Chapter 48: Saline Retribution
Time slowed, crystallizing into jagged shards. Violet’s good hand, knuckles white around the stolen scalpel, was a blur of malevolent intent arcing towards Ingrid’s throat over the oblivious nurse’s shoulder. The blade gleamed, a silver promise of evisceration. Hatred twisted Violet’s sweat-slicked face, her lips pulled back from clenched teeth.
Ingrid didn’t think. She moved.
Her left leg, the one with Violet’s bite throbbing deep in the calf muscle, lashed out sideways. Not at Violet, but low and hard. Her booted foot connected with the base of the metal IV stand beside her own gurney. The kick was pure, brutal physics – torque and muscle memory honed over decades.
CRASH!
The stand tipped with a shriek of protesting metal. The heavy, half-full saline bag swung wildly on its hook, then slammed down like a fleshy pendulum. It hit Violet square in the face with a sickening, wet thwack. Saline exploded, drenching her hair, her eyes, her snarling mouth, flooding into her nostrils.
"GAAAAAH!" Violet’s scalpel thrust faltered. Her head snapped back, blinded, choking, the saline bag plastered over her features like a cold, suffocating mask. Her cry was muffled, gargling fury.
The nurse yelped, stumbling back, her hands flailing, sterile gauze falling to the blood-smeared floor. "What the--?!"
Ingrid was already surging. Pain in her gut from the stitches was a distant buzz beneath the roaring adrenaline. She lunged, not away, but towards Violet’s gurney. Her right hand shot out, not for the scalpel, but for the thick plastic catheter still embedded deep in Violet’s thigh. The one she’d put there.
Her fingers closed around the protruding end, slick with blood and saline. She wrenched it sideways, then yanked it free with a brutal, twisting pull.
Violet howled, the sound raw and ragged beneath the saline bag. Blood, dark and fast, pulsed from the jagged hole in her thigh muscle, soaking the thin sheet beneath her. Her body convulsed against the restraints.
Ingrid didn’t hesitate. She brought the freed needle, dripping gore, up fast. Violet was still blinded, sputtering, trying to shake off the heavy bag. Ingrid leaned in, her ice-blonde hair escaping its tight bind, her steely eyes narrowed to slits of cold fury. She brought the point of the needle within an inch of Violet’s wide, panicked, saline-burned right eye.
"You wanted my womb, Vi?" Ingrid hissed, her voice a low, venomous rasp that cut through Violet’s choking gasps and the nurse’s panicked whimpering. She pressed the needle tip lightly against the trembling lower eyelid, not enough to pierce, just enough to feel. A bead of blood or saline welled where it touched. "Here’s your fucking down payment."
Violet froze. Utterly still. The only movement was the frantic flutter of her eyelashes against the intruding steel point and the violent heaving of her chest beneath the tattered remains of her purple kimono. The saline bag slid partially off her face, revealing one wide, terrified green eye fixed on the needle hovering over the other. Hatred still burned beneath the primal fear, but it was caged, momentarily dominated by the immediate, visceral threat of blindness.
"Put it down!" the nurse shrieked, scrambling backwards until her back hit the steel supply cabinet, her voice cracking. "Please! Oh God, put it down! Security is coming!"
Ingrid didn’t look at her. Her entire world was the needle, the terrified eye, the coppery reek of Violet’s blood mixing with the sterile tang. She saw the fresh bite mark on her own calf reflected in Violet’s dilated pupil. Saw the wreckage of Violet’s fingers. The years of escalating brutality condensed into this single, trembling point of steel.
Do it. The thought was cold, clear. Shove it home. End it. Blind the bitch. Make sure she never looks at you, never threatens you again.
Her knuckles tightened on the plastic catheter. Her breath hitched.
Then, distant but rapidly approaching, came the unmistakable sound of heavy boots pounding on concrete. Shouted commands. Security. They’d be here in seconds.
Ingrid’s gaze flickered. Not away from Violet’s eye, but inward. Calculating. The cost. The immediate, messy consequence versus the lingering, poisonous satisfaction. Violet’s ragged breathing hitched, sensing the hesitation, the shift.
With a snarl that ripped from deep in her chest, Ingrid moved. Not forward, but away. She whipped the bloody needle sideways, not at Violet’s face, but towards the tangle of IV tubing near the fallen stand. She slashed down, severing a thick plastic line in a spray of residual saline.
Then she slammed her free hand down hard on the emergency release button for Violet’s gurney restraints. They snapped open with a metallic clack.
Violet surged up instantly, propelled by panic and fury, the scalpel still clutched in her good hand. She swung wildly, blindly, towards where Ingrid had been. But the saline still stung her eyes, blurring her vision. The swing went wide, slicing empty air.
Ingrid was already moving back towards her own gurney, tossing the bloody catheter onto the floor with a wet slap. She met Violet’s one clear, furious eye.
"Next time, Vi," Ingrid spat, her voice thick with contempt and unspent violence. "Bring better tools."
The door burst open. Two hulking security guards in black tactical gear filled the doorway, stun batons crackling. Their eyes scanned the carnage: the saline-slicked floor, the overturned stand, the nurse cowering, Violet half-off the gurney, wild-eyed and bleeding, brandishing a scalpel, and Ingrid standing beside her own gurney, breathing hard, blood smeared on her leather catsuit, her expression a mask of icy, defiant calm.
"What in the hellfire...?" the lead guard bellowed, raising his baton. Violet snarled, turning her fury towards the new threat, scalpel held low. Ingrid just raised her hands slowly, palms out, her gaze never leaving Violet's enraged, tear-streaked face. The air crackled, thick with blood, sweat, saline, and the promise of more pain, barely contained.