And there it was.
The gun.
My savior.
I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t see straight. I wanted him off of me. I wanted to survive.
Jamming the revolver in his stomach, I pulled the trigger.
Blam!
The attacker fell limp on top of me.
I gasped for air and pushed him off with the last bit of strength I had.
The man lay on the ground, unmoving, blood streaming down his face.
I didn’t know what to do.
Was he dead?
Was he dying?
Should I call for help?
Did I win?
Why weren’t there people around to help me?
I needed help.
I . . . had to get home. I had to get away from him and the alley, his looming master behind us.
I threw the gun back in my bag and tried to slow my breathing. The short, quick, panicked breaths were making me dizzy. Scrambling to my feet, I stared down at his unmoving body.
I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I was too scared to check. I didn’t think I’d make it through another attack. From where I stood though, his chest was still. Not even a twitch.
Not even a twitch.
He was dead.
He was dead.
He was dead.
One more time I searched for witnesses, but found none in sight. With one last glance at the attacker, I stared at the alley.
It was silent, not a single sound, the blackness impenetrable.
Was it trying to create another fighter? Another warrior to kill me?
I couldn’t wait to see.
I ran.
Ran as fast as my legs would let me, the gun slapping against my side through my backpack.
I’d shot someone.
I’d killed someone.
I . . .
My mind jumbled into pieces.
I needed Grams.
Racing home, I swung the door open to our building, took the steps two at a time and finally let myself into our apartment. Bursting through the door, I was about to yell for Grandma when I saw her and Buster watching TV on the sofa, his arm wrapped sweetly around her shoulders.
The scene of such normalcy frazzled my brain. I wasn’t sure how to react or feel.
Grandma turned to me and smiled, happier than I’d ever seen her, eyes twinkling with contentment. “Hi, sweetie. So? Did you have your conversation?”
Conversation?
I just killed a man.
I shot him.
I couldn’t comprehend what she was asking me.
Grandma leaned her head to the side in concern, the expression on my face obviously alarming her. “Is everything okay?”
I couldn’t ruin this for her. I couldn’t take away her joy with my terror. Placing the backpack in front of me to cover my shirt and any signs I had been in a struggle, I forced a smile. “Fine. I’m totally fine.” Then I acknowledged Buster with a small wave of my hand. “Hey, Buster.”
Buster’s eyes twinkled in the exact same way as Grandma’s. They were in love, and they had just met. I could see it. I wouldn’t let my horridness as a human being take any piece of bliss away from them.
Buster replied, “Howdy, Jeraline.”
Blam!
The gun went off in my backpack, and a bullet hit Buster in the head.
I jumped.
Buster was fine, the gun safely tucked away.
I was losing it.
“Jeraline?” Grandma asked, her face crinkled with worry.
Trying my best to hide the turmoil within, I smiled with as much gumption as I could manage. “I’m going to bed. You guys have a good night.”
Too afraid Grandma would see right through me and figure out what I had done, I didn’t wait for a response. I hurried to my room and shut the door behind me.
Why did she give me this stupid gun?
But if she hadn’t, would I still be alive right now? Did I save others by killing a man?
Bile reached the back of my throat.
No. I can’t throw up. I won’t throw up.
Swallowing it down, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened my backpack, pulling out the revolver. My hands shook heavily, but I managed to put it back in the box and stuff it under my bed.
I barely had room to move in this space with the cutting table still out, so I crawled under the covers fully clothed. I didn’t want to take off my clothes ever, as if it were armor protecting me. It was a strange thought, but a strong one, and I listened.
Police sirens grew louder and closer to my apartment.
They’d found me, and they were coming to arrest me.
Pulling the blankets over my head, I hid under the covers as if this would be enough to keep me hidden from the cops. The sirens faded in the distance, and I took a deep breath to try to regain some kind of composure.
There came the bile again. Swallowing it down once more, I poked my hand out from the blankets, still not ready to come up for air, and grabbed the picture of Josh off the end table, bringing it under the covers with me.
I didn’t know why, but it gave me comfort.
I held on tight as I continued to breathe deep.
What was I going to do?
What was I going to do?
What was I going to do?
Breathe.
Stop shaking!
Breathe.
My life was over.
It was done.
The police sirens were back. I peeked out of my covers to see flashes of red and blue light up my room in an eerie strobe effect. I ripped off my covers with my free hand, my other hand still holding the picture of Josh. Outside my window was an ocean of police cars.
A pounding on my door.
“Jeraline, the police are here to see you.” Grandma’s voice sounded worried and scared through the door.
I turned from the window, rooted in terror.
“Jeraline?” Grandma called my name again.
Without thinking, I quickly locked the door and hid under my blankets again.
The door handle rattled as Grandma tried to enter. “Jeraline, open this door right now. This is serious.”
Grandma had no idea how serious. She was going to be so disappointed in me. How could she not? I was a murderer.
A loud thump from the door being kicked in followed by the footsteps of people piling into my bedroom. My blankets were yanked from
