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I had spent my life shrinking myself, hugging walls in the hallways, hiding away in corners, biting down on my tongue. Doing anything I could to avoid being on their radar.
And here I was thinking about taking them down.
A fool's mission, surely.
But if it was between being handed off to some South American drug cartel, or fighting for my freedom, I would choose to fight every time. Even if the risks were high. Even if I maybe wouldn't even make it out alive.
Maybe Helga would.
And Charlie.
Two for one.
Really, that was a fair trade.
"Looks like she's going to cry," Michael interjected, mistaking my determination for fear. A mistake I planned to make him regret. "You brought this on yourself," he added, making me think back to when we were kids, when he told me that if Mom had just been good, Dad wouldn't have done what he did to her.
And the rage burned anew, a fire there would be no banking, fed from a forest full of kindling, lit up with lighter fluid.
I wanted to burn them the fuck down.
"Why is Helga here?" I asked, ignoring my brother, telling myself he would get what was coming to him. Sooner or later. Hopefully by my hand if there was any sense of justice in the world.
"To teach you a lesson."
Those were the chilling words my father uttered. They fell with no impact for a long moment.
But then I realized too late, way too late, that my father's arm had lifted.
The bang ricocheted through my body, making my stomach quiver, my nerves frazzle, as I watched the only mother I had really known have her brain splattered against the wall.
"I can destroy anything you love. And then make you clean up the mess. So why don't you be a good girl and go get some bleach and water."
Any last tender spot within me stiffened, calloused over, became thick and impenetrable.
I was sure the thought never actually crossed my brain, but my hand got the message somehow anyway, grabbing the bronze lion paperweight off his desk, raising it, and sending it flying through the air with the kind of expert precision that came from doing the sandbag toss on the boardwalk when my shift ended, but I didn't want to go home until I ran out of money.
It whacked hard off my father's forehead, the force - and pain - sending him flying backward, crashing into the bookshelf behind him as his hands rose to cup his head.
Hands.
Plural.
The gun was gone.
He'd dropped the gun.
My brain went from sleepy shock to laser focus in a blink.
I had flipped my coin when I had tossed that weight.
But I would be damned to leave the outcome up to fate.
I needed that gun if I stood any chance at all.
I flew toward the side of the desk, grabbing the unfamiliar gun, heated still warm from my father's hand. It was heavier than I could have guessed, something that took a precious few seconds away from me, seconds I needed.
When my head finally jerked up again, my father was turned toward me, bleeding from a giant gash to his forehead, his eyes more demon than human as he started moving.
Approaching.
He was going to kill me.
And, I realized, there was no way in hell I was going to let this be my end, cowering on the floor like a startled child.
After he had ordered the death of my boyfriend.
After he had shot my only mother figure.
No.
In fact, fuck no.
My finger slid to the trigger, suddenly thankful for all the action movies I had seen in my life, because I had no experience with a gun.
"You're gonna pay for that you fucking bi-"
My finger pulled.
The gun jerked.
The bullet sailed.
And I watched in unexpected horror as the front of my father's throat exploded, sending cinematically bright blood smattering the books to his side, the desk to his other, the front of his obnoxiously expensive suit and tie.
His eyes were still on me, shocked, gaping like a dying animal. Which, I realized as he made some Godawful gurgling noise with what was left of his throat, was exactly what he was.
A dying animal.
He teetered on his feet before collapsing down, hand covered in blood as he clutched his throat, as the life drained out of him.
The second I saw it leave his eyes, his soul heading back to hell where it belonged, the gun fell from my hands, shocked disgust making bile rise up my throat.
I'd just killed someone.
I had just killed my father.
I had dreamed of being a lot of things in my life, but a killer was not one of them.
I couldn't seem to hear past the whooshing noise in my ears as I watched my brother drop down next to my father, his mouth opened wide like he was yelling, but it was nothing to my deaf ears.
