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“She’s coming with me,” he insisted.
Emily breaks away, stumbling to the ground in disarray, still pleading between sobs. Blood oozing from her lip. He bends forwards squinting, focusing, cussing. Evaluating his options still responding to the adrenaline flowing through his body.
A step closer, I consider my future while watching her in my peripheral vision. Then, an unexpected vision, a naked, half covered women, my wife, flashes across my memory. Almost six years ago, I saw my two daughters for the last time. I was leaving to attend to a tutoring session with an odious but affluent family, Mr. Eldridge. A local “power broker” with cattle ranches. I had promised to return; I ensured them they would be safe. Instantaneously, these unwanted, unexpected memories stabbed at my gut. My throat tightens. Were they safe, happy, or, like Emily, abused by an indifferent world? A flood of unanswered questions return, begging closure.
He shifted his body, his hand moved every so slightly. I reacted. He raised and shot first, but in his condition missed as the bullet hit the roof several feet in front of me. I took an additional second to aim, fired, hit my target, still focusing, a second later shot again. The slugs spun him back as he collapsed, crashing to the ground. Now I know the answer. Would I pull the trigger knowing I would take a person’s life? Undeniably.
Emily pressed on the ground against the wall, wide-eyed, speechless, screams. “You killed him.”
Shock set in. I turned, walked back toward the west entrance, looked out over the wall into darkness, doing my best to push the memories of my daughters away. Images of my wife. Feeling as if I had been physically and mentally battered. I felt sick. I crept back to my space, scooted next to the chiminea, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, seeking sleep. Running from my past, the life I once had known, happier times. I felt as if it had hollowed me out, now empty. If only he had not missed, he could have ended my pain.
Emily, like every member of this tribe, was on her own. I heard her voice; the words muffled. All I could say was, “Go away.”
The “mortician” and his team, always on notice, with too much to do, were called to cleanup the mess while everyone else moved on, another day. Everyone seeking the comfort sleep provided.
My memories, compartmentalized as always. A skill I have perfected over the years, feelings stuffed away. I tried to find my daughters, those that attacked my wife, to no avail.
In the morning, this tale would unravel and inflate, as they always do. It’s always about the stories.
Ask anyone, everyone will have their version, their take, hero or antihero, all deplorable. All the blame will fall upon my shoulders.
I did the unthinkable.
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