The Saving Bailey Trilogy 1: The Bullet List

Chapter 4

                                                                               Chapter 4

        While stuffing my Bullet List as far down into the confines of my bag as I can, I am overcome with a sudden bout of drowsiness. I crawl back onto the cot, kick the blanket off and let my dizzy head spin.

         I have a list, an actual list of people who deserve to die. People that neither I nor anyone else would ever miss, without whom the world would be a better place. It’s either me or them, because it is impossible for us to coexist.

         I take my shoes off and exhale audibly. Today it was only a kick to the stomach, and a vicious hair pulling, but who knows what Miemah has up her sleeve for next time. I gulp, because with Miemah, there is always a next time, unless you’re dead.

         I fall into a restless nightmarish sleep. A vision of the school’s sophomore hallway plays out in my head. My mom is standing in the middle of it, her head hung, and a bottle of SKYY vodka loosely gripped in her right hand. In her left is the Walther.

         “Give it to me!” I yell at her. “I need the gun!” I reach for her arm, and she holds it out to forfeit the gun to me. “Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take it.

         She takes a swig of vodka and grips the gun tighter. It is clear that if I want it I will have to fight her for it. I grab the front of the barrel and pull. She aims it at my face.

         “You want to kill those kids,” Mom says, her words garbled.

         “They want to kill me,” I argue.

         She pulls the trigger.

         I wake up screaming, “Nooo!” Someone is on the other side of the door, pushing against it to break it open. I roll off the cot, and try to stand up, but my knees are shaking so violently that I disintegrate into a sobbing heap. The door swings open and Clad is standing there, bathed in light like a superhero.

         “Alana told me I could find you here,” he says, nudging me with his foot. “Why are you on the floor?”

         My face is buried in my arm and he can’t see my tears. “I had a nightmare,” my voice cracks. “You can touch me now.”

         Clad starts laughing at me. “You’re crying over a nightmare?”

         He helps me off the floor.

         “It was so real,” I say. “The realest one I’ve ever had.” I pat my face and forehead to verify that there is no bullet wound.

         Clad puts an arm around my waist to steady me. “You are shaking like a leaf!” he proclaims.

         “I can’t stop.” I place his hand on my chest. “I think my heart is having a seizure.”

          “You were really scared, huh? I heard you screaming, I thought—,” he says pausing, not wanting to finish.

         “You thought I was hurt.” I lean into him because he is the only thing not moving around me; the room is spinning.

         “I was more scared,” he confesses and sits with me on the cot.

         He pulls me onto his lap and I rest my head against his chest. His heart is beating ever so slowly; I try to emulate the rhythm with my own rapid heart-beat.