Don't Get Into The Car

[ 24 ]

The atmosphere in the living room is oppressively thick—charged with a stifling combination of fear, suspense, and uncertainty. It's a tension so tangible, so palpable, that it feels almost suffocating, like a physical entity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort.

The gun in your grip feels like an anchor, far heavier than you remember it being when you first stumbled upon it. Your palms are slick and clammy with a cold, nervous sweat that betrays your underlying anxiety. You struggle to maintain a firm grip on the pistol; your fingers tremble slightly, forcing you to use both hands to steady it - an awkward, unfamiliar position that exposes your inexperience.

Despite the pressure that feels like a thousand pounds pressing down on your eyelids, begging them to close, you keep your gaze steady. Your eyes dart back and forth, bouncing like a tennis ball, between Johnny and Simon, who stands a step behind him. Simon's shoulders are tense, strung tight like a bowstring, and his hands are curled into tight fists, knuckles white with the strain. You've made your intentions crystal clear, your was voice sharp and biting as you demanded everyone to get out, to leave this house—to leave you alone with Simon. Yet, despite your command, no one moves. All the four men stand as still as statues, the soles of their boots glued to the ground.

A part of you wonders if it's fear that is keeping them from moving. But then, another part of you, a more clever and observant one, realises that their stillness is not born out of fear. They're not afraid of the gun or of you. Their defiance is deliberate.

"Are all of you deaf?" you snap, the words spilling out of your mouth like marbles rolling down a hill, too fast to catch. Your voice is now notably higher—an unmistakable sign of your escalating frustration and rapidly dissipating patience. You don't know how much longer you can bear being the focal point of their scrutinizing stares; each gaze feels like a physical weight, pressing down on your shoulders and chest, making it harder for you to breathe.

"Y/N—" Johnny begins, his voice steady and calm. He extends his outstretched palm towards you once again. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to disarm you. But you have no intention of handing the pistol over to him. The feeling of control that the firearm provides is overwhelming. It's a power you don't want to relinquish yet.

As Johnny dares to inch closer, your heart pounds in your chest. You can almost feel the heat radiating off his body; Johnny's so close yet so far. Without giving it a second thought, without bothering to consider the vast array of possible consequences that could come tumbling down from your actions, you decide to do something. It's a choice born of impulse, of desperation, of a wild, reckless courage that surprises even you.

You don't want to shoot Johnny—mainly because you don't know if the gun is loaded or not, and if it's how many bullets there are in the chamber. So instead, you lower your arms and point the pistol towards the ground, aiming it somewhere near Johnny's feet. Your index finger, trembling slightly, curls around the trigger. The metallic chill seeping into your skin does nothing to alleviate your mounting nervousness. Yet, you refuse to let your terror control you. Without allowing yourself any further hesitation or second thoughts, you press down, deciding that you can afford to waste one bullet—if there are any at all—because maybe then everyone will finally take your threats seriously.

The instant the trigger is pulled, you suck in a shallow, razor-sharp breath, as if you've just plunged into icy water. Your body reverberates with the sheer force of the action, shaking you to your very core, as a violent tremor ripples through your veins and sends a shiver down your spine. The sudden jolt throws you off balance. Your foot stumbles back in a hasty, almost frantic step as you scramble to regain your footing.

Then comes the sound, a monstrous roar that swallows all other sounds whole. It's not just loud, it's an oppressive, bone-rattling thunderclap that shakes the ground. The gunshot's sharp crack reverberates through the room, a sonic boom that ricochets off walls, bouncing back like a rubber ball in a concrete box. It echoes in your eardrums, like a high-pitched siren that wails incessantly, a relentless alarm that drowns your thoughts. A throbbing pain begins to build in your temples, starting as a mild discomfort before slowly intensifying. Your wide eyes rivet to the floor, where the bullet has forcefully lodged itself into the hard wooden surface.