SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 33.5

Since almost everyone has been asking me for what shay looks like bald since she cut her hair, I've decided to include a pic (above) I know I'm not the best artist in the world but I tried fam

This chapter is dedicated to @Swadisky because sometimes you gotta appreciate yourself.

SO COLD

The pistol flew out of his hand, clattering on the ground. He grunted in pain, left hand clutching his right shoulder where the bullet hit. Blood spilled out from the wound, a heavy flow. The gunman fired again, and the devil's luck wasn't on his side; the force of the shot threw him forward. Wounded, like a battered dog, he managed to drag himself around the corner with the help of me before the gunman could fire the finishing shot.

Glass tinkled as the gunman swept it from the window edge: pushing himself out of the window.

Rain muddled on the ground, watery scarlet muck. Dad was bleeding from his shoulder and calf and judging from the crunch of the glass under the gunman's shoe, he was intent on killing – both of us.

"What do we do, Dad? He's coming!" I was terrified, shaking like a leaf. Mind a mess. Harsh breathing. Yelling.

Thunder boomed, a call for death.

Dad could hardly move, sprawled on the ground, heaving to push himself, now: his back to the wall. He was bleeding too much, it didn't look good. "Gun," he gasped, "pass me the gun, Shay!"

I stared at him.

"SHAY! THE GUN – NOW!"

Cowardliness was alluring, a powerful fragrance. I couldn't shake the smell. It overpowered me – almost. With the promise of safety came the impending shame. Guilt sowed deep into my bones. I would have to look at Seth in the eye and lie. I did everything I could do. I'm sorry.

I couldn't lie to myself, however: the handcuffs shackling me to my father rattled vigorously, frantic to break free before the night was over. An impatient bid to freedom.

Shrill chirps from a songbird that rustled its wings, excited to take off, deafened me. The sound was a promise to soar the sky and feel the cold breeze and explore a brand new world. A family of my own. Friends I trust. Love under a hot summer's day. Days at the beach, sand in sandwiches. Holidays in Thailand. Broken tents. Heartbreak. New jobs. Growing old.

Monstrous bellyaches of the sky shook the ground, as if the universe was furious that I dared imagine anything other than what was set into stone. A vicious kick back into reality: therapy. Cold nights. Malicious thoughts. Loneliness. Decadent daydreams of suicide.

The songbird was quiet.

"Please..." he implored, a shell of the man he was an hour ago, gaze glazed in desperation, shiny eyes. Was he crying? The sight was mesmerizing. A morbid outlook considering the dire situation we were trapped in. I'd never seen him cry before though. For the very first time, he relied on me. He was begging me. Power was in my favour.

The helplessness was a pull, I was drunk on his weakness. The frailty of his body rendered him useless and I fucking loved it. Fear thrummed in my chest. While I could appreciate his ineptness, I was terrified.

The pistol was slick, light. I gripped it tightly, and for a panicked handful of milliseconds, my hand spasm, and then froze painfully. The muscles in my fingers were paralysed as the snake mask came into my line of sight. The body of the gunman was clothed in black. That wasn't what held my attention: the soulless black eyes that locked onto mine.