“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I barely processed the words before his arms changed position again.His forearm hooked under my chin, not tight enough to crush the windpipe but angled to control my head.My body reacted before my mind could plan; I pushed back against him, tried to break his hold, but his movements came faster.His hand slid to the base of my skull, finding a nerve cluster with clinical accuracy, and pressure shot pain through my whole head.My knees folded.The world tilted.
I didn’t hit the floor; he lowered me carefully, almost protective, as everything blurred.He sounded distant, like someone speaking underwater.“I’m sorry.”
The Christmas lights swirled in a wash of red, green, gold.My thoughts scattered, slipping away faster than I could grip them.I fought to keep consciousness, fought to stay tethered to the world, fought to resist the blackout stealing my vision.
My body stopped listening long before my mind did.
I dropped into darkness.
Consciousness came in jagged pieces—pressure behind my skull, a pulse of pain, then black again.I drifted in and out, like sinking through deep water where up and down lost meaning.Motion registered next, a slow, steady rhythm that rocked my body in a way my brain couldn’t map.My head rested against something solid and warm, fabric under my cheek, the scent of leather mixed with cold night air and a faint metallic trace I associated only one way now—gun oil and blood.
I tried to open my eyes; my eyelids felt weighted, muscles refusing commands.Even small movements took effort.My tongue felt too big in my mouth.A low voice came from somewhere above my head, close enough that I felt the vibration through bone.“Stay under.Don’t fight.”Gabriel.Recognition floated through the fog, then faded as I slipped under again.
The next time awareness surfaced, my body shifted in a different way.Strong arms slid beneath my knees and shoulders.He lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me, each step measured and unhurried.My head rolled against his chest, following the rhythm of his breathing.I wanted to scream, claw at his face, kick until something broke, but the command from my brain never reached my limbs.Fingers twitched once.That was all I managed.
“Almost done,” he said, voice closer now, right over me.The name connected fully in my mind—Gabriel Russo, walking away from my family’s corpses while cradling their daughter.Cold air hit my face as we crossed some threshold, a sharp shock that yanked me closer to wakefulness.Snowflakes landed on my skin and melted instantly, small pinpricks of sensation across my cheeks and forehead.I forced my eyes open to narrow slits and saw blurred strands of color and white.We’d reached the yard.The world glowed bright from the snow despite the late hour.
I turned my head a fraction and caught a skewed view of the house.Lights traced the roofline and window frames in neat gold, the wreath still centered on the door, the glass reflecting the porch light.Fresh snow had smoothed over footprints, draping the yard in a flawless white layer.No sign of the horror inside, no screams tearing through the night, no neighbors running into the street.Somewhere in there, my family lay dead while I hung half-conscious in the arms of the man who killed them.
“No...”The word scraped out as a breath more than speech.Every syllable failed.
“Shh.”His arms tightened around me, not crushing, almost steadying.The shift in his grip felt wrong on every level—more protective than violent.“Almost there.”Snow swirled past my limited field of vision while he moved down the street.Other houses slid by, windows lit, shadows crossing behind curtains.People laughed, drank, opened presents, argued over recipes, lived ordinary Christmas Eve lives while he carried me away from everything I knew.
The scene looked surreal in that half-focused state.Streetlights turned the snow into a glowing haze, roofs sparkled, bushes glimmered under frost, driveways lay undisturbed.The cul-de-sac could have starred on a holiday card—silent, peaceful, pure.No one watching from a window would have recognized the girl in the hitman’s arms as anything more than a drunk friend getting help home.They would learn more tomorrow, when sirens shattered the calm.
My eyes slid closed again.When they opened next, we stood beside a car I didn’t recognize.Dark paint, clean lines, forgettable model—chosen to disappear in any parking lot.Gabriel shifted me against his chest while reaching for something, and a soft mechanical sound followed.The trunk latch released.
My brain tried to catch up.Trunk.Drive somewhere isolated.Finish the job.Every crime show I’d ever half-watched supplied the rest.Fear should have sent a bolt of energy through me, should have jump-started strength I didn’t know I had.Instead, the impact to my head dulled everything, turning terror into something slow and distant.
He lifted me again, angling my body over the open trunk.The interior looked like a dark rectangle, shallow and enclosed, a blanket covering the floor.He lowered me into the space carefully, guiding my shoulders and hips so I fit without twisting awkwardly.Something soft met the back of my skull—a rolled jacket or towel tucked beneath my head so my neck stayed straight.
That detail sliced through the haze.Why bother protecting my neck if he planned to put a bullet through my brain later?Why the blanket, the support, the careful handling?None of it made sense inside the narrative I’d accepted about men like him.
I tried to focus on his face, but he blurred against the gray sky.Snow settled on his shoulders and hair.His mouth moved; words existed but never reached me over the ringing in my ears.A gloved hand brushed my cheek, a quick, assessing touch, then retreated.He stepped back and the trunk lid began to lower.
The rectangle of sky narrowed, framed by metal and snowfall.A streetlamp at the edge of my vision glowed through the flurries, turning each flake into a bright speck before it vanished into the night.One perfect crystalline shape drifted down toward my face.Then the trunk closed and everything outside disappeared.
Darkness pressed in, not absolute, more the murky black of an unlit room.The car shifted under me as he climbed into the driver’s seat.The engine started, a low vibration that carried through the frame into my bones.We rolled forward.Turns came next, subtle changes in momentum as we left the cul-de-sac, moved onto other streets, headed for the main road.
Awareness told me to panic.Trunks meant no air, no exits, no witnesses.I should pound on the metal, kick, scream until my throat bled, force the car to stop or attract attention.My body refused the order.Exhaustion settled over me like an extra blanket, heavy and almost warm.Every attempt at movement slowed before reaching my muscles.
Giving in tempted me.Let darkness swallow everything—snow, blood, grief, fear, responsibility.Let someone else handle the aftermath, the decisions, the memories.Sleep meant no pain, no thoughts, no images of my father’s empty stare.
I surrendered to it.
The car drove on through streets I knew by heart, leaving faint tracks that snow would cover before dawn.Behind us, the house at the end of the cul-de-sac held four cooling bodies and a tree blinking through its color cycle, still performing holiday cheer for no one.Neighbors slept in ignorance.The world turned toward morning.
Somewhere between one turn and the next, dreams replaced reality.Flickers of childhood Christmas mornings surfaced—wrapping paper on the floor, Mom’s careful smile, Dad’s booming laugh, my brother trying to sneak extra cookies.Snow outside the same windows that now hid murder.Those images mixed with tonight’s violence, old warmth rewriting itself around fresh horror.
The girl who lived in those memories no longer existed.Blood and betrayal had carved her away, replaced by someone who would wake in a trunk belonging to a killer and have to decide how badly she wanted to keep breathing.Survival shifted from background assumption to the only goal left.
The car turned onto the main road and picked up speed, taillights vanishing into the snowfall behind us.The storm erased our path while the city slept.For everyone else, Christmas approached the same way it always did—quiet hours before dawn, presents waiting under trees, families unaware.
For me, the holiday ended in the dark, in the trunk of a stranger’s car, carried away from everything I knew toward a future that had been reduced to one question.
Whether I lived long enough to claim it.
