A Prey For My Enemy

TATIANA  

Watching your whole family get murdered right in front of you at dinner isn’t anything like the movies. There’s no slow motion, no dramatic music. Just my own heartbeat slamming in my ears so loud it drowns everything else out, and this weird metallic taste in my mouth that I can’t get rid of.

I always thought the heroine would find some secret strength at the last second and scream something brave. That’s what all those books I hid under my bed promised. But here I am, fork still halfway to my mouth, meat juice dripping off it like nothing changed in the last ten seconds. Dad was just toasting to family loyalty. Now he’s… not.

Blood hits my cheek. Warm. Then it slides down and lands on the white tablecloth.  

Great. That’s never coming out.  

The guy in the doorway steps closer. He’s tall. The candlelight makes his shadow stretch way back behind him like it’s trying to get away from what he’s doing. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying hard. Just raises the gun again.

“Next.”

He says it flat, like he’s picking what to eat at a drive-thru. The gun swings. My uncle drops. The tablecloth starts soaking up red in slow circles.

He keeps going clockwise. I catch myself counting the seconds between shots. They’re exactly the same length, just long enough for the echo to fade. Who even practices something like that? Who times it?

Mom makes this tiny sound, almost surprised. Then the barrel’s against her temple.

“Next.”

I should do something. Anything. Yell. Throw the fork. Jump up. But my body won’t listen. My arm feels locked in place and all I can think about is how the breadbasket tips over when she slumps sideways. Those rosemary rolls spill out across the table. The good ones the housekeeper only makes for guests. They smell so nice. I was going to ask for seconds.

Now it’s just me.

The gun turns my way. The barrel is still warm, I can feel the heat from here. It looks so small. How does something that tiny make everything fall like that? My eyes lock onto his. Same grey as mine. Weird.

He freezes.

Something shifts in his face. His eyes stay stuck on me and for a second the whole room goes quiet except for my pulse. I wait for the bang. Wonder if it’ll hurt or if it’ll just be over. I hope it’s quick. I really hope it’s quick.

He lowers the gun.

His hand closes around my wrist. Not squeezing hard, but I know right away there’s no point fighting. It’s the kind of grip that says he’s already decided everything. I’ve read about guys like this in my books. They don’t change their minds.

He yanks me up. My knee catches the chair and it tips over. The fork finally drops and clatters against all the silverware. The sound feels louder than the gunshots.

I scream. It rips out of me raw because I’ve never actually had to scream before. He drags me out the side door. My shoes leave red prints on the marble. Cold night air slaps my face and the blood on my skin starts to feel sticky and gross. A black car is waiting at the bottom of the steps, engine already running. The driver stares straight ahead like none of this is his business. Maybe he gets paid extra for not looking.

I twist hard, shoulder screaming at me. He just lifts me the last couple steps like I weigh nothing and drops me onto the seat. The door shuts with a heavy thunk.

The scream I’ve been holding in since the first shot finally comes out again, loud and ugly.