(no subject)
The busted nose is giving me a headache, all the clenching and un-clenching isn't helping things. Zalachenko talked and talked, and never did that gun waiver, he is an old, crippled bastard but he didn't get to where he is today by being soft and relaxed. He knows that I want the gun in his hand, want it so bad I can taste it in my spit he knows where my eyes have been the entire twisted conversation. Enough talking someone has got to die and I want to get it done and over with. The alpha male steps into the room and all of a sudden he doesn't seem so small. He's big, the blond man, Ronald, but he's not as vicious as the cripple in the chair. He holds himself where he knows his place to be, behind his father. I can't be related to that moron, not even half way, he's blond and his face is flat and dull he has no brain and he's insane. Well maybe there are some similarities.
Zala takes his time getting out of his chair, not enough time for me to move. If papa's finger isn't fast enough that blond monster sure is. I figure I could make it a few steps before someone's gun or fist would go off and I would be down for good.
Looking down at the hole in the ground I am less then surprised. He has lots of land, no neighbors who's going to ask why a big blond man is digging a huge hole in the middle of the night around here? Who is going to stroll up and start asking questions? Even in the middle of a public park no one would come up to the man the size of Ronald and start asking questions.
Looking down at the hole, my grave, there is a certain relief in all of this. There are things worse then death, they are at his disposal as well. He could choose to let me live, to cut me up in small bits like he threatened to before. A bullet in the back of the head and falling into some cold empty pit is probably the best outcome I could hope for right now.
Sooner or later someone will finally put all the pieces together and someone might expose Zala for the piece of shit that he is. In my ideal world the roles would be reversed, Zala would be on his knees in front of this pit, this unmarked, unremarkable hole in the ground. In my ideal world I would be holding the gun to the back of his head and waiting for him to say his final words before ridding the world of him forever. I wouldn't miss, not at this range and when he fell in I would make sure he is really truly dead. Maybe with a little bit of fire, it would be fitting, something he's familiar with. Maybe in my ideal world this pit would be filled with wood and lighter fluid, waiting for him. A funeral pyre for the living.
This is not my ideal world, it never has been, it never will be. So the thoughts of him on his knees in front of me, in my place, those are fleeting. What I am really thinking about is something I never stopped thinking about. It's the big giant who has the gun now, all I need to do is get that away from him and run. It's not even about killing him at this point, it's about self preservation. I read somewhere once that people who live through suicide attempts tell mainly the same story, that half way through they found that they didn't really want to die, they wanted to live. As humans our brains are built to fight against death, we know not to do certain things, touch certain objects, chew on glass because deep within our primal brain we know that certain acts could lead to death. We are built to live and to continue on the species.
I do not know why I was born. I do know that I want to live. I do know that if I can escape I can come back and I can kill Alexander Zalachenko and I think, sometimes, that was the reason I was born.
The giant is holding a flashlight and a gun and both are trained on me and if I can distract them once, just once then I can make my move. It would have been a double edged sword if I had broadcast the conversation I had with my father, because it could have broadcast me killing him - which, added to the three bodies to my name, doesn't seem like a prudent move. But he admitted to Ronald killing Bjurman and Dag and Mia, he doesn't give a shit he's old, he thinks he's untouchable and Ronald is such an easy scapegoat. Moron doesn't even know it. What he does is look away at what I hand Zala and when he does I make my move.
The dirt blinds him and I don't give a fuck how strong a man is, a shovel to the hand will knock what he's holding loose. The gun flies off into the dark and that's all I need, that darkness is his enemy and my ally. All I need to do is get up and over the hill, I can run faster then the old man without a doubt and I can run even faster then the blond giant in my car. The plan however has a fatal flaw, and as I hear the call of their voices behind me I don't see it, not until there is a sharp crack through the night air and I feel it.
The old man, he has a gun.
If he had gotten off only one shot I could have made it. If there were only two cracks and bolts of pain through me, I still could have made it. The third shot, it hit before I heard it and dropped me to the ground.
Not many people can withstand a bullet to the head. Game over.