THIRTY-SIX
Warner’s gaze is locked onto mine.
He’s looking at me, eyes raw with emotion and I’m not sure I even know him anymore. I’m not sure I understand him, I’m not sure I know what he’s going to do when he lifts the gun with a strong, steady hand and points it directly at my face.
“Hurry up,” Anderson says. “The sooner you do this, the sooner you can move on. Now get this over with—”
But Warner cocks his head. Turns around.
Points the gun at his father.
I actually gasp.
Anderson looks bored, irritated, annoyed. He runs an impatient hand across his face before he pulls out another gun—my other gun—from his pocket. It’s unbelievable.
Father and son, both threatening to kill each other.
“Point the gun in the right direction, Aaron. This is ridiculous.”
Aaron.
I almost laugh in the middle of this insanity.
Warner’s first name is Aaron.
“I have no interest in killing her,” Warner Aaron he says to his father.
“Fine.” Anderson points the gun at my head again. “I’ll do it then.”
“Shoot her,” Warner says, “and I will put a bullet through your skull.”
It’s a triangle of death. Warner pointing a gun at his father, his father pointing a gun at me. I’m the only one without a weapon and I don’t know what to do.
If I move, I’m going to die. If I don’t move, I’m going to die.
Anderson is smiling.
“How charming,” he says. He’s wearing an easy, lazy grin, his grip on the gun in his hand so deceptively casual. “What is it? Does she make you feel brave, boy?” A pause. “Does she make you feel strong?”
Warner says nothing.
“Does she make you wish you could be a better man?” A little chuckle. “Has she filled your head with dreams about your future?” A harder laugh.
“You have lost your mind,” he says, “over a stupid child who’s too much of a coward to defend herself even with the barrel of a gun pointed straight at her face. This,” he says, pointing the gun harder in my direction, “is the silly little girl you’ve fallen in love with.” He exhales a short, hard breath. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
A new tightness in his breathing. A new tightness in his grip around the gun in his hand. These are the only signs that Warner is even remotely affected by his father’s words.
“How many times,” Anderson asks, “have you threatened to kill me? How many times have I woken up in the middle of the night to find you, even as a little boy, trying to shoot me in my sleep?” He cocks his head. “Ten times? Maybe fifteen? I have to admit I’ve lost count.” He stares at Warner. Smiles again. “And how many times,” he says, his voice so much louder now, “were you able to go through with it? How many times did you succeed? How many times,” he says, “did you burst into tears, apologizing, clinging to me like some demented—”
“Shut your mouth,” Warner says, his voice so low, so even, his frame so still it’s terrifying.
“You are weak,” Anderson spits, disgusted. “Too pathetically sentimental. Don’t want to kill your own father? Too afraid it’ll break your miserable heart?”
Warner’s jaw tenses.
“Shoot me,” Anderson says, his eyes dancing, bright with amusement. “I said shoot me!” he shouts, this time reaching for Warner’s injured arm, grabbing him until his fingers are clenched tight around the wound, twisting his arm back until Warner actually gasps from the pain, blinking too fast, trying desperately to suppress the scream building inside of him. His grip on the gun in his good hand wavers, just a little.
Anderson releases his son. Pushes him so hard that Warner stumbles as he tries to maintain his balance. His face is chalk-white. The sling wrapped around his arm is seeping with blood.
“So much talk,” Anderson says, shaking his head. “So much talk and never enough follow-through. You embarrass me,” he says to Warner, face twisted in repulsion. “You make me sick.”
A sharp crack.
Anderson backhands Warner in the face so hard Warner actually sways for a moment, already unsteady from all the blood he’s losing. But he doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t make a sound.
He stands there, bearing the pain, blinking fast, jaw so tight, staring at his father with absolutely no emotion on his face; there’s no indication he’s just been slapped but the bright red mark across his cheek, his temple, and part of his forehead. But his arm sling is more blood than cotton now, and he looks far too ill to be on his feet.
Still, he says nothing.
“Do you want to threaten me again?” Anderson is breathing hard as he speaks. “Do you still think you can defend your little girlfriend? You think I’m going to allow your stupid infatuation to get in the way of everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve worked toward?” Anderson’s gun is no longer pointed at me. He forgets me long enough to press the barrel of his gun into Warner’s forehead, twisting it, jabbing it against his skin as he speaks. “Have I taught you nothing?” he shouts. “Have you learned nothing from me—”
I don’t know how to explain what happens next.
All I know is that my hand is around Anderson’s throat and I’ve pinned him to the wall, so overcome by a blind, burning, all-consuming rage that I think my brain has already caught on fire and dissolved into ash.
I squeeze a little harder.
He’s sputtering. He’s gasping. He’s trying to get at my arms, clawing limp hands at my body and he’s turning red and blue and purple and I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it so, so much.
I think I’m smiling.
I bring my face less than an inch away from his ear and whisper, “Drop the gun.”
He does.
I drop him and grab the gun at the same time.
Anderson is wheezing, coughing on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to speak, trying to reach for something to defend himself with and I’m amused by his pain. I’m floating in a cloud of absolute, undiluted hatred for this man and all that he’s done and I want to sit and laugh until the tears choke me into a contented sort of silence. I understand so much now. So much.
“Juliette—”
“Warner,” I say, so softly, still staring at Anderson’s body slumped on the floor in front of me, “I’m going to need you to leave me alone right now.”
I weigh the gun in my hands. Test my finger on the trigger. Try to remember what Kenji taught me about taking aim. About keeping my hands and arms steady. Preparing for the kickback—the recoil—of the shot.
I tilt my head. Take inventory of his body parts.
“You,” Anderson finally manages to gasp, “you—”
I shoot him in the leg.
He’s screaming. I think he’s screaming. I can’t really hear anything anymore. My ears feel stuffed full of cotton, like someone might be trying to speak to me or maybe someone is shouting at me but everything is muffled and I have too much to focus on right now to pay attention to whatever annoying things are happening in the background. All I know is the reverberation of this weapon in my hand. All I hear is the gunshot echoing through my head. And I decide I’d like to do it again.
I shoot him in the other leg.
There’s so much screaming.
I’m entertained by the horror in his eyes. The blood ruining the expensive fabric of his clothes. I want to tell him he doesn’t look very attractive with his mouth open like that but then I think he probably wouldn’t care about my opinion anyway. I’m just a silly girl to him. Just a silly little girl, a stupid child with a pretty face who’s too much of a coward, he said, too much of a coward to defend herself. And oh, wouldn’t he like to keep me. Wouldn’t he like to keep me as his little pet. And I realize no. I shouldn’t bother sharing my thoughts with him. There’s no point wasting words on someone who’s about to die.
I take aim at his chest. Try to remember where the heart is.
Not quite to the left. Not quite in the center.
Just—there.
Perfect.