I am yelling. You are screaming.
With my right hand, a gun pointed at your head; my left arm tucked firmly right beneath your chin, tightly rapped around your neck.
Too tight, can't breathe, you whisper. I cannot see your face from where I am but I imagine your face growing blue from the lack of oxygen. I loosen my arm.
I am protecting you in this manner. The police are in every corner, every nook in the first floor of the building we are in. I start tugging at you, walking backwards in the process. You groan but say nothing.
It's okay, it's okay. I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry. I whisper these words into your ear as the police respond to my movement by slowly moving closer, shouting at me. Drop it, they say.
I back us into hallways. A lot of hallways. Stairs. I sluggishly pull at you, up a bunch of stairs, carefully ducking away from the windows these fire exits have. You whimper again as you see lasers shimmering in the glass; police snipers, their bullets thirsty for the blood and brain inside of my head.
It takes us awhile to reach the rooftop. We are greeted by blaring megaphones and whining sirens. The wind is strong; a pair of helicopters are hovering a few feet above us.
Don't do this, you say. You can still run. You can still leave me.
Amidst all the wailing and flashing of red and blue, I smile.
You are crying. I shush you with my thumb right above your lips.
I slowly squeeze the trigger, but it is now pointed at another head; a head bullets are thirsty for.
I am protecting you in this manner.
