"So, who's first?" Silence.
The only sound that is heard is the panicked breathing from everyone in the room but one, the man with the gun.
He smiles wickedly as my Father's shaking becomes more prominent. The man crunches a blade in his hand, blood spilling from the sides of his closed fist and onto the dirty cement floor. His hand slams onto the table nearest to him, sending an echo around the enclosed area. The nine victims attempt to stay calm as he ushers my father to the center of the room. My Father obeys, every step meeting the ground slowly like they aren't sure what stable terrain is.
The man grabs ahold of my father's neck, his blood dripping down the collar of my father's shirt. The man's teeth show like daggers as his mouth comes close to my father's ear. He whispers a string into father's ear, his smile becoming less and less friendly. Father's eyes stare off into the distance and his face becomes pale. I'm about to step forward to grab his wrist, force him awake, but I am stopped with the reality of the situation. There is nothing that the man with the gun could've said with a positive tone that could bring such a reaction from Father.
The man pressed to my Father's back with the gun, my Father stepping a few feet in front of him. Terrible thoughts dawned on him and yet not a tear was shed, only a bead of sweat traveled from his temple to his jaw. His finger shakes as he brought it straight in front of him, straight in front of me. My Father was pointing to me, his youngest daughter, after a chilling man with a gun whispered to him. Clouds enter my sight, but I choose for them to condense enough that they spill and plunge down my cheeks. I want for these tears to be a reminder of what terrible emotions his choices evoke in me.
My father is harshly handed the gun, his knuckles breaking to white around the barrel. "Hold it properly! What an imbecile!" My father is hit on the head with the man's back hand. My father's only movement is a frown. "Don't try to be a smart-ass and turn the gun against me," the man unbuckles a pocket from his cargo pants to show a blade. He presses it to my father's neck and snickers. "If you do I'll bid you a farewell, along with the little girl," the hand with the knife gestures towards me. I grab at every ounce of courage that is still within me and spit all of my saliva at his shoes. His boots are missed by centimeters.
"What a character you are!" The man brings his lips to my father's ear yet again, though this time lets his intentions be known to the group. "Instead of aiming at the heart and making this quick, see to it that you only hit her arm, let's see how long her courage may stretch."
My father lifts his arm to a ninety-degree angle, shifting it a bit in the direction of the side of my body. "Sorry, I'm so very sorry," he whispers as he tightens his finger around the trigger.
"Halt!" The man tells my father, not a second before the bullet would have been sent to me. "I would like a conversation," the man's tongue glides across his top row of teeth. "You apologize to your dear daughter of whom you choose to kill first, out of the rest of the people in front of us, only two being blood related. Girl, what is your answer?" The man barks to me.
My fingers curl into a fist for each hand, attempting to stop the tears by digging my nails into the palm, focusing on that pain instead of the emotional pain riding me like a rollercoaster. My dry throat scratches as I start to speak. "Do not pretend to be sorry. You have never been sorry! When faced with death you are a coward. As I presume, he asked you to kill one person in the room that was not him, yet you use a scapegoat to pick someone other than yourself? You choose the person that came into this world last, so then out they must go first, correct?" Even though my hands are gripped so tightly a ferret couldn't weasel out, tears still fill my eyes but stay at the brim. "Nothing I wouldn't have expected from you."
My father leans towards me, "I know that you feel hurt; I understand that you are angry; there is nothing that I may say to make this situation better for you. I know you think-" I scoff at his words and interrupt with a vengeance.
"You do not know me. You know the five year-old version of me, and not even well! Twelve years have passed that you have not been a part of my life; you have put so many others as a priority before me. You have raised other children that belong to your wife. Instead of coming to my performances you go to theirs! You act like you know what I'm thinking, but you do not. You act like you know the extent to which your actions and choices hurt me, but you do not. Soon, when you pull that trigger you will see the emotional pain that you have caused me as it turns physical. Maybe then you may understand how hurt I am, all because of you." My thumbs meet my cheeks to wipe away the wetness, stopping the salty water that has accumulated at my jawline from running and running down my neck.
"How may I make this misdeed up to do? Is there anything I can do within these fragile minutes that will gain your forgiveness?" My father looks as if he may cry, yet still his eyes look too dry to produce any condensation.
"Yes, my dear, a last wish," the man with the knife looks intrigued at this ordeal, though I can tell this conversation is not growing on him but irritating him fo this longness; I will be subjected to terrible pain in a matter of seconds.
"All I wish is that you will not die, yourself, if given that choice. That, one day if you were to think of me and feel guilt, you will live. You must live with the knowledge that you have killed the only daughter of yours that had any faith in your humanity. That, in an instant, that faith was crushed by a selfish chouce you have made. I hope that you will remember the rotten feelings that you give me and think about how I curse you from above. As you watch me bleed out now you will not look away, so that you may be haunted by these memories that keep you awake at night. That is what I want." Claps are heard from the middle of the room.
My eyes dart to the man behind my father, "marvelous speech, my darling; if I weren't killing you I would want to team up with you, a Matilda and Leon complex!" The man laughed to himself before continuing, "what a shame, such a rebellious mind to leave the conformist world," he pointed his filthy finger at me, "we need more like you in the world.
"Too bad," with those two words he grabbed my father's hand and pressed the trigger, my arm immediately feeling terribly hurt. "And more for good measure," he aimed and pulled my father's finger back.
Suddenly my leg felt like someone was twisting a knife in and out of it, scraping the sides of the bone back and forth, back and forth. The same pain, I noticed, came from my other leg and stomach. Blood seeped into the fabrics of my dress, sopping up what should be in my body. A scream emitted from my mouth as I fell to my side, a puddle spreading relentlessly on the cement floors showing the scene of a murder.
My breathing quickened as I sucked in as much oxygen as I could. My father made a move toward me but was stopped by the man with the knife's hand on his chest.
"So," the man said, "who's next?" Silence.
