Carina
The sound of the gunshot explodes in my ears.
It’s followed by a deafening silence, yet does nothing to suppress the pounding of my heart. Time slows, as is often described by others, and my mind separates from the situation, giving me a view as though I’m seeing everything through a camera lens.
However, this filter offers no protection, only clarity in those few seconds.
The reward must outweigh the risk.
The cause must explain the effect.
In my case, the reward is life, with the risk being death. And the cause of all this violence? Deceit that begets suffering, the effects of which has my soul wailing and darkening.
A strangled cry, dislodged from me by terror, is lost in the cold wind. But a scream builds in my chest when Federico’s body folds in on itself and drops to the pavement, his lifeless gaze staring up at nothing.
The perpetrator aims his pistol in my direction and our gazes lock; Mine full of disbelief and horror, his overrun with bloodlust…that shifts into a pure lust. If it can be considered such a thing?
“Hey, pretty lady,” he says. The scratchiness of his voice scrapes along my skin and it prickles with fear, as well as disgust. “I saved you from this drug dealer, so you don’t need to be scared of me.”
The hitman takes a step toward me and I match it by retreating, maintaining the small distance between us. It’s still not enough. He runs his gaze over my light brown hair and the bodice of my emerald-colored dress, too thoroughly. The glint in his eyes is followed by his brows snapping together.
It’s my only warning.
He’s on me before I can draw breath. This forceful contact activates my sense of time and everything careens into a fast pace, the present no longer in slow-motion. My spine hits the brick wall when he slams his body into me and the acrid smell of gunpowder assaults my senses the moment he presses the barrel of his gun into the side of my neck. Warmth, from both the metal and his hand on my throat, seeps into my skin and my pulse ratchets up in protest. My lungs burn with a repressed shout.
The man leans in and places his foul mouth close to my ear. “You can’t run from me and if you do, I’m going to fuck you all the harder because of it. You must like getting fucked by made men, so I’m here to finish what that rat started.”
Adrenaline surges within me, speeding through every nerve-ending I possess, and shocks me into motion when the stranger grips my thigh and shoves his hand up my dress.
The time for thinking is over, and has been since the minute I witnessed his gaze flash with dark intent.
My pistol is revealed with a sharp flick of my wrist. Which the man would notice if he wasn’t tearing at my clothes. Sordid images flood every crevice of my mind and my past rears its ugly head, paralyzing me.
Unwanted touch.
Unwanted proximity.
Unwanted nightmares.
This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.
I squeeze the trigger. The recoil causes my hand to jerk, but I don’t stop, firing again and again until a clicking sound notifies me that my only source of defense is null and void.
The risk has now amplified.
And so has my fear.
My gaze collides with the stranger’s and in that moment we are the only people in the city, or in the world. I stand there with my eyes wide, my erratic breathing pushing air past my parted lips, and watch his gaze flare with revelation as his hands fall away; One from my the juncture between my thighs and the other from my throat.
He looks down at his chest, then at the weapon in my grasp, still pointed at him, and finally brings his focus to me. His mouth, already slightly agape, attempts to produce sound without success. And then his gun hits the pavement, right before his body joins it.
A nearby shout snaps me out of the haze of death surrounding me. With one hand still gripping my pistol, I retrieve my phone from my purse and take a picture of the man who threatened me.
Using my love of photography in this manner is almost sickening.
Then I drop to a crouch and pat down his lifeless form until I come across his personal effects. After snatching up his phone and wallet, I move to do the same to Federico. An in congruent sense of guilt swamps me and I almost vomit my dinner; the one he paid for less than twenty minutes ago.
I push past the nausea to locate Federico’s belongings, and right when I go to grab them I hesitate. A million thoughts race through my mind, compounding my guilt and turning it into an almost living entity. It wraps around me like a shawl woven with threads of death and deceit. The sensation weighs on me and my outstretched hand struggles to stay airborne.
