A tribute

FORTY-EIGHT| Bad and worse

This. This was it. Her getting kidnapped at a young age. Her getting tortured and assaulted. Me being abused. The constant fear that resides in your soul. The guilt, the trauma. This was it, a clear painted picture of the mafia. The truth of the mafia.

I hold my gun extended in my hand, seeing no choice but to stay put and cover her body. And the second a figure intrudes in my vision I'm shooting a bullet right at his head.

I feel Isabella's hand clasp around my shirt tightly, her head resting against my back. The armed man falls to the flood, a gaping hole piercing the centre of his forehead.

But when the second figure appears in front of me, I'm not so clean of a shot. My vision goes dark, a black empty void and I just shoot. I shoot as many times as my weak body allows me to. I shoot with no navigation from my sight. I just shoot. I shoot, hoping the next time my vision cleared, another dead body would slump back on the ground. That the next time my vision clears Isabella would be safe and untouched right next to me.

But that didn't happen, did it?

I black out. For how long? I have no damn idea. All I know is that the next time I'm conscious, Isabella's screams are the only thing ringing through my ear.

I hurriedly open and shut my eyes, a weak attempt at fixing my blurry vision. The first thing my sight is set on is Isabella's small figure covered by the big man that sits over her, his hands wrapped around her neck, cutting off her circulation.

"Stop. Just please make sure he's okay. Make sure he's alright and you can take me." Her fearful, breathless voice rings through my ear, my head throbbing as I fight against the urge to close my eyes again.

I slowly slide my weak hand towards the gun that lays on the blood stained asphalt floor, my fingers gripping around the base.

A low grunt escapes my lips, Isabella's cry overtaking my foggy brain. Hurry. Hurry up. I finally wrap my hand around the gun, extending my arm as I press my finger on the trigger. A sharp sound rings through my ear and following that, the man's limp body falls next to Isabella.

"Oh my god," She pants heavily, holding her hand to her neck. "He's- he's dead. Oh god, he's dead." And then she's scrambling on the floor, hurriedly moving towards me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

When my eyes fall in her face, her tear stained cheek, the purple bruised marks of his choking, my heart fucking shatters.

Oh my god.

Oh god, this is my doing. This is my fault. This was the truth I ignored from the start. The undeniable, terrible, heart breaking reality. A mafia is no place for this. No place for softness. No place for weakness. No place for love.

"Fuck. Fuck, bella, come here." And I'm grabbing her in my arms, my heart beating so quick I'm afraid I might pass out.

This is why. This is exactly why I didn't want the treatment in the first place.

I clutch the car behind me in order to stand up, pulling my phone out to call Buck.

"Near the hospital. There's a few dead bodies, clean it up." After getting confirmation I hang up, look around for any danger before quickly ushering her to the car.

"Get in." I open the passenger door. She complies.

I do the same. I get in the driver's seat, turn on the car and drive away. She stays silent. I do too. Silent as a mute. Silent because the crowded, loudness in my head wont allow me to speak.

This is my fault. My sin. My burden.

I know what you're thinking. Stop fucking wallowing in selfpitty. You're not the victim. And trust me, I know. I'm nowhere near being the victim and that's exactly the point.