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Three wasn’t enough. I’m going to have to teach this motherfucker a lesson with my bare hands.
The man I’ve just shot barely even realizes he’s been hit. He reaches down for that poor woman’s throat, and she screams in primal horror.
But that scream is for fear of her own demise. I’ve heard it before, the kind that burns a mother’s throat when she sees her son shot dead in the street. It’s familiar to me, from where I grew up, but this time it’s different.
This time, I’m the one who fired the gun.
I run straight toward the couple on the sidewalk, tackling the man off his distraught target and into the grass. His face is growing pale and ashen in real-time, and I realize that I’ll have this man’s blood on my hands now in the most literal sense. He’s bleeding heavily, but he refuses to let go quite yet.
“Fuck you, you fucking shot me!” he shouts, trying to retain whatever control he can by proclaiming me to be the aggressor. “You shot me, motherfucker!”
He’s clearly on something, likely some kind of stimulant, as he continues to fight back despite the rivers of blood flowing from his chest. I’ve hit him in the left lung, causing blood to bubble up from his throat and out of his mouth. His strength may be diminishing, but his urge to fight me and kill me is searing through the dying light in his vision.
I begin beating him in a blind rage, punching him in the face as foamy blood pours. He tries to reach up and choke me in vain, choking to death as he aspirates. The anger in his eyes is unaffected by the blood loss, leading me to believe for a split second that this man is possessed by something evil.
He fights for a shockingly long time, which is something I hadn’t anticipated based on his size. Whatever he’s on right now, it must be some quality shit. I’ve only ever seen anything like this in users who found cheap research chemicals on the internet, bashing their skulls into brick walls to get the demons away from them. Even with all of the experience I’ve had dealing with drug users, this kind of behavior never ceases to unnerve me deep into my core.
I stay on top of him for a moment, watching the last remnants of life drain from his face as he gives up completely. The woman he’d been attacking is sitting up in the same place I found her, completely silent from shock and horror at the sight.
She should thank me, but I know she won’t.
When the man releases his final breath, I pick him up and drag him over to the back door of the apartment that I’d seen them both emerge from. I can’t even be sure that this is where they live, but I can’t risk keeping him on the lawn and attracting more attention.
The woman stays in place, possibly even more terrified of me than she is of the man I just killed. That wouldn’t be unlikely – for someone with enough arrogance to try and kill someone, he’s much smaller than me. Likely only five-foot-ten, weighing no more than one hundred and seventy pounds. No muscle tone to be seen. He’s a typical junkie in appearance, and I don’t doubt that the dark circles under his eyes were there long before I beat him.
The woman watches me disappear into the apartment with him and doesn’t bother to follow me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got up and ran to the police station or even just to a corner store for help. I need to act quickly, but I had no intention of hiding a body today. I don’t have the resources, the manpower, or the cover of nightfall to even think about making that happen. All I can do is leave him and get the fuck away from this place.
When I glance around the apartment, I get flashbacks of the houses I lived in before I left Russia. Every square inch of the place is dirty with a film of yellow staining the walls from smoking inside. There’s little to no natural light, and the furniture is arranged in an erratic and incoherent manner.
I leave the body on the living room floor, taking a moment or two to glance around the space that these two allegedly share together. There’s a loaded syringe of something on the coffee table, most likely heroin from the orange-brown color.
There are around ten beer cans on the table as well, right next to a ten-inch knife and a pack of smokes. This guy really wanted someone to believe he was dangerous. Maybe it was just his girlfriend.
Whatever, I can’t linger here.
I cautiously walk back out to the lawn, and the woman is still sitting up in the grass. She’s breathing heavily, and I imagine she’s coming down from quite an adrenaline spike. She’s shaking like crazy, but she doesn’t run away when I approach her, even though I can see in her eyes that she wants to. Her face is deathly pale, and I’m certain that she either believes she’s dead or wishes she was.
She’s completely stunned.
“You need to come with me. We’re getting out of here,” I say flatly as I approach her.
She shakes her head violently, reaching her hands out to block me from helping her up.
“Listen, we’re both going to fucking prison if we don’t leave right now. My car is over there, and you’re coming with me whether you want to or not,” I continue, quickly growing irritated with her lack of cooperation.
Trying to reason with her is how I imagine it would feel to take a machine gun from a child. I can be as nice as I want to, but ultimately I need to do what needs to be done, whether she likes it or not.
Even though she obviously knows nothing about the risk of prison and likely can’t even picture herself being there, she’s doing everything she can to end up there. Being the girlfriend of a man who is abusive puts her at the top of the list of suspects, and I can’t imagine there isn’t a single person in this apartment complex who didn’t see me shoot him. We’re both on the hook, and she’s keeping us from any semblance of freedom we might still have.
“Get the fuck up, now,” I growl, shoving her arms out of the way and picking her up. She yelps, falling back to the ground and crossing her arms over her ribs. He must have gotten her pretty badly, and I don’t want to do any further damage.
When she refuses to get up again, I have to make the decision to pick her up and carry her to my car parked on the other side of the road. She attempts weakly to fight back, scratching me with short nails and kicking me once before I secure her arms and legs.
“You’re just going to make this harder for yourself. I’m trying to offer you an out. Calm the fuck down,” I say as I place her into the back seat of my car.
She starts to scream, kicking and punching me as she desperately attempts to unlock the opposite door to escape. As soon as she opens it, I grab her by her legs and drag her back over to me, securing her wrists to the back of the headrest with a pair of handcuffs that I had in the back seat from the last kidnapping.
I hate to call it that, but to her and probably everyone else in the world, that’s what this is.
