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I kick and fight as best I can, but the ropes and knots make it impossible to move. I can’t even manage to move enough to knock out one of the taillights. It was suggested in a show I watched once. Apparently, if you knock out a taillight, it might alert a cop to pull the car over, but I know that’s a risk too. This guy would never just pull over and act normal with me in the trunk. He’ll just drive faster, more recklessly, and I’ll die that way.
The car bumps along a little more, every sound amplified from the non-insulated trunk and the exhaust system right under me.
But then it stops. There was a crunch of gravel and then nothing.
I try to hold my breath as if it will somehow make the man forget he tied me up and shoved me in here.
Did I miss the car door opening? Did he climb out?
I can’t hear much over the roar of my heart, the pounding in my ears drowning everything else out.
My mind races, flashes of what happened today infiltrating my head.
The man who fell beside me had unseeing eyes, the color draining from his cheeks faster than I ever thought imaginable. The screams, the children who were playing suddenly terrified and unable to find their parents. I tried to help one child, but the little boy wrestled out of my hands, and the guy who tied me up grabbed me before I could assure the little boy that he was okay.
I just knew I was going to end up like the shot man, dead and lifeless, eyes open, mouth agape.
Is that what war is like?
I sob as I imagine my brother’s last minutes. Did he die quickly like the guy did today? Did he suffer? Did Emmett have to witness the color drain from his face?
The silence surrounding the car is louder than the road noise was. I know not to accept it as safety. There are worse ways to die than in a car crash, and even more pain involved when someone truly wants to hurt you.
My breathing calms as the silence continues. I try to convince myself that I’m safe, but then it hits me. This could possibly be worse than being dragged out of here and shot.
Slowly fading away due to dehydration and starving to death?
I rage against my restraints, trying to kick, and flail. I ignore the burns of the ropes on my skin. I know I’ll have scars, but I can’t just lie here and die.
I fight for what seems like a millennia, but to no avail.
The silence begins to feel like its own form of torture, and I’m certain that’s what the guy wants it to feel like. I cuss him, scream every filthy word I can think of into the gag, imagining him standing outside of the vehicle and taking joy in my suffering.
Refusing to give him that sense of accomplishment, I calm, feeling as if it takes forever for my heart to slow. I won’t give the sack of shit the satisfaction. If I’m going to die, I’ll do so holding on to whatever dignity I can manage.
This sudden found bravery doesn’t stop the tears. It doesn’t stop me from wishing things were different, that I handled things differently in my life.
I’m going to die with too many regrets, too many words left unspoken.
I should’ve worked harder to make my parents see me. I should’ve reached out to Quincy more. I know my friend loves me. She’s just living her life and making new memories, exactly like I’ve been doing. Getting busy isn’t the same as discarding someone.
I do my best to shove down the pity party that’s threatening its way up my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to think of the good times, the things I have to be grateful for.
Emmett is the very first thing that comes to mind, and I’m so happy I got to experience a part of my life with him.
I pray that Oracle was right, that the love he could see in my eyes was something Emmett could translate as well. I don’t want to leave this earth with him doubting how important he was to me.
He spoke to me about losing Vaughn, and how he has spent nearly every minute of his life since avoiding any type of relationship, fearful of getting too close because of what it would mean if he lost someone again.
I pressed my lips to his jaw in that moment and vowed that I was safe, and that I wasn’t going anywhere.
It looks like I’ll be taking that lie to the grave.
Chapter 36
Legacy
“The oath I took,” the doctor argues. “I can’t—”
“Jason Conroy is dead because of that motherfucker,” Walker growls, his angry finger pointing at the man in the bed. “A hole the size of my fist in his fucking chest.”
