*** NEW AND IMPROVED ***
With her father missing, Shay will do anything to get him back, even if that means teaming up with a cruel gang leader and his band of psychotic men.
CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN.
***WARNING*** OFFENSIVE CON...
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SO COLD
Thrown in a flashback, I recalled the blinding white-hot pain of the gunshot in my chest. It had been excruciating and unbearable. I thought for sure I was going to die. There was no mistaking it today: death had arrived in an ostentatious carriage, in the finest black cloak, ready to take what was rightfully his. It was all I could think of: the suddenness and proximity of death and the intruder's slow and steady breathing. I almost flinched as he raised a gloved hand, believing there to be a gun raised at me. His hands were empty. He waved a goodbye, a toodles, see you later! The action was derisory and I could almost imagined his wicked laughter. Befuddled, I wondered what the hell was going through his mind and what was going on. Was this a trick? Was it someone I knew? I took a step forward and the intruder slipped down the stairs. He vanished in the blink of an eye.
I shot forward and came to a sudden, mystified stop at the top of the stairs. The front door closed quietly with the softest of clicks. There was a dull white envelope at the bottom of the stairs, on the hallway table by the vase of parched blue hydrangeas. I wondered whether or not to get Irvin or to take a detour to my bedroom to grab my semiautomatic. The latter seemed to be the brightest idea: and I headed downstairs with the gun clenched tightly in my hand, the safety pulled off. The voices from earlier had quietened down to a stifling and worrying silence. I didn't know who else was in the house. I could hear someone moving about in the kitchen and paused in the hallway to glance at the envelope, deciding to go back to it later. Wary and with slow steps, I edged across the cold living room floorboards and to the kitchen. The door was ajar. I lowered the gun in disbelief. Irvin was shirtless, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the jars opened in front of him on the breakfast table. "What the hell are you doing?" I demanded.
Blearily, he glanced up at me in confusion, jaw moving vigorously to swallow his large mouthful. "I'm eating,"
"Eating!?" I kept my voice low. "Did you not hear someone breaking in? Wait. Who the hell is on your bed if you're here!?" I was ready to take the right exit out of life. This was like a horror movie. If there was a second Irvin upstairs, I was going to aim the gun at myself and fire. I hated creepy beings and happenings. I'd rather deal with my father than something out of a Stephan King novel.
He frowned deeply. "What are you talking about?" He pushed back his chair and stood up, raising a hand to his forehead. "I feel like I'm going to faint. Catch me if I fall."
"This isn't the time for jokes," I barked, hot-tempered and irritated. "Stay here. I'm going to check the rest of the rooms. If you hear something, scream like your life depends on it and defend yourself with a knife."
"Wait. You're being serious?" the colour drained from his face. "Have you called 9-9-9? Heck. Have you called Cole yet? I need to grab my shotgun. I'm not prepared to die today. Let's hunt these sons of bitches."
"Calm down, Dean Winchester," I placed a hand on his shoulder to still his movements. "Stay behind me. I have a silencer. We're not going to wake the neighbours or call the cops. Check the locks on the windows and the door. I'll meet you out in the hallway."
