Emperor of Mayhem

06

// T H E P S Y C H O I N S T I N C T \\

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Mr Varkov was a psychopath. A full-fledged mentally deranged sadist that needed a medical checkup before he would go rogue and start killing everything that breathed simply because his captive escaped or perhaps, someone stole his wallet.

I still couldn't wrap my head around what would propel a man with a heartbeat and a soul to take down innocent people just because the girl he was holding captive went against her promise and ran off.

And I couldn't get it out of my head too, the image of bodies covered in blood, sprawled on the floor. Some laid with half of their bodies inside and the remaining half outside the door. And some looked like they tried to make a run for it when he probably pulled out a gun but ended up collapsing just beside their bed when the bullet pierced them. Then others looked to have actually stepped out to attend to him and ended up being shot as they laid directly in front of the room, lifeless and drowning in their pool of blood. Some even had towels wrapped around them.

If not for the fact that his grip around my wrist was tight, I would have collapsed to the floor too even without being shot because honestly, my knees were giving up on me, my heart was beating itself to weariness, and my entire body was trembling in fear.

When the elevator door pulled apart, there were four men in security suits already waiting to exit, and my heart stopped when they quickly pointed their guns at Mr Varkov.

"We suggest you don't move an inch, Mr." One of them threatened.

"Sorry, mate. But I work with time." I heard Mr Varkov say and in a flash, he had me pressed against his hard chest, his arm holding me in place as he forced my head to rest on him. I didn't even have the time to ask what he was doing before the sound of gunshots echoed in my ear, a muffled scream escaping my lips while I clutched onto him as though he was my saving grace. And just like that, the whole space began to reek of fresh blood.

After a couple of minutes, the dinging of the elevator arriving at the ground floor pierced through my quiet sobs, my face still pressed against his chest as we made an exit.

And before I could even say Jack, Mr Varkov was shooting again while we were still on motion. The travelling sound of bullets leaving the gun made me squirm against him.

There were people screaming out many things, perhaps lamentations or a war cry in Russian, staccatos of footsteps vibrating against the floor as bystanders ran helter skelter to safety. And his hold around my waist only tightened the more I shivered and screamed.

I didn't even have the time to think about how him holding me like this was inappropriate and comprising as I even gripped him tighter, unholy thoughts having no room to incubate in my head.

I had always imagined what it would be like to be in an action movie. You know, jumping buildings, engaging in a cat and rat chase with the enemy, and bullets flying across the air. I used to think how cool that would be especially if I was the heroine donning all those long black coats, with shoulder length black hair and a killer cat eyes that would send the bad guys up the hill.

But movies didn't help in educating me of how dangerous it actually was to experience such in real life. If they had made it a little bit more realistic, I wouldn't have been imagining it and perhaps, heaven wouldn't have thought this was my greatest desire and served it to me like this on a platter of gold.

Being in a shooting scene was horrible. It was reckless. Your life would start to flash through your very eyes, your poor heart ready to disengage from its hinges, and the thought of death would come to hang over your thoughts like a hail cloud.