Five gunshots rang sharply through the air, the first of which tore my open my eyes from what I now consider “peaceful slumber.” I looked down to see my pink and purple skin. My eyes fixing on the marks left prominently from the previous night when he got angry that I threw out a bottle that hadn't had every last drop of alcohol sipped out. The bottle now in millions of pieces along with all the others he just used as target practice, which happened to awaken my slumber. It scares me to think about what he is practicing for.
Gazing upon my bruised body and my aching bones I remembered what it was like outside when it was still safe. I remember he was just a neighbor, somebody who I had always seen around and not thought anything of. I remember the screams of my family and the last words my little brother would ever say as the hands came over his mouth and the flames and smoke distorted my vision. He screamed “Run, and don’t let them take you.” Those words echoing inside my brain were the last thing I remember before I woke up in this very bed two years ago.
Sometimes I think I hear the sounds of a car rolling over our heads, or a bird chirping but he tells me that we are the only thing breathing for miles out here. I wonder what it's like outside, is it really like what he tells me it's like. Is everyone and everything really gone? Are we really the only survivors untouched by the poisonous air or the people who took my family? What if it's safe to step outside?
I heard the sound of heavy boots clunking down the stairs and smelled the smoke radiating from his tattered clothes. I clenched my eyes shut and quickly tucked my head under a blanket trying to slow down my breath in hopes that maybe this time he would just walk away. Something about the way I was pretending to sleep told him I wasn't. I thought maybe he could see my heart racing a mile a minute, or maybe he had learned from all the nights he watched me when he forced me to wake up next to him.
He slammed a glass bottle against the concrete wall right next to the doorway where he had been standing. I jumped and my eyes shot open as immediately faced him with my hands shaking. I guess he was shocked that the crash was so powerful, because his hands immediately shot down to his waist to make sure that his gun was still with him. I could see the relief on his face knowing it was still glued to his skin secured under a layer of denim. I realised I hadn't blinked, watching his every move. He looked at me and saw me looking back into his faded eyes. He stepped closer and the scent of smoke and alcohol grew even stronger.
He growled “What are you looking at girl?” in his rough southern accent.
I quickly looked elsewhere and whispered “n-n-nothing, i'm sorry sir.”
A cold cutting pain shot across my face from my cheeks deep and into my jaw. The imprint of his hand etched into my skin showing red swollen fingers. I grabbed my face and felt my throbbing skin. As I drew my hand away I pulled with it the sticky red substance that had been swiped on my cheek. I examined it and he saw me examining it too. He quickly wiped his hand on his jeans and sat down. I stared down at my blood covered palms. This blood was not mine, I had become too familiar with what my own blood looked like. This was not his either I had seen drops here and there of his own on the rare occasions I fought back, even though that's usually when I saw even more of my own. He stood up abruptly and said to me “Why don't you make yourself useful and go in the back and get a new roll of toilet paper, we just ran out.”
He turned around stumbling up the stairs and quickly opened the the door to the garbage shoot and stuffed something down it. I knew something was wrong, it's not like him to throw something out himself and not make me do it for him. I waited until I could hear the sound of another bottle cap popping off, He grunted and I wondered if he was coming close to the end of his supply. I heard his footprints leading to another room. I tiptoed up the stairs to the garbage shoot. I slowly cracked it open and reached in and felt around. I grabbed the only two things that didn't feel like broken glass. Resting in the palms of my hand was a sprung mousetrap covered with the same blood that crusted over my hands something wrapped in toilet paper, I unraveled it to see the foul smelling carcass of a rat decaying. I let out a squeal and dropped the two to my feet.
The next thing I knew I was staring right back into his bloodshot eyes once again. He reached under his belt and I lunged at him. As unstable as he is, he easily fell down the stairs. As he lay on the concrete grabbing his side I reached for his gun. By the time he got enough strength to stand up I was already aiming right at his head. He laughed at me. I angrily said “Shut up!” he continued laughing and I said “Shut up or i’ll shoot you in the head!” he looked me in the eyes with my shaking fingers on the trigger.
“You need me, I’m the only reason you're still alive.” he said.
“If that rat could survive outside than so can I! You lied to me!” I said.
“Shoot me and you'll just be killing yourself.” He said. Tears were streaming down my cheeks a million thoughts raced through my head. “What if there is hope and Without him i'll be free. What if I kill him and there's no hope and i'm all alone. What if they get me and I'll have nowhere to run. I'm so weak i'll have no hope.” I thought.
“I’m so done with this! I can't take it anymore!” I screamed through hysterical tears. I turned the gun against my own skull, with the barrel grazing the top of my ear. I clenched my eyes shut and waited to fade to nothingness, but the same laugh shot through the air. Anger filled my entire body and I quickly aimed the gun right at him. Everything was in slow motion.
He looked at me with fury and aggression in his eyes, his muscles tensed up and he jumped to his feet, coming at me. The barrel aimed right for his head I pulled the trigger. He then uddered the last words I would ever hear him say…
“Good thing I used the last bullet on the bottles!” His hand wrapped around my neck.