Page 47 of Trigger Happy Ending

The air is wrong now, stale and still. The bold scent of jasmine is gone, replaced by the stench of copper and metal. I’m standing in the doorway of our apartment, the smell so vile, it makes me gag. The couch is empty, the room silent, the scene a grayish blue. Almost sickish. Like a morgue. Mom lies sprawled on the floor, her beautiful green eyes open but seeing nothing, the light long gone, a dark pool of blood blossoming beneath her head. Her skin pale, her body lifeless.

My breath gets stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat. My schoolbag slides off my arm and drops to the floor, the textbooks inside making a dull thud noise as the bag hits the wood.

I can’t scream. I can’t move.

I’m fourteen years old as I stand over my mother’s dead body.

The scene flickers again; the room warps, and I’m somewhere else entirely.

A field, surrounded by thick forest, not far from the Agency’s manor. A storm brews in the distance, the air smelling of wet foliage and static electricity. I’m desperately trying to run. My mind is screaming for me to go, but my legs aren’t mine. You know that feeling when you’re dreaming and you simply cannot move? Well, my feet refuse to move, to lift, to take a step. The ground is thick, sucking me downwards, like quicksand. I surge forward, but remain stuck, like I’m wading in wet cement. I scream. Scream to go, to run, to move, move, move because they are coming. Terror takes over as three hooded figures catch me. The ground becomes solid again as they forcefully push me to my knees, my skin splitting open upon impact. One of the figures zip-ties my hands behind my back, before aggressively hurling me up and walking me back the way I came.

The scene shifts for the last time.

I’m still in the field, but this time I’m suspended above the ground, strung up on a large, wooden cross. My arms are stretched wide, like some sort of fucked-up human sacrifice, offered to a god that spits in my face.

The zip ties have been replaced with ropes that cut into my wrists, slicing and shredding through skin. If I sink my weight down, I’ll dislocate my shoulders, so I remain tense, muscles straining to hold my body weight up. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s completely blinding. My body didn’t feel like my own. I didn’t even realize I was sobbing until it was demanded of me to stop.

A cloaked man removes their hood. A younger Agent O circles me.

“Stop the tears, embrace the pain,” O commands. “You brought this on yourself.”

I remain tied to the crucifix for so long that day becomes night. My skin blisters from sunburn. Dehydration and sleep deprivation take over, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. It’s a cruel lesson, a way to remind me that I’m theirs. They own me.

And if I try to run? They’ll find me. And punish me.

I hear a muffled voice above me.

I feel pressure on my shoulder.

The nightmare fractures, but I’m not awake yet. I slip in and out of reality now. Am I stuck in this horrific memory of mine? Destined to relive this nightmare for eternity?

There’s that voice again, that pressure.

Wait. I’m in my bedroom.

Somebody is on me.

My assassin instincts take over as I snap back into reality.

Reaching under my body, my fingers close around the blade I keep hidden underneath my pillow, and I move. One swift hinge of my body upwards and I’m straddling the intruder, knife at his throat.

“What the fuck?!” a familiar voice snaps.

My eyes come into focus. Soren?

My chest heaves, my pulse still in nightmare mode. Plus, I’m still a bit drunk. “Soren?! What are you doing here?”

“You’re fucking crazy!”

“What the fuck are you doing in here, Soren?!”

“Trying to wake you up.”

“Why?”

“You were yelling! I came in here to check on you.”

“Why?”