"You—"
She couldn't finish that sentence.
I gripped her hand along with the gun, pressing the barrel against my chest. Right over my heart. Through my shirt, I could even feel the cold, hard touch of the barrel.
"Just pull the trigger." I looked down into her eyes, my voice soft. "Simple, isn't it?"
Her hand was shaking, the trembling traveling through the gun to my chest.
"Do it, Anthea." I leaned down, my forehead almost touching hers. "Kill me."
"You think..." Her voice distorted. "You think I won't?"
"I know you will. You hate me." My voice carried a sigh. "Kill me, and you're free."
Her breathing got faster, her chest heaving violently. Finally, she closed her eyes. Tears flooded out.
Her finger rested on the trigger. I watched her press down. I smiled, accepting this ending.
At the last moment, she opened her eyes and jerked her hand aside. The gun fired. The bullet tore into my left abdomen, bringing searing pain. I grunted, my body swaying. Blood seeped from the wound, quickly staining my shirt red.
But I laughed.
"You couldn't do it, Anthea." I looked at her, almost manic. "You care about me. You still love me."
Anthea stared at me blankly, the gun falling from her hand onto the bed.
"I just..." Her voice was trembling and broken. "I just don't want Olei to lose his father."
I heard the vulnerability in her voice. The lie.
Pain from the wound came in waves, but all I felt was a strange relief. She didn't kill me. She couldn't do it. That was enough. That was hope.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anthea
Silas left to deal with his wound. I curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around my knees.
"You couldn't do it, Anthea. You care about me. You still love me."
His words kept echoing in my head.
He was right—I couldn't pull that trigger. When Silas pressed my hand against his chest, the gun barrel digging into his skin, my finger locked on the trigger like something had nailed it in place. I told myself I couldn't kill him because I was just a normal person. I'd never imagined a day when I'd actually hold a gun to someone's heart. This was a human life.
And he was Olei's father. If I really killed him, what would happen to Olei? That kid had already spent six years without a mother—did he have to lose his father too? He was only six.
So at the last second, my wrist shifted. The bullet tore through his abdomen instead of his heart.
As for the other possibilities, I didn't want to think about them.
Another day or two passed. Maybe longer. I'd lost track.
Time blurred inside this gilded cage, day and night bleeding together.
My arm started itching. I pushed up my sleeve and saw the smooth skin now covered in scabbed-over scratches. Now my nails found them again, unconsciously adding new marks beside the old ones. Only when the sharp pain spread across my forearm did I stop, pulling my sleeve back down.
Strangely, I felt better.
