Warning: violence, blood, gore (a little?)

Estimated reading time: 6 minutes, 32 seconds. Contains 1308 words.

In what purpose does she need to witness all of this?

She has seen the same exact scene in some five-rated movies. An unnecessary amount of exploding red, woman’s cry (she doesn’t), and someone drops dead. The special effect crew did a good job to exaggerate but it’s nothing compared to the real thing. The blood oozes like it’s retreating to live on its own, forming a thick puddle to carve a sharp remembrance to her fuzzy mind. The liquid absorbs every light in the nightclub: flash of gunshots, sickening neon lights, lasers. All darkens into a disturbing color she can’t place the name. It keeps flowing from someone who used to be so alive until multiple bullets wrecked his torso just about five seconds ago. The grinded chunks of meat throbbed slowly until came to a stop, but the blood resists to leave. Though recognizing the face, she hopes the horror could just come back to the body. The puddle dangerously reaches to her feet, threatening to drown her insignificant existence into its thickness.

At least it’s all over now. That man will touch her no more.

Adrian pulls his head behind the wall just at the right time when some raging bullets dash over. No brain’s being blown away. Yet. It wouldn’t be his anyway. Like hell. He leans on the wall and sighs. This is taking too damn long. He won’t follow another plan of the pain-in-the-ass partner of his. As tricky as that shitty brain can get, he knows it’s just another bright plan to cease him out of the picture. He admits it, yeah, the plan works well. He got it easy. Those stinky old men didn’t see it coming. No suspicion. Smooth and professional just like how the higher-ups want. But damn, convenience kills the fun. He wanted to see bloodlust eyes like his, maybe had some equal fights before eliminating them. Instead, he got four old scumbags who couldn’t even hold a goddamn weapon for fuck’s sake, one young boss who only knew how to make use of those long legs (Russian bastard, if only Adrian brought his butcher knife), and one woman.

One woman. He gives the ball of trauma and drugs by his side a quick glance. There was no talk about woman in the plan. Prostitutes are nothing new. It’s called a nightclub and human trafficking nest for a reason. He been crossing with lots of woman. He never had any interest, but this one ….

That piece of shit knows fucking everything. The fact pisses him off that his blood surges and he comes out from the hiding, firing his Pietro Beretta to a dumbass who lets his guard down by exposing his left leg. First day on the job, kid? The man stumbles out of the long lit up bar, more body parts expose. Adrian gets a headshot and nothing thrills him more than his bullet passes through someone’s brain, probably sits comfortably inside. He pulls back with grin splitting his face.

“Stay here,” he tells the woman who still can’t grasp the reality falling down around her ears. Still in the acid trip, he guesses. Drugs dull the pain, sense, sanity—pretty much everything. He pushes her to sit on the tiled floor. The woman flinches on the sudden touch but acts obedient like a good girl she is. Just stay. He grabs the shotgun by Dmitri’s feet, puts the handgun’s safety off before shoving it down the holster, and then party hard.

The gunshots resonate with the pounding music. It’s a good thing that somehow the music’s still on, and on top of that, louder than the madness. It’s almost magical. She focuses on that rather than on the thing in front of her. That worm thingies are intestines. Bass throbs muffled throughout her body, keeping it from numbness. Like the elevating, powerful music is the only thing that keeps her sit straight. An anchor to her consciousness. That sticking out things are wrecked ribs. The air’s practically vibrating. She could have felt the loud music on her skin if there wasn’t any harmful drugs burning in her blood vessels.

A blast of shotgun explodes near her right ears. There’s a sudden pressure in her hearing and then dead silence with everything moving in slow motion. Brain splatters on the floor. White, pink, red. Some pours over Dmitri’s feet. The shot was close. Too close. It could be anybody. It could be the man who dragged her out from the cramped room. She can’t think of anything, not even a possibility. Can’t cover her bleeding ears for an incoming boom. Something within her dies.

A body falls wet by Dmitri’s feet. Half of the head’s gone, but she still drags her gaze to his face, can’t help to make sure. Every cell in her body squirms wrongly.

That’s not the man.

The said man throws his shotgun like a knickknack and pulls out the pistol. A silver shiny thing. How he loves the curves. Sexy. He pulls the woman to stand by her feet and drags her out of the empty bar. First, escape the place before more lackeys sniff out their dying fellows and boss. He has his lovely handgun, yes, but never ever push luck. Luck always comes with misfortune. And his steps are heavy. Shoulder hurts a bit. Probably dislocated. Second, reach his apartment before sunrise. It has always been like that, not because his shitty partner told him. And morning will come in less than two hours. Third, beat the shit out of his partner. This is like the worst plan has ever been made by the famous-now-infamous-to-him strategist. He gives the woman who slows down his pace a quick glance once more.

It’s all quite now, except her own ragged breathing and of course, the loud music. It calms her down despite the frequent strong jerks from the man to snap her out of hazy mind. The man guides her to the exit, all while iron gripping her wrist. With limping feet, she drags herself to match his long strides across the dance floor.

There are dozen of dead bodies across the wide room. The glassy colored floor is now painted in the same disturbing palette as the place where she sat idly watching Dmitri’s dead body. Even worse. She recognizes some faces yet again. The bouncers. The mixologist. The kidnapper back then. Whoever still staying after the closing hour. Mostly died with eyes wide opened. They let out voiceless scream in their last moment.

In what purpose does she need to witness all of this?

Legs giving in, she falls to the floor. The iron grip probably has broken her wrist for she pulls it hard from the man. She doesn’t want to go. It’s nothing left here nor out there. She belongs to nowhere. It’s been months. The drugs or possible illnesses would kill her anyway. No one will accept her. What’s the point?

Adrian grunts. With one swift move, he takes off his suit covered in blood and things, and covers the woman with it. Nah, that won’t work. He helps her wear it. Damn, his shoulder fucking hurts. The woman doesn’t fight back, doesn’t even move an inch. After the oversized suit wraps her naked upper body—drops to her thighs so it wouldn’t scare people if they happened to spot them, he pats all the scary thingies off before tries to pull her up. The woman resists like a damn rock.

“I’m giving you a chance,” he tells her.

The woman lifts her head, finally meeting his gaze. Wide sapphire blue eyes, just like how his memory recognizes her. With a terribly wounded look—at least her brain’s still functioning, she drops her gaze and sucks a long breathe. Not betting up with the chance more lackeys will find them any sooner, he pulls her harder to get out of the stinky place.

The man seems to mean every word he just said, so she follows.


End notes:

All constructive critics and suggestions are welcome!

Beautiful photo by Ryan Oswick.


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