It’s accepting the apologies of a cheating lover.
It’s returning to a raised hand, over and over, until that hand becomes lethal, and home is in the afterlife.
It’s clinging to a mother who never wanted you and hoping she will one day show up on those church steps.
It’s grabbing ahold of a hand that belongs to both a father and an abuser, wailing as they slowly slip away.
It’s falling in love with a liar, a thief, and praying they never hurt you again.
Kacey shakes her head, a pained, sorrowful cry spearing past her stitches and directly into my chest. Sawyer and Sylvester are still struggling, and as much as Kacey needs comfort, I don’t have the fucking time.
Pinning her with one last look—something I pray she interprets as help us help you—I turn to the struggling duo. Sawyer is on the floor with Sylvester on top of her, his back to her front, as she attempts to strangle him with the chain.
Both of their faces are cherry red, and exhaustion is etched into the lines of Sawyer’s face. Her strength is waning, and Sylvester is beginning to free himself from her hold.
Just as I take a step toward them, Sylvester breaks free and lunges for the gun, grabbing it and pointing it directly at me. But my only focus is Sawyer, and if the fucker wants to stop me from getting to her, he better pull that trigger now.
“No!” Sawyer screeches, jumping on his back and causing the gun to swing. He fires off a shot, the sound booming and hitting the ceiling, causing debris to fall over our heads.
“Sawyer,” I snap, and urgency has me rushing toward them. Sylvester bashes his elbow in her face, causing her head to kick back and blood to sprout from her mouth.
My vision goes red, and I feel rather than see something pushing me to the side. I stumble right as another shot goes off, and I wait for the pain to register.
To feel the violent press of a bullet ripping through my body and taking my soul along with it.
Yet, I feel nothing as the scene slowly filters in, and I straighten. Sawyer and Sylvester are staring at me with wide eyes, horror on both of their faces.
But they’re not staring at me at all. What they’re focused on is beside me. It feels like slow motion as I turn my head, finding Kacey standing where I once was, her chin tilted down. My gaze follows hers, discovering the blood gushing from her chest, pooling on the floor beneath her feet.
“NO!” Sylvester shouts fiercely, the veins in his forehead protruding as he struggles to get up and rush toward Kacey.
I catch her as she falls, softening her impact as her body slumps. Sylvester is crawling toward us, the weapon forgotten on the floor. My head is full of static as I try to process that this poor girl has taken a bullet for me.
“Get away!” I bark. I think he’s too shocked to register anything outside of his daughter dying on the floor before him, and from his own doing, no less. So, he stops, his widened eyes staring at her in disbelief.
“Hey, look at me,” I murmur, turning her cheek toward me. It takes a few beats before her glazed eyes slide toward me. I clench my teeth, seeing nothing but peace radiating from her.
“Sei così dolce. Sei un angelo,” I whisper, swiping my thumb across her bloodied cheek as a tear falls from her eye.
“No, no, no, no,” Sylvester chants, his voice growing tighter and strained with each repetition.
She stares up at me, and though she can’t smile, I see it in her eyes as her small hand cups my jaw. She’s dying, yet she’s comforting me.
Her gaze focuses on her fingers as they softly brush across my beard, as if entranced by the feel of the coarse hair. Then, her eyes go unfocused, and just like that, she’s gone. A life that took years to cultivate into the woman lying in my arms, and only seconds to take it away.
“NO!” he shouts again, banging his fist on the floor. “This is your fault!” he spits at me. Sawyer kneels behind him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at Kacey with sorrow.
I’m numb as I gently set her on the ground and stand. Grabbing the shotgun from the floor, I walk over to the gas stove and turn one of the nozzles on high, flames emitting from one of the burners.
Then I hold the tip of the barrel in them. Guns are built for heat, so it takes several minutes for the metal to turn a bright, searing red. During that time, I allow Sylvester to suffer from the pain of his loss. I allow him to face what he’s done.
Satisfied, I stalk toward the blubbering old caretaker. My thoughts are reduced to white noise, and my body moves on pure instinct as I kick him in the stomach, peering at him with nothing less than revulsion as he flips onto his back. He coughs profusely and attempts to sit up, but I’m pushing him back down with the white-hot barrel in his chest, pulling a pained shout from his throat.