In my mind, there are only two things that can make a person act out without a proper reason: love for soone or hatred toward sothing. Otherwise, every action we take is nothing but for our own benefit. That's exactly what happened after I saw the dead bodies of my parents lying in front of . Everything that followed after that mont was a blur. Sohow, the police arrived. I was taken into another room—I didn't resist. I didn't want to be there. I kept hoping it was nothing but a bad dream, just a nightmare. But reality hit like a slap across the face—it wasn't a dream. It was real. My reality. I cried. After that, not often, but in those first days, all I did was cry. Tears would run dry, and I'd stop for a while, only to start crying again. They said my father—who was a journalist—had sohow uncovered the illegal activities of a mafia boss nad Glenn Gunner. That cost my parents. In those monts, no one could console . Not Jasmine, not her parents, not anyone. Nothing worked. Sothing inside broke. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it felt like I was growing irritated by everything. Slowly, it was as if my entire skin crawled with wriggling maggots, and I felt like I was losing my mind. That's when I t soone. ***
I was sprawled out on the floor, not thinking about anything in particular, when the doorbell rang. Was it the fourth ti since morning? Fifth? I didn't care. I stayed still. Then, there was a loud explosion. I rolled over to see what had happened. The door knob was missing, replaced by a gaping hole. The door swung open, and a crowd poured in— theif? Killers?
It was then that sothing switched inside . I grabbed the sofa nearby and managed to stand up. Why does my body feel so feverish? They hadn't noticed in the dark while I was on the floor, but as I stood up, the crowd froze, their gazes locking on . Another loud bang echoed as one of the intruders fired a shot into the floor in front of . "Stop! Whoever you are! Another step, and I'll unload it all!" I stopped. It felt like sothing was eating from the inside out—a strange, consuming sensation. "Good. Turn around and raise your hands in the air!" he commanded. I stared at the brown haired guy of average height, a head shorter than , as he pointed his gun at . I did as he said. Gun... Is that the sa gun that shot Mom and Dad? I wondered. When I was fully turned around, I heard his footsteps. He was coming closer. I asured. It would take him about ten steps—no, twelve. He was cautious. I could tell by the pacing. I knew the house better than anyone alive. Six steps. Five. Two?
I felt sothing brush against my shirt. Turning around quickly, I crouched low and managed to grab his throat and the hand holding the gun at the sa ti. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* Three shots fired before I half crushed his vocal cord in my grip, twisting the gun away from . I wrestled the weapon from his hands and tossed it across the room. He struggled, but with the gun no longer in play, he swung his free hand at , fingers curling into a punch. I leaned forward. My forehead collided with his nose, and I heard a muffled crack. His eyes rolled upward. No. There was commotion behind him now, shouting, but no one approached . They were speaking, but I couldn't make out the words. I couldn't make sense of anything anymore. "Fight , you son of a bitch! You killed my family! Hold that gun now, if you can! Shoot ! Shoot , you fucking coward!" I grabbed his hair and punched him with everything I had. One punch knocked out a tooth. Another tore his cheek open. A third, a fourth—maybe more. I kept cursing."Why wouldn't you fight back? Why? You killed my family, and now you won't even fight ! Fight , damn it! Try to kill ! "
It wasn't long before my hand went numb, and his face was unrecognizable—a bloodied ss. But it wasn't enough blood. Mom had bled more. Dad's body had been colder. And then, sothing hit in the chest, knocking off the bloodied killer. The one who kicked was a woman—or maybe a girl? She wore a short red dress, her alabaster face devoid of any emotion. But my focus wasn't on her. It shifted to the figure stepping into view behind her. A bulky man in a three-piece suit. His hair was grey, and he looked well over fifty. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore down on from his towering height. "I have no part in killing your family. That's not how I do things, boy," he said, his deep, gruff voice cutting through the tension. My fists clenched. I wanted to believe he was lying, but there wasn't even a flicker of deceit in his expression. "I ca here for sothing your father had," he continued. "But to get that, I'll need you." At his signal, one of the gangsters dragged the bloody, unconscious body of the red-haired guy I'd beaten to a pulp across the room. "Not the one who killed my family, huh?" I muttered, my voice barely audible, more to myself than anyone else. The bulky man nodded. "That's correct." I stared at him, my vision blurring slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through . Then, for the first ti since he entered, I looked directly into his eyes. "Then fuck off," I spat. His lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but close enough to irritate . He wasn't leaving. The realization struck then, sharp and clear: I needed closure. No more rage-fueled outbursts. No more lashing out at the wrong people. I needed answers, and the only way to get them was to stay alive long enough to drag them out of whoever truly took my parents from . ....Nah fuck the truth and answeres too, I need Glenn Gunner to suffer.
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