Patrick was folded out of the picture.
I didn’t understand at first. Why would he be in this photo with her family? When I looked up to ask she’d already turned away. I unfolded it and took in the picture as a whole. Patrick being there wasn’t a surprise and the family didn’t look like they were there as hostages. This wasn’t blackmail material or anything like that. If anything Patrick was the one that looked a little uncomfortable. It was a traditional family photo and he looked like he belonged in it. Then it hit me like a baseball bat to the side of the face.
Patrick had joined her family to keep Sarah in line and doing what she was told.
Everything suddenly made sense. Why she did what she did. It wasn’t for her own freedom or getting back to see her family and telling them she was alive. She was trying to protect her family from Patrick. It was a hard pill to swallow, but looking at all my brothers dead on the floor around me and knowing what I’d have been willing to do to keep them alive made me understand.
She never had any choice but to betray me.
Patrick had abandoned the search for an extinguisher and instead tried to figure out which button would automatically raise the rear trailer door and vent the smoke. The fire would still be a problem but it would at least allow him to think about the threat outside and more importantly- not suffocate.
I couldn’t see Sarah’s eyes as she crept up behind Patrick, her scarf twisted tight into a rope, but I didn't need to to know the icy calm that settled over her soul. Sarah waited until he was most distracted by the smoke and by finding the right switch to loop the scarf around his neck and squeeze with all her might.
Patrick flailed behind himself clipping her a few times with fists and fingertips but nothing that could stop Sarah. She was too small, too quick. Twisting the fabric harder, she dropped to the ground bringing all her weight down on Patrick’s throat. Patrick’s glasses flew off as he was forced to fall backwards to keep his neck from snapping. Even wounded, he was stronger than her, but with all her strength squeezing just against his throat he didn't stand a chance.
When a person is pushed as far as Sarah, it’s not the passion and rage of loss that makes that person dangerous, it’s the complete understanding that there’s nothing left to lose. Nothing holding you back anymore from stepping over a line you can’t come back from. Stone cold murder – justified or not – changes the way a person sees the world. When you become a hammer it’s hard not to see all your problems as nails to be bashed in.
I thought of Sarah’s drawing. Even trapped and hopeless she could take a world that no longer cared about or even noticed her and turn it into something truly beautiful on the white pages of her sketchbook.
Sarah screamed soundlessly on the floor finally getting revenge against the man who had taken everything from her. The naivete, artistic curiosity, and what was left of hope that there was any goodness in the world drained from her face as she squeezed harder and harder. Her fair features strained with exertion, turning ugly and hate-filled. I watched the tears stream down her cheeks as she became a killer.
“Stop!” I cried crawling over to her, but she wouldn’t listen. Damnit, Sarah, this isn’t you. It shouldn’t be!
“Please stop.” I touched the side of her face, begging her. “I forgive you for what you did. I know it wasn’t your fault. This… This will destroy you.”
Sarah exhaled hard having heard what I said, but was too far gone. It wasn’t about penance for betraying me or even to protect her family. I could see it in her eyes she needed this for herself. Patrick had to die.
“Don’t let him change who you are. Don’t let him take that last spark of goodness inside you,” I said softly, not having the strength to rip her away from him. “Please let go. I can’t love someone like me, Sarah. I can’t love a murderer.”
Even if I could break her grip on the scarf I couldn’t make that choice for her. She had to be the one to decide what kind of person she wanted to become. Sarah finally looked at me gasping in air as if almost forgetting how to breathe. Her trembling fingers let the fabric slip and soon she was openly sobbing at how close she came to the line.
Patrick stirred, choking and coughing and sucking in air in labored bursts. He clawed at the scarf with one hand while groping blindly for his gun with the other.
Sarah looked at me with pleading eyes and mouthed two words. “I can.”
Summoning all the strength I had left I mounted Patrick, wrapping my hands over the scarf around his throat. He thrashed, punching and clawing, but my two-hundred-pound frame pressing down was too much for him. I watched the anger, then fear, and finally the life itself drain from his beady eyes. It was all over and I couldn’t hide my relief that Patrick was dead.
But what about Sarah?
Worried, my lips pulled into a tight line as I furtively searched Sarah’s face. This was the first time she’d ever seen me kill a man with my bare hands. Sarah looked at me, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions on her opening and closing lips. She searched for something to mouth at me, a way to convey what she was feeling but couldn’t find any words. Instead she let her head drop and started softly crying again.
A few moments ago she told me she could love a killer, but that was before seeing the raw ugliness of it with her own eyes. Abrupt assassination and rage-fueled homicide were one
