling position to relieve pressure on the upper arm. Breathing heavily, she allowed herself a moment's rest. Carefully, she slid down to her right side, and pushed back, toward the scalpel-like blade.
It seemed like an eternity until she could feel the metal with two fingers. Her sweaty hand tightened on the handle and pushed the blade up until she could feel the cable tie's resistance. Slowly she moved the blade up and down in short movements. She cut herself several times in the right hand. The wounds were not deep, but the sweat on their skin burned them like fire. She pulled her right hand outward to put more tension on the cable tie. Slow, slow, just do not lose patience. she admonished herself again and again.
During this annoyingly long-lasting procedure she thought again of Constantine Summersby. For the first time in her almost 10-year career as a contract killer, she had accepted the job not from an individual or a couple but from a group of people. She described herself as a contract killer with level. For very personal reasons, she specialized in the scum of humanity, child molesters and child killers. She had never planned her professional career, she had literally slipped in somehow.
She, Samantha Harriette Baxter, the daughter of an American bar bitch and a nameless crack junkie - whom she had never met - had been dropped off by her mother in a church at the age of eight. The last thing she heard from her drunken mother was the babbling words, wait here for me and do not move away.?
She had spent hours sitting on the hard wooden bench, waiting for Mama to pick her up. Quite the brave daughter who vainly vied for the affection of her emotional mother. If the attentive priest had not come and the pressure on her bladder had not been so great, she would probably still sit there with her pants all neat and wonder what she had done wrong.
The priest gave them to the youth authority and she put them in the nearest children's home. The search for her mother was discontinued after 3 unsuccessful years.
The genes of their degenerate producers had blessed them with an attractive appearance. She was 1.74 m tall, with a slender, well-trained figure, which rounded with age in the right places for women. She wore her golden curls from the age of ten up to over the shoulder blades, eyes of an intense green, framed by dense, long eyelashes, which she now regularly dyed dark, full sensual lips and finely modeled facial features that looked angelic.
Her appearance, which was breathtaking at a young age, had not escaped the male nursery staff. She had to learn very early to defend herself against sleazy overtures. Over time, she developed an unmistakable instinct for situations in which men wanted to nudge her.
She felt a certain disgrace that she had been so careless and had been fooled by his appearance - she had simply underestimated him. Vanity comes before the case. Super saying, he did not contribute in the least to the improvement of their situation."Save such thoughts and focus on change" The sound of her own voice drifted lonely through the room. A sad, lost noise. Her eyes fell again on the plastic table and the strange instruments. Maybe she could find a knife or a pair of pliers there. She leaned forward and shifted her weight to her legs until all four chair legs blew in the air.She jumped forward with small leaps. The distance to the table was estimated at about 3 - 4 meters. In her situation a small marathon. After the first leaps, her hair fell into her face, the ankle shackles rubbed painfully against her ankles, and the muscles of her thighs, which had become rusty from the long sitting, fluttered like butterfly wings and burned."Go on." she fired herself. "Can you rest when you reach the table?" Professionally she was well trained and had a good condition. She moved on in small leaps. Her breathing was intermittent, her muscles cramping painfully in the stooped posture.In the rhythm of her jumps she kept repeating his name. Sum-mers-by, Sum-mers-by ?. That helped - adrenaline was a top-notch engine.Sweatbathed, she reached the table. Slowly she lowered the chair legs back to the floor and sat down. Sweat ran cold over her body and burned her eyes. Just rest, who knows when the pig will come and work with you? As far as possible, she tried to relax her muscles. She forced herself to breathe in concentration and consciousness.Her tongue felt thick and furry, like a fringe in her mouth. What would she have given for a drink of water? She slowly counted to 100 and looked at the instruments on the table. Scalpel-like blades, staples, and tweezers lined up like tin soldiers.She chose an instrument with a scalpel-like blade-was it perhaps a scalpel? She did not know about medical instruments. But who should you resent the wrong term? Sitting, she could not reach the blade. When she stood in a stooping posture, the legs of the chair formed an insurmountable barrier."Think, think, think - throw the table over and lie down on the floor with the chair." The overturning of the table was a no brainer. She leaned forward and used the chair legs to overturn the plastic table. The table toppled over and the instruments spread out on the floor. In order to reach the blade, she had to lie down with the chair on the floor. This was much more complicated. She hopped around the lying plastic table and positioned herself near the blade. By which method would your body be the least damaged?She looked skeptically at the hard concrete floor. If she fell forward, her knees would be affected and if she lost her balance, she would land unchecked on her face.She hesitated - three parts of her body - she was pragmatic enough to think about other alternatives. Side with the chair tip over - shoulder and arm would certainly prevent her struck her head. If she was lucky, she came away with a few bruises. As a left-hander, she decided on the right side. She did not want to do without a limited function of her left arm. She took a deep breath, leaning to the left to gain momentum, jerking her upper body to the right.The chair tipped over the right chair legs and crashed on the floor. Her shrill scream echoed off the walls as the right side of the chair's back pierced painfully into the inside of her upper arm. The crushed nerve endings sang "hallelujah". She quickly turned to a kneeling position to relieve pressure on the upper arm. Breathing heavily, she allowed herself a moment's rest. Carefully, she slid down to her right side, and pushed back, toward the scalpel-like blade.It seemed like an eternity until she could feel the metal with two fingers. Her sweaty hand tightened on the handle and pushed the blade up until she could feel the cable tie's resistance. Slowly she moved the blade up and down in short movements. She cut herself several times in the right hand. The wounds were not deep, but the sweat on their skin burned them like fire. She pulled her right hand outward to put more tension on the cable tie. Slow, slow, just do not lose patience. she admonished herself again and again.During this annoyingly long-lasting procedure she thought again of Constantine Summersby. For the first time in her almost 10-year career as a contract killer, she had accepted the job not from an individual or a couple but from a group of people. She described herself as a contract killer with level. For very personal reasons, she specialized in the scum of humanity, child molesters and child killers. She had never planned her professional career, she had literally slipped in somehow.She, Samantha Harriette Baxter, the daughter of an American bar bitch and a nameless crack junkie - whom she had never met - had been dropped off by her mother in a church at the age of eight. The last thing she heard from her drunken mother was the babbling words, wait here for me and do not move away.?She had spent hours sitting on the hard wooden bench, waiting for Mama to pick her up. Quite the brave daughter who vainly vied for the affection of her emotional mother. If the attentive priest had not come and the pressure on her bladder had not been so great, she would probably still sit there with her pants all neat and wonder what she had done wrong.The priest gave them to the youth authority and she put them in the nearest children's home. The search for her mother was discontinued after 3 unsuccessful years.The genes of their degenerate producers had blessed them with an attractive appearance. She was 1.74 m tall, with a slender, well-trained figure, which rounded with age in the right places for women. She wore her golden curls from the age of ten up to over the shoulder blades, eyes of an intense green, framed by dense, long eyelashes, which she now regularly dyed dark, full sensual lips and finely modeled facial features that looked angelic.Her appearance, which was breathtaking at a young age, had not escaped the male nursery staff. She had to learn very early to defend herself against sleazy overtures. Over time, she developed an unmistakable instinct for situations in which men wanted to nudge her.
