On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Forty-Four - "Fading Into Ferity"

Sarah

“I’ve never been unkind,” I murmured, as he regained consciousness, “I always did what was asked of me. I never lied to my parents. I was good. I was a good girl. But then, you came along. Well, not you exactly, but one of your fellow . . .” I trailed off.

I looked up at his tear-filled eyes.

“Turns out, good things don’t happen to good people. Good people get the short end of the stick, and they leave the long end for people like you.”

He shook his head vigorously.

“You come in and you take what isn’t yours and you leave us broken. What are we supposed to do? Give in to the pain?”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

I let out a sigh as I took in his pale, sweaty, bloody appearance.

“So what?” I asked with a shrug.

“What?”

“So, you’re sorry. What does that do for me? What does that do for Chloe?” I asked, stepping closer.

His shoulders slumped.

“I don’t . . . I’m sorry.”

“STOP SAYING THAT!” I yelled.

Alarmed, he recoiled in fear.

“Do you even know her? Do you know anything about her? You took a beautiful soul and you darkened it with your repulsiveness. She’s beautiful, she loves to read, she’s so smart – too smart for her age, and she is . . . so strong. You tried to take all of that away; you tried to break her, and some might say you succeeded, but Chloe . . . she gets up in the morning and she smiles, and she laughs and she’s in love. You lost. You tried and you failed.”

He was shaking uncontrollably.

I’d lost all empathy.

“She’s mine. You don’t get to take what’s mine.”

“You can have her. I don’t want her; I won’t go near her ever again.”

I sighed, “Of course not, but only because I’m going to kill you. I’m going to finish getting this anger out of my system – who knows how long that’ll take? And then . . . I’m going to blow your brains out.”

He stared at me, my dear friend fear, present in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it right back. Speechless.

“Why did you do it?” I asked again.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t give me that. Why did you do it? Why would you hurt her? What did she ever do to you? Why would you ever lay a finger on her head?”

He let out a breath, “I just wanted her. She was innocent and lost and afraid, and I just wanted her. I didn’t mean to, but she never did as she was told. We never meant to hurt her. It started and it just . . . we didn’t stop. She stopped fighting, and we just kept . . . I couldn’t stop.”

I stared at him disgusted.

Slowly, I walked over. “You know, if somebody told me today – knowing everything that I do now – to go back in time, I would. And I would go through all the pain, all the heartbreak, and all the trauma, ten times over, knowing that my light at the end of the tunnel was Chloe. You don’t get to want that. You don’t get to want her. You don’t get to take that.”

His head dropped, “Please just kill me and get it over with. Please. I can’t take the pain anymore. Please, please.”

Both legs now sat in pools of blood, as the smoke still emanated from between his legs even though the rods were gone. His hands were shaking and the electrodes attached were slipping off from the blood and sweat.

“I will, but I want you to be awake for this.”

“For what?” he croaked.

I stared into his eyes as I held the barrel of my gun right in between his legs.

He looked down and realization dawned, his eyes growing larger by the second.

He shook his head and tried to wriggle free of the duct tape strapping him to the chair.

“No . . . please, no. Please. No. No. Please,” he begged, his eyes frantic.

Robert raped me. I heard it again. Countless times, she’d said.

I pressed the gun harder against it, my finger firm on the trigger.

“She was sixteen.”

“Please! I’m sorr—please. I won’t . . . just kill me. Don’t. Please.”

“You hurt my daughter. You hurt me. You broke me. You weaseled your way into our lives and you tore us apart. She has nightmares, you know. She’s scared and she’s haunted and that’s all you. What if she hadn’t run away?”

He wriggled again.

I shook my head, “What if she hadn’t run away?” I asked again.

I glared at him, feeling a fresh surge of rage, as I stared into his face. I spread the duct tape across his mouth and said, “This might hurt a bit.”

I pressed hard on the trigger, hearing the shot ring loud in my ears.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Through the duct tape, his groan shook the scaffolding above our heads. As the now ripped, singed and tattered orange jumpsuit darkened between his legs, I stared into his weeping eyes as the tears trickled down his face, and murmured, “This one’s for me,” and I pressed my finger against the cold trigger.