THE WRONG ONE (OFFGUN fanfic)

A BROTHER'S DEATH

DARK

White walls.  White noise. A laughter in the next room and a walking dead being cornered by an old man with a bodybuilder mass.  His left arm had a tattoo of the woman who's laughing her heart out like she never heard her son screaming in pain. On his right arm were the list of people he had killed. The list was long enough that it has already extended down to his knuckles that had gone white from punching this brick face of mine. Although there's still a little space for my name to be possibly written there, based on the state of importance that I have,  I sure won't be on that list.  The names in there belong to corporate heirs,  owners of huge companies,  and many other important people. I'm not that important, but I was kinda wondering if it would be an honor to have my name tattooed on that arm.

On his back was a huge map of territories he's already conquered. He's conquered several places more than that, but I guess the places tattooed in his back had the most valuable things he needed to generate income.  All of them had red stars except for the five places that are yet to be discovered or to be conquered by god knows what he will do with those places.  I don't care.  I can't spend a minute of my life trying to figure that one out.  I'm about to face eternal doom in hell. Dooms don't exist in heaven so let's just go to hell.

"Are you aiming for the head or the heart?" I asked. I heard zombies have two main points you can shoot to get killed right away. I know I'm not a zombie,  but I've been living my life like a walking dead everyday, so...

"Stop bullshitting me Dark." He retorted.

"Yeah sure,  kill me." I tried to say that in the laziest way possible,  but it seemed to challenge him instead. He's burning.

"You got no fear huh?"

"No fear?" Do I fear a thing?   I heard her laugh once again from the next room. This is what she will always do. Being blind and deaf to all the pain inflicted on me while laughing her heart out with a goblet of wine on one hand and a single tear running down on her left cheek. She's always there when everything's done. She always does the aftercare which is the least thing she can do.  My poor mom. I can't blame her though. My fear is losing her maybe.

"I fear nothing." I firmly answered. I scanned his body from head to toe with my eyes, "Now where's the gun?" I asked.  I was expecting for a gun,  but he took out a combat knife instead.  Why the combat knife? My eyebrows met in confusion.

"Where's your gun?!" I asked like I was just casually mad of him using the wrong weapon to kill.

"Let's just say,  I don't like neighbors hearing unnecessary noises." He responded.

No, not quite sarcastic enough and definitely not the smartest answer to give. He can always bring in his beloved silencer. The thing he loves to use whenever one of his goons messed up. Something's weird.  He always carry a gun with him.

 I stared at his sharpened combat knife and noticed  faint liquid on its edges.  There's poison on that knife. I tried not to look startled or else he's going to sense the sudden fear I'm starting to have.  Not that I'm scared of the poison,  but scared of experiencing convulsions like the ones I saw in tv shows. I don't want to die with bubbles out of my mouth instead of blood. I mentally slapped myself so hard. A normal person would ask me why the hell do you have the time to be ware of your appearance? And I'll answer that with---Even in your deathbed,  you have to look good. Unless you'll be in a crematorium which obviously sucks.