MILO

2. Flashes of Color

I like to think that I've lived a hundred lives.

I've been a young waitress in France with the goal of bringing joy to people's lives. I've been an heiress chased by a reporter through the vibrant streets of Rome. I've been a cancer-stricken father struggling to raise his children while dealing with an alcoholic spouse.

But now I don't think watching foreign films, days on end counts as living.

The reality of my life can be summed up into one word: mundane.

I've done nothing. I've seen nothing. Not in real life. Not in the flesh.

Not really.

They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you die. I see nothing.

A blank canvas that has yet to be painted. A starless night. A black vortex.

A void.

"Are you going to kill me?" I whisper as Mr. Smith guides me down the scarcely lit sidewalk, the sharp November air prickling at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

A couple passes us on the street, neither of them paying attention to me, neither of them noticing the terror on my face. So oblivious. So fucking useless.

Do I scream? Do I yell for help?

The bank had cameras. He didn't care. He'll shoot me. On the spot. And then he'd shoot whoever would try to help me. I know he would. I don't know how I know that. But I do.

"Keep walking," he commands, pressing the pistol harder into my back as he pulls out his cellphone and types a message, the brief clicking of the keyboard indicates that it's a short text. I would think you would need more than three words to explain this situation to someone.

"Who are you?" I ask with a shaky breath, my eyes dry, surprisingly no tears. Mr. Smith ignores me. "Just let me go. I won't say anything, I promise."

"You are walking too fast. You need to relax and slow down," he notes in a gruff tone. "We do not need to draw unwanted attention."

Is he being serious right now? We? That's exactly what I want to do. Bring on the attention. All the attention. If I had a horn, I'd blow it.

Or...

Or maybe I wouldn't.

Everyone knows about fight or flight, a person's instinctive response to stress or trauma. But there's also freeze. And fawn.

I think I'm freezing.

But I refuse to fawn.

"It's kind of hard to relax when you have a gun pointed at my L2 vertebrae," I murmur mindlessly as we turn into a dark alley.

Fuck. I've seen enough movies to know that an alley means death.

"Turn around," he states in a soft tone and I close my eyes, turning towards him, my breathing ragged, uneven.

This is so fucking stupid. I did that motherfucker a favor. I helped him! And now he's going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.

How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair.

Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer towards frustration, anger.

"I saved your goddamn life," I say, clenching my fists as I stare into the barrel of his gun. "Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?"