Blood on the Tablecloth

-TATIANA-

I watched my family die between bites of rosemary lamb, and the worst part was how ordinary it felt.

Dad had just raised his glass, to give a toast to loyalty, bloodlines, keeping the family strong when the first shot rang through the dining room.

Next, a wet slap of blood hit the tablecloth and some got on my face.

My fork froze halfway to my mouth, meat juice sliding down the tines.

My uncle went next. Then my cousin. Clockwise, like the guy had mapped it out ahead of time.

Each interval between shots was exactly the same, there was not enough time for anyone to react.

A professional killer is in my home. My pulse tried to hammer its way out of my throat.

“Next.” He said and mom made a small, startled sound when the barrel touched her temple. Then she was gone too.

I sat there with my fork still in my hand like an idiot, the only one left. The candlelight caught on the gun when it swung toward me. I could smell the powder from where I sat, unable to move.

I waited for his next flat “Next.”

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt much if I closed my eyes.

Make it quick please, everyone else is gone.

The shooter stepped closer still. When he got near enough for me to see his eyes, my stomach flipped.

Grey eyes. Same stormy grey as mine.

He froze, then lowered the gun a slowly but his gaze stayed locked on my face.

Run. Throw the damn fork at him. Do something. My mind screamed yet my body had decided it was done taking orders from me. All I managed was a shaky inhale that smelled like copper mixed with rosemary.

He moved fast. One gloved hand closed around my wrist, firmly. It was clear arguing would be pointless. His fingers were warm through the thin leather he had on.

“Up,” Like we’d already agreed on something.

I tried to yank back on reflex. He pulled me out of the chair, steadying me when my knee hit the edge and the whole thing clattered backward. My fork finally hit the floor with an embarrassingly loud ping.

He turned and started walking, towing me along like an afterthought. My shoes left sticky red prints across the marble as they clicked away loudly.

Outside, the night air hit my face. A black car with the engine purring waited at the bottom of the steps. The driver didn’t glance over.

I suspected it would be pointless begging him for help and yes, I was right.

My shoulder burned as I twisted hard, digging my heel to the ground. The man didn’t break his stride. He hooked an arm around my waist, lifted me the last two steps, and deposited me into the backseat like a sack of flour. The door shut with a solid thunk.

The scream I’d been choking down since the first shot tore out of me. It scraped my throat bloody yet did nothing to him. I pressed both hands over my mouth to try to muffle it, but it kept coming in ugly little bursts.

Mama. Papa

He slid in beside me and the car started moving before he’d even settled. The only sounds left were the tires on gravel and my own ragged breathing.

I risked a sideways look.

He turned to stare at me too; his jacket stretched across his shoulders when he shifted. His face rigid with focus. I didn’t catch even a hint of guilt for what he had done.

This man was a born killer.

I couldn’t help the spark of relief that I was still breathing when everyone else wasn’t even as I voiced my wish for death

“Please kill me. You killed them all. Why not me?” I could only imagine what he has in store for me and I dreaded it a lot.

But the really messed-up part? Some small, broken piece of me couldn’t wait to hear it.