The two men who stood in front of me gasped, and the room seemed to fill with ice-cold air as we all froze in fear. The person who had just walked in stood tall in the door frame, and yelled.

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

I slowly turned my head to look at him. Our gazes crossed and his mouth dropped. His mouth dropped. And so did mine. I could see his eyes, I could see his mouth. I could see his thick eyebrows and his strong nose, his chiseled cheekbones, and his old-fashioned mustache.

His jaw tightened and his large, brown eyes widened. The thin wrinkles on his forehead deepened as he frowned. His face was uncovered. Maybe I should have buried my own face between my legs, like an ostrich, and pretended I’d never seen him. But instead, I just stared right at him; as he stared right back at me.

He’s handsome, said an intrusive thought. An inappropriate thought, probably, as this man was probably a couple of decades older than me, and also happened to be my captor. Although, he was handsome, in an intimidating way. Frighteningly, even, as the mere sight of his face had just condemned me to death. Like the ancient myth of Medusa, his gaze had turned me to stone and put an end to my life.

Even when he turned away his eyes, and stomped over to the center of the room, I remained petrified, staring at the doorway where he first appeared. I heard the chair screech, the men scream–something about security, irresponsibility, something else about killing me. I heard the girls being pulled back to the middle of the room, and my heartbeat grow stronger, and stronger, to the point that it muffled out all the other sounds.

For a few seconds, it was as if the world caved in. As if the damp basement’s walls shattered, as if the people around me burst into pieces. As if everything had come to an end. Memories came back to me like a morbid rewind. Happy memories, and sad memories.

My first kiss. The last time I saw my mom smile. Running barefoot through the streets of Goose Creek in the middle of the night. Ana’s 8th birthday party, and the hours we spent after it playing with her new Barbie. That time I got dumped by my boyfriend in the middle of my high school’s cafeteria. The old lady who used to chat with me at the bus stop. The night when I puked in Jason McKinney’s pool. A random hug from my dad.

My ears stopped ringing, and, as if he walked through the mist of my flashbacks, the man appeared before me. Here he was, the one whose mere appearance in my life had been enough to end it.

“Are you okay?” he asked in English.

“No,” I breathed.

He smiled, and the outer corner of his eyes wrinkled up a little. It was a genuine smile. The first one I’d seen in a while, actually. People usually smiled at me with pity - you know, that smile where they pinch their mouth and their lips fold inwards. He had a wide grin, with straight, white teeth.

His perfect smile clashed with the rest of his face, which looked a little rugged –his unkempt hair, his patchy beard, and his slightly sun-damaged face. His damn smile had me mystified for a second, until I remembered, why the fuck is he smiling when I’m about to die?

“You’re a funny one,” he said.

“What’s funny about me?” I spat back at him.

He let out a high-pitched laugh, somewhat of a giggle, and grinned down at me.

“Ooh... feisty!”

He sat down in the chair in front of me, where the man with the camera was sitting a few minutes ago. He and the other guy were standing at the back of the room, almost cowering in the shadows.

The cameraman, who seemed so confident just a while before, had lost his standing and his pride, and his change in behavior was a big hint to me that this new guy, the one with his face uncovered, was quite a big deal. And that fact was really, really bad news for me.

“So,” he said, bending over towards me, “you must be the ugly one.”

I stared at him in disbelief for a good minute. He pointed at his eyebrow, which I assume meant he was referring to the cut, bruise, swelling, or whatever horrid wound disfigured mine.

“I... I hit my head,” I stuttered. “On a car door.”

“Oh, my bad,” he answered, “I thought you were born that way.”

I frowned, suddenly deeply confused about who this guy was, or who the hell he thought he was. Here I sat, defenseless, already condemned to death and painfully awaiting the final blow; and all he could do was add insult to injury.

“Fuck you!” I protested.

He let out a single “Ha!“. Not a “gotcha” kind of "Ha”, but more of a cut-off laugh. Loud, clear, it echoed in the room. It had come straight from the heart. I glared at him, almost in defiance.

“Can we get it over with?” I mumbled.

He smiled from the corner of his lips, and lifted his head a little. His gaze remained locked into my eyes, and I started to realize that I had yet to see him blink.

“You’re not afraid,” he realized, in a soft yet intimidating voice. He seemed almost surprised, as if this was the first time someone had dared to defy him. I didn’t feel as if I was really defying anyone, though. I just wanted to be done with it.

“I mean, I’m going to die anyway,” I sighed.

“Funny and smart,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I just kept staring. He still hadn’t blinked. My eyes were starting to burn. A little under a minute passed, then he frowned and stood up. I had won the staring contest.

“This pains me, dear ladies,” he ranted, as he walked in a circle around the room. “Believe me, I’m a professional. You are not my first guests, nor will you be my last. This, I assure you, has never happened before. Honey, what’s your name?”

“Sarah,” I said. “Sarah Kennedy.”

“Show of hands, who here will miss Sarah Kennedy?”

Ana whimpered, but no hands went up– obviously.

“Oh, your hands are tied,” he noted. “Sorry about that. Well, you know what? I will sorely miss you, Sarah Kennedy.”

“You’re insane,” I whispered.

He nodded, and sat in the chair, and pulled a black handgun from his holster. He laid it on his lap and admired it for a while. Still nodding, he said:

“I’ve been told that before. And it might be true, Sarah, but I’m still a human–”

“You’re not,” I interrupted.

“Now don’t you get on my bad side,” he growled gently as he waved his gun at me. “Just so we’re clear– do we all know why I have to kill Sarah Kennedy?”

Ana started to sob quietly, and I have to admit, hearing the words come straight out of the beast’s mouth cuts you a little deeper than when you’re the one telling them to yourself.

“I have nothing against you, my dear,” he explained, “but if I let you go, you’ll tell them what I look like. And if I cut your tongue, you can still draw me on a piece of paper. And if I cut your hands, who’s to say you won’t learn morse code and blink out an accurate physical description of me?”

It felt as the room collectively frowned in confusion. Or maybe it was just me.

“I digress,” he continued. “While you seem like a nice girl, I have no guarantee you won’t go back home and snitch on me. And if I fall, as the head of this operation, I’ll probably–unwillingly–take everyone down with me. And there are dozens, if not hundreds of us whose lives and livelihoods depend on this. And there’s just one Sarah Kennedy.”

I nodded silently. I get it, asshole, now just get on with it.

“I’m a utilitarian. I favor the well-being of the many. And for that reason, Sarah Kennedy, I cannot let you live. It hurts me, truly, to take your life. But by doing it, I am saving so many.”

“That’s very noble of you,” I answered sarcastically.

He winked at me. At this point, I was so baffled by this guy that I already felt half brain-dead. Ana was crying audibly by my side, her body shaking as she choked back her tears.

“But just so we’re clear, and my conscience is clean. Who caused this mess?” he asked, staring straight at me. He paused a little, and as he was faced with a quiet room and no answers, he added, “I’m speaking to you, Sarah Kennedy. Who caused your death?”

You. You, obviously. The answer was clear: hadn’t he kidnapped me, I’d be chilling in a pool in a resort in the jungle. Hadn’t he walked in, the guys would have picked up Kait and June, I would have finished my video, they would have called my mother, she wouldn’t have answered, and then he would have killed me anyway. But there was a glint in his eye that pierced a little too deep into me, that seemed to read my mind and tell me: wrong answer.

Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was June and Kait. If they hadn’t attempted to escape while I was talking, then he wouldn’t have walked in and I wouldn’t have seen him. And if they had listened to me when our car was stopped by the ‘policemen’, we would have all escaped unscathed.

If they hadn’t organized this trip, I’d be in the comfort of my own home right now, and not sitting at the gates of hell in a dirty basement. And if they hadn’t stolen my only friend and made me feel like a fat, ugly, lonely piece of shit, maybe I would have been happier, and wouldn’t have ended up ending things myself in, at most, a few months’ time.

“Kait and June did,” I answered, staring straight at him.

Right answer. He smiled and nodded. He sighed, and other than Ana bawling out, the room stayed silent. I turned to look to my left. Kait was frozen, June was swaying back and forth with her face looking down. I thought I’d feel good taking an act of last revenge, marking their lives forever with a scar of guilt.

I actually felt a little sorry for them. As much as they seemed to have hated me, I don’t think any amount of therapy would be enough to let them unhear my accusations. And I had seen what guilt over a death could do to a human being. But I was living my last seconds, and it was a little too late to take back my words.

I looked back at the man, who had walked to the back of the room and was whispering a few words to his two accomplices. When he turned around, he was holding his gun with his two hands - all he had to do was aim. Instead, he started twitching weirdly, touching his shoulder with his ear. He repeated the movement, over and over, more and more insistently.

I raised an eyebrow at him, a little troubled with confusion. He rolled his eyes and twitched again. What the fuck is he doing? I thought, losing patience while I waited to die. He sighed, and leaned over towards me. He grabbed the top of my head and tilted it to the right.

“What–” I started, before he quickly told me to hush, sticking his index finger to his lips. He frowned, and quickly patted my head into place. He then took a wide step back and aimed his gun at me. Behind him stood the guy with the sponge and the bucket, ready to wipe my brains up off the floor. I put my head upright again, and he silently sighed and signed at me to tilt it again. Eager to end this circus, I obliged.

“Well, my dear Sarah Kennedy,” he said out loud, “I’m sorry things have to be this way.”

And he finally fired the shot.

The Man Who Killed Me

0 Comments