I Should Have Read the Terms and Conditions

The Shitstorm

I walk into the kitchen to pour myself some coffee because my brain is still in slumberville. My hip grazes the edge of the island table in the middle of the room and I grimace in pain and peer through squinted eyes for my destination. As soon as I map out my path to the coffee-maker, my eyes close again to protect themselves from the bright natural light entering through the kitchen window.

There won't be any major thinking getting done until I taste the mildly bitter sweetness of creamy ground coffee beans. I blindly finger through the cabinet above the coffee-maker for a mug, not really caring which one I grab. My fingers slide around a silky handle. I set it on the table and fill it with the hot liquid. Even though all I want is to gulp it down, I force myself to take a seat at the island.

I sigh after I take the first sip. I down about half the mug before I can finally open my eyes fully.

"That's good." I mumble happily.

And then my kitchen door slams open, making an indent in the wall and shattering bits of broken glass onto the floor as it swings off its hinges.

I'm so startled I can't even scream. What's left of my coffee soaks my pajama pants and drips to the tile floor. A group of men with guns storm into the house.

Suddenly I'm running on reflex and adrenaline as I get up from seat at the counter. I chuck my mug at the nearest darkly clothed and masked gunman, then make a break for the hallway as a shower of gunfire follows me.

I take a bullet in my right shoulder and fall heavily against the wall. White hot pain sears from my shoulder down my back and all the way to my toes. I shriek through gritted teeth and stumble down the hall towards the front door. This is an agony I've never felt before-an agony I don't want to feel again. Out. I have to get out.

Pain swims around in my head and clouds everything, slowing me down. I slump along the wall. The butt of a gun hits the side of my face. Hard.

I crumple to the ground. A sharp kick connects with my ribs and throws me against the wall again. An ear-splitting cry pierces the silence of the room. It's my only defense, but it does nothing. I can't move. I can't breathe. Another kick catches me in the stomach. Black spots appear in front of my eyes.

"Enough." One of the men shouts. His voice is gruff and unkind. "Bag her. It's time to go." He barks the orders.

I feel hands on me. Somewhere my brain registers that this is bad. Very bad. The last thing I see is the thick black barrel of a gun swinging towards my face. Then I'm out.