Marry or Kill

30

M I N A

Time seems to stretch in a blur of mist, and all I see is the white, ghostly smoke from the barrel of my gun. The bullet wedges itself in Atticus's side, and he falls onto his knees, clutching his wound. The pale complexion of his skin eerily lightens.

Suddenly, the ear-piercing sound of shattering glass bursts behind me. Bullets fly everywhere.

I lunge for the ground, shielding my head from the glass and bullets firing everywhere. I cling to the ground, forehead plastered against the cold and unforgiving tiles, bathing in the droplets of Atticus's blood.

I barely breathe, bracing myself for the bullets to be landing in my body. Chaos seems to rage on, but nothing hits me.

For a moment, I wonder if I'm already dead.

With skepticism gripping me and breath caught in my throat, I slowly lift my head, its surface now adorned with glistening glass fragments.

In the disorienting aftermath, a scene unfolds—a tableau of our guards encircling Atticus's forces like vigilant predators, poised to strike. I silently pray for Elias. I scramble out of the way of the glass, only to hear the sound of more crunching of glass.

On my hands and knees, I survey my surroundings, desperately seeking an escape route, only to lock eyes with a seething Atticus.

Panic courses through me, and my palms inadvertently cut through the glass as I desperately scramble backward, kicking shards in his direction.

Atticus's laughter cuts through the air, a sinister and cruel sound that sends a chilling wave of fear over me. I forcefully clamp down that rising terror, determined not to let it consume me.

Undeterred, he inches closer, grunting, a predatory crawl that speaks volumes—the unmistakable hunger for blood evident in his eyes. No one pays attention, transfixed on the guards all around us.

Now Atticus has his undivided attention on me.

No, no, no—

As Atticus inches closer, I deftly flick a knife out of my boot, holding it out menacingly towards him. However, with unexpected agility, he turns, his boot connecting with my hand, causing the knife to scatter across the ground.

Seizing the opportunity, I retaliate with a well-aimed kick towards his wounded area.

Before he could growl in agony, he grabs a sizeable glass shard and swiftly drives it down into my calf.

A sharp jolt of pain courses through me, and I bite down on a shout, stifling my agony. I push my back desperately to the wall, determined to lift myself up despite the searing agony in my leg.

The pain in my calf threatens to overwhelm me, and Atticus seizes me once more, yanking the glass shard from my wounded calf. The pain, already intense, erupts into an agonizing crescendo, causing me to crumple to the side.

As I clutch my wound, Atticus's hand locks around my throat with a bone-crushing grip. My back crunches against the glass as I squirm in his vice-like grip. He unclutches his bullet wound to place another hand on my neck, and his blood oozes onto me.

I wheeze for breath, my body bucking beneath him. The urge to fight back and scratch and kick—

Desperation sets in, and I dig my two fingers into his wound. I can see his white teeth seethe above me, as his grip remains unyielding, his hold on my throat showing no sign of relenting.

My grip on his wound loosens as the air leaves my body at the pressure of his hands on my throat.

He holds his grip there long enough to render me limp.