Prologue
Holding the semi-automatic Glock 23 to his chest, I glared at the floor. Biting my lip, I recited the words of hate I had come to know as law, as the cool, pearl metal had begun to warm against the palm of my sweat-slicked skin. My heart raced, pounding pure unadulterated energy through my body, white-hot fury that refused to lessen.
My gaze skirted around the room; the granite stairs that led to the basement, splattered with the blood that seeped from his open wounds, the barred windows that made this place feel even more like a prison cell. The bulb, that hung self-consciously in the distance, buzzing as it flickered, the light ready to go out. See, if I really wanted to make a mess, I could smash his head against those stairs, I’m sure the person who examined him in the post mortem would just love that, might even take some time to look at my life’s work, I mused to myself.
This hesitation, this feeling, so… not what I was used to. I had trained for this, thought about this moment for almost a whole year. Plotted out all sorts of outcomes, how to end his life in the most painful way possible. I wanted to see every line in his skin, be carved in deep as blood left each crevice, I wanted to cherish every shape his face contorted into, and I wanted to see my hands awash with his blood. So why the hell, standing in this crepuscular basement, a gun to his chest, hatred coursing through my body, couldn’t I shoot him?
It had taken me, what had felt like a lifetime, to get here. I had to scrape myself up from the bottom of the barrel and work my way up. I was pushed around by those of a higher rank, belittled, threatened and tormented. I’d lost my friends and loved ones along the way, and questionably, even my sanity and sense of what was right and wrong. But it would be worth it. Every time I had picked up that gun with nothing but disgust as I shot at targets, would be made worth it. Every time, I watched a person die, knowing that it was my fault. It would be worth it. All of it would be worth it, to know that my reason for all of it was achieved. That, contrary to what my bastard of a father would have me believe, I will have accomplished something – though I am certain, not in the way he would have liked. He would die by my hands.
I brought my face closer to his, feeling his hot, shallow, erratic breath wash over it. I glared, even though the shadows obscured both of our views. Keeping the gun in contact with his body, I leafed it up his clothes, feeling his once crystal white shirt, which had now been splattered with his own blood – quite artistically, might I add – bunch up as they caused friction. Pausing at his neck I whispered softly, “You know what you are?” I smiled sadistically, “What you really are?” I felt his Adam’s apple, bob up and down as he swallowed hard. I let out an amused breath, “You, daddy, are a dead man.” I laughed softly as I traced the tip of the gun up his neck, jaw line and then let it rest on his temple as I made tentative circles.
You're a dead man...
