Losing the Fight

“There was only one rule: don’t open the door. That’s all you had to do, but you just had to find another way. Now look at you. You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

I lay on the floor, my stomach in pain, as blood pools beneath me. The pain makes me acutely aware as my hand slowly reaches for the pipe on the floor by my head. A sickening crunch introduces my scream as his heavy boot stomps on my hand, pinning it awkwardly between his strength and the pipe.

“Now, tell me where they are and this can end. After all, I’m doing you a favor. I simply wish to end the suffering they have made you endure.”

“You leave them alone, YOU SICK FUCK!” He twists his boot, forcing me to scream out in pain. A small cry, quickly muffled, comes through from the ceiling. His boot stops and moves off of my now crippled hand.

“Ah, I didn’t realize you had an attic space in this house. Silly me, should have checked.” I look up to see him tap the pistol to his head as he turned to walk away.

I muster my breath as well as I can to force out the words, “Please, you don’t have to do this. DON’T do this. Don’t take my family from me.”

He stops without turning. “I’m doing this for you. How could you be happy with your wife being so sick, and you wouldn’t be happy with a constantly grieving daughter? I want you to be happy. You deserve happiness. That’s why I took your last family. You WILL be happy.” He walks away, ignoring my pleading cries. Every boot step echoes as my vision turns red.

My broken fist closes around the pipe.