Carlton ✔

37| The Raving Monster

Dedicated to: Patricianduku

"I was born with an insatiable appetite for destruction."
~ promptuarium.wordpress.com

Carlton's POV

The cigarette smoke wafted into the air, making monstrous patterns. That was the problem, all I saw was monsters these days. They were everywhere.

I saw my reflection, through the smoke, in the bathroom mirror, discarding the blazer lathered in my friend's blood. Tugging on the edges of my shirt, I un-tucked it, staring briefly and the bullet graze wound on my lower abdomen.

Much worse was going to happen to me today. I might even die.

I let my head hang back, eyes closing as I exhaled smoke. It had been a good journey, long and strenuous. I'd always known that this was exactly how I'd die. I would fuck up big time, have some people going for my head, and I'd die fighting them. That was as heroic as it got for me.

And maybe this was it.

Tweaking my shirt sleeves halfway up my arm, I picked up my favourite pistol from the basin, examining its intricately customised designs.

Putting out the cigarette on the sink, I held my pistol in my hand, preparing myself for what was about to come. My father had gifted me that gun. He would be so proud and disappointed at the same time if he saw me right now.

I inched closer to the door, straining my ears. I heard nothing. Kicking the door open, I pointed my gun to an empty corridor. On the right was the projector room where I had come from. So I went left.

Placing my feet as slowly, as silently as I could, I tiptoed towards a door, my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Thump-thump thump-thump. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my head. Everything felt extra sensitive. I even heard muffled buzz of machines from the projector room.

When I was close to the door, I finally heard voices coming right towards me.

Get yourself together.

I reminded myself all memories of training with my father's friend, Jovan. My muscles flexed, a long forgotten ardour making them feel lively again.

And my heart screamed at the men. Come at me. Let me see which one of you bastards did that to Dylan.

A man walked right through the door, busy talking to someone else. I took my aim and shot him on his chest, giving him a chance of survival, trying not to increase the head count.

The guy behind him fell pale, pulling up his gun at me. I was quick to kick it out of his arm, punching him square across his face. I yelled, wrapping my arms and pushing him back till he hit the wall.

I shot him in the stomach and he slumped down to the ground, leaving a messy streak of fresh blood on the wall.

My eyes snapped wide when I felt a presence behind me.

Fuck. I barely dodged a long metal rod that came plummeting down from behind. I gripped the metallic object, turned and kicked the man on his knee. He tripped backwards, giving me time to crouch and sweep my leg below him, causing him fall backwards.

I was panting now, endeavouring to grip the gun as I shot him on his back. My throat felt scorched dry. I needed something to drink, to feel alive. Preferably whiskey.

The vibrations of shoes banging on the carpeted floor as well as distant yelling, resonated around me. More men. And they were definitly more than three.