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We hunt through the battleground, the smoke slowly clearing to make way to the most heinous sight. Men lay in distorted shapes, unrecognizable. I swallow down my vomit and continue stepping over them like they are nothing but trash. The snow will forever be tarnished a blood red.
Pavel is close by, his guns trained on anything that moves.
A bloodied man comes charging at us, gun raised, but Pavel shoots him without remorse. He flops to the ground, twitching as the life drains from him.
This ghastly scene is my doing. I created this hell on earth. By coming here, I seemed to have made things so much worse. I wanted Saint to get his revenge, but did I do the wrong thing? Have I sentenced us all to death?
“You knew Ingrid was going to blow herself up, didn’t you?” I question Pavel, needing to ensure my thinking is right.
“Yes,” he replies with a sharp nod. He clucks his tongue when he sees my regret. “There are causalities in war.”
I close my eyes, sickened.
He grips my arm, coaxing me to move. I can mourn the lives lost after this is over with.
We continue our search, and each body I step over isn’t someone I know. I’m a sinner when I feel nothing but relief for that fact. Pavel fights off men who are out for revenge, and so do I, but when I hear a loud bang and feel a searing pain in my thigh, it’s evident I won’t be fighting for much longer.
I drop to the snow, clutching my leg as hot, sticky blood coats my fingers. I’ve been shot.
“Willow!” Pavel shouts, attempting to run to my aid, but he’s suddenly swarmed by five angry men. They latch onto him like lions, stalking their next meal.
I watch from the ground as he tries to fight them off, but when one swings a baton and connects with Pavel’s temple, he’s out cold.
“No!” I shout, attempting to crawl to him, but the pain in my leg is unbearable. The men turn their attention to me, their lips twisting into menacing grins.
As they run for me, I desperately drag my body along the snow, ignoring the excruciating agony ricocheting throughout my body. They holler in excitement, the hunter finding their prey. I’ve barely moved three feet, but I continue pulling myself along, refusing to surrender.
When it’s evident I won’t outrun them, I stop, and half sitting, I aim my gun and fire. One of the bullets lodges in the shoulder of a man, but it only seems to anger him further. He continues running at me, fueled by pain and anger.
When the chamber of my gun clicks empty, I throw it at them with a roar. It’s too late, though, because they’re feet away. Instead of fleeing, I sit upright and face my attackers. I refuse to cower.
One of them launches for me, and I brace to be tackled to my death, but a flash comes out of nowhere and takes the man down. My brain can’t comprehend what is going on because the men suddenly dig in their heels, flecks of snow kicking up in protest.
I’m about to sag in relief, but when I see who my rescuer is, I wish they’d killed me.
I don’t have time to fight because Oscar is on top of me, his arm pressed over my windpipe as he chokes me. Regardless of the pain, I kick out my legs and claw at his forearm. But the harder I fight, the harder he presses.
My head sinks into the soft snow, forcing Oscar to press down more firmly.
I gasp for air, smacking his arm and twisting with all my might, but his wide, animated eyes reveal he isn’t letting me get away this time. The pressure behind my eyeballs threatens to pop them from my head.
“Die, you bitch!” he screams, spittle coating my face.
The pain in my leg is suddenly nothing compared to being suffocated to death. I can’t breathe, and my grip on this plane is wavering. In and out, I float, unsure where reality and fiction meet.
I begin to envision a different life, one where I’m not surrounded by death and gore. I’m back in LA in the constant sunshine and not a hint of snow can be found. I am modeling the newest trend, strutting my shit without a care in the world.
Yes, that life was mine, and I want it back. I want to forget the past few months and go back to living a normal, boring life. A voice screams at me that that existence was only half lived, but I don’t care. It would mean I didn’t jeopardize the lives of so many others. It would mean I didn’t have blood on my hands.
That truth is the reason I stop fighting and finally surrender. I lost. My eyes flicker as I embrace the darkness for good. It’s quiet here, and I don’t feel any pain. I can heal.
But I should know by now that hell is empty, and all the sinners are here.
A swirling of color followed by an influx of air assaults my senses, and I spring up, coughing desperately as I inhale sharply. It’s too much, too fast, but I don’t care. My oxygen-starved lungs sing in rejoice. Rubbing over my throat, I peer around me, and when I see the reason I’m not dead, a sob slips free.
A wild Saint has Oscar pinned to the ground, his knees either side of him, holdinghimprisoner this time. He pummels his face while Oscar’s in a frenzy trying to defend himself. But Saint only hits him harder. Watching this scene unfold is like being stuck in a dream because I have only imagined what this moment would look like. But actually seeing it is unlike anything I could have dreamed.
The brutality I bear witness to has a warmth spreading over me, and it has nothing to do with the gaping gunshot wound to my leg. I am internally cheering Saint on as one would at a football match because I want our team to win, and the only win I will accept is when Oscar lays dead, dead by Saint’s hand.
