Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)

Chapter Thirty Seven

Tsumibito's P.O.V

It is night time, minutes past nine. I stand atop the roof of a building whilst assembling parts of a sniper before resting the weaponry upon its stand. The breeze of nightfall caresses gently, reminds me faithfully of her touch, of her skin -softer than the finest of silks and velvets. I haven't seen her in forty eight hours now. Two days. Fuck me.

How is it that a single human can punish my mind so? How is it that she manages to so effortlessly hold me captive in this manner? I blink to discard the thoughts that plunge, blink to dissolve the memories of she, drawing back to reality, instead.

Taking hold of the pair of binoculars, I glance upon my target as he sits himself inside the restaurant in the company of his companion, glower upon the demented demon right from hell's darkest pits -my father.

In the wee hours of morning, word came to me that he'd begun his assaults on my sister, that he'd whipped her till the red poured and pooled all about her as she knelt before him, that this had been -in fact- the forth time he'd done this. The revelation sent a plethora of traumatizing thoughts and agonizing memories swirling.

She is but a child, far younger than I was when he'd punished me as a sanction for my iniquities.

I gave the man a benefit of the doubt, thought to myself that perhaps fate led him in this path so that he should prove himself worthy, prove himself to be a better caregiver. But how does a wrong right a wrong? The bile burns a trail up my oesophagus, the lump robs the air from my lungs, a force unseen constricts my chest. It all ends here, now.

I look upon the man as he throws head back in pearls of maniacal cackles, slamming his somewhat good palm into glass table. Yes, the mere presence of him causes the anger to spew into my venations, it sets my blood aflame. I move back to where the snipper sits, take aim via the magnifying lense, rest the tip of index by the trigger.

The memories come to me in waves that threaten to knock me off my feet. The muzzle of gun he'd press to my forehead -right between my frightened eyes. The whips that would tear and rip the flesh from my back side and calves. The nights I'd spend in the fields in the lonely, nude and vulnerable under the glaring moonlight.

The iron rod he'd use to scald the skin of the soles of my feet, the blows that would numb my nerves, the death of my mother he coerced me into executing and witnessing raw. Yes, the world is a vile place to be in, it is where the actual hell sits, where the actual demons run and inflict torment upon the souls of men. No more.

And just like that, I pull the trigger without further contemplation, without rue, remorse, sympathy. Bullet pierces right through glass window, pierces right through man's skull -between those joyous and non-suspecting eyes. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth, they'd said. His body leans into his seat with abruptness. The scarlet weeps and dribbles down the flesh of his face, coats the front of his Armani suit. It is finished.

I take a minute to register my actions. It's as though the trance liberates me and I blink. Pain? Do I feel it? Should I feel it? No, not an ounce or an iota of it. He deserves a far worse execution. Those around or nearer to him begin to jolt and dart for the exits, screaming for mercy, praying for their lives to whichever deities, cussing strings upon strings of profanities also.

But the woman who sits with the man's body -my ex-fiance- stares blankly upon the sight that unfolds as if dazed. Gradually, she drags her seat back, rises on her feet, pushes it back and calmly proceeds for the doors. I breathe in the liberty, exhale the pungent poison. Oh, but in truth, is this the kiss of freedom? Should it feel this way? Paralyzing?

Then, I work to disassemble parts of weaponry, packing each back into the suitcase that awaits gladly. One rain droplet trickles and rolls down my scalp. Another one hits, then another and another until the showers completely drench my suit. Fucking cliche. I grab hold of the case, proceed away from the scene as the sirens wail from a great distance...