alive,” Boss promised. It was so chaotic that I almost didn’t notice the gaping wound in Dad’s back. I almost didn’t notice how he was gasping for air or how his body twitched as his life fled from his body. I tried to run for him, but the man holding me kept pulling me back. I watched in terror as blood poured from his lips, and screamed until my throat was raw.
He died swiftly, though it felt like an eternity passed in the blink of an eye.
Another man slammed Decker against the wall. I watched in horror as the barrel of a gun found purchase against my temple. Still, the love of my life fought to get to me. “Get the fuck away from her!” Decker yelled.
I should have screamed. It seemed like the natural thing to do. But I was too shocked to even move. Another string of bullets rang out as the elevator doors opened, revealing an empty, cavernous escape we’d never get to use. The man holding me didn’t budge. My feet were stuck to the floor like the thick roots of an oak tree, buried deep despite the storm happening within the penthouse. “Blakely, fight!” Decker begged.
More bullets. Decker kicked the man pinning him down. “Kill him first. I want her to watch,” Boss demanded before finally turning away from the window to grab the briefcase full of cash. Most of the men left with him through a hidden set of stairs, but the two men detaining us stayed behind to finish the job.
Decker punched the man holding him. I was sobbing, not sure why I was still alive. I couldn’t stand to watch. This was my fault. Decker was going to die because of me.
Another punch.
Decker fought hard and landed a kick to the man’s gut.
Another punch.
Somehow the gun dropped to the floor during the struggle, and Decker seized his moment. They both lunged for the weapon, but Decker was first. That’s when I felt the cold metal of the gun pointed at me slipped from my skin. I watched in agony as the man holding me aimed at Decker.
The first shot hit his friend, but they both went down, the attacker landing on top of Decker. The man I loved groaned while trying to shove the dead body off of him. Another shot. Decker screamed like it had hit him, but I couldn’t see for sure.
“No!” I yelled. Slowly, Decker stopped struggling beneath the dense body on top of him. I felt my soul slip out of my mouth as I wailed. He was dead. Decker Harris was dead.
The man with the gun walked over toward the carnage with stoic calmness. He kicked at their bodies with a slight shrug before turning around to face me.
I took a good look at my soon-to-be killer. He wore tight jeans, a white shirt and had greasy, matted blond hair. Numbness relieved my soul of its agony, replacing despair with acceptance. “Do it,” I begged. I didn’t want to live in a world where Decker Harris and Frank Stewart didn’t exist.
He casually raised his gun and aimed right at my chest. A million thoughts rushed through my mind, but one prominent irony rang clear as a bell: It was poetic justice that he would shoot me in an organ that died the moment Decker Harris stopped moving. “You want me to kill you, don’t you?” he asked. The man had a deep Southern accent.
“Do it,” I said again, this time with more force. I closed my eyes, imagining a Ferris wheel. I imagined Decker and I sitting in our carriage, secluded from the world and lost in sensations. I imagined his lips on mine. I imagined his whispered promises. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Bang. A shot. An ending. A beginning. I clutched my stomach and looked down, expecting to see crimson. But there was nothing. Snapping my attention to the man threatening my life, I watched as he fell to the ground, blood pooling through his shirt.
My eyes went to Decker. He was scarily pale and holding a gun while pinned under a dead man. He dropped the weapon and closed his eyes the moment the elevator doors opened.
Police flooded the room, demanding that I put my hands in the air while simultaneously shouting their questions at me. But I could only say one thing again and again and again.