Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

VI: Forty-Five Meters Tall

❝Your nightmares follow you like a shadow, forever.❞
―Atticus

The masked man waves his gun around while circling me, his steps slow and feet almost dragging across the fresh layer of snow below us. Nothing comes between me and the two bodies I'm facing. I have an unpleasantly-clear view of their blood-stained clothes, sheet-white skin, and vacant expressions as their motionless eyes stare out into nothingness for eternity. Their blood has flown from their bodies and collected into a pool below them — a pool I'm left kneeling in. It contrasts with the pure white snow, soaking into it and accumulating above it.

The red liquid of life has long since stained my delicate hands, coloring them a sickening crimson. Drops of blood slide down my hands and onto my pants, seeping through and staining my skin underneath. The blood of the innocent who I failed to protect. I swore to protect them, but I failed.

I've been crying for too long, but I have no tears anymore. I have nothing left to cry. I gaze up at the masked man, my eyes set upon his. Is he pleased to see me cry over the dead? While I cannot see his mouth, I wouldn't be surprised if he was smiling below that mask. I wonder if he can sense my bared teeth behind my own mask.

Noticing that I'm staring at him, he paces around me once more and squats down in front of me, matching my height, temporarily blocking my view of the dead.

His eyes hold no remorse or fear. He knows I have no weapons, leaving me completely at his mercy. I can't do anything, and his finger lays dangerously on the trigger.

"You will never be free," he says, his voice only slightly muffled by his mask. "You and everyone you know — all the Russians — you're all merely lamb to the slaughter."

He stands up and points his gun towards the two bodies. I close my eyes and look away, the sight too painful to watch. Yet, the man grabs me forcefully and shoves me closer, sending me straight into the pool of blood.

"This is the fucking price of your greed, you fucking Russkies! The death of sons and daughters! This is what you fucking caused!"

I stare into the vacant eyes of the lifeless young boy in front of me. Eyes that remind me of myself. Self-blaming. The dead boy blames me. I blame me.

"What are you going to do, Russki?"

I gaze up once more at the man. He shoves me back down, then points the long barrel of his gun at me, pressing the cold muzzle against my forehead. Murder is written in his eyes. Yet, beyond the murder, there is something I cannot make out. Something is hidden beneath. Nevertheless, the murder is the most prevalent emotion glowing in those eyes. Eyes I will struggle to forget.

"That's right. There's nothing you can do. You're already doomed to die, just like me. You've already done things you cannot undo, just like me. You're already dammed to hell, just like me. We're both fucked. There's nothing either of us can do. God can see right through our masks. We can't hide from what we've done. We're fucked."

His voice as he says this is strained, almost like he's on the verge of breaking. His hands shake and body quivers. Despite his entire being seeming to resent his actions, he keeps his gun pressed firmly against my forehead. I hear him emit a low, self-loathing chuckle and his eyes flash red for a split second, evil glowing from within him.

"But I intend to bring down a couple of Russkies before I meet them in hell, and I think this next bullet has your name on it. Nothing but a lamb to the slaughter."

As his finger twitches over the trigger, I maintain eye contact. I want to stare down my killer right until the last moment. My heart is beating in my throat and the blood is rushing through my veins like hot lava, scorching my insides. I'm scared. Downright scared. And I can't help but beg. I beg for my life.