5, 4, 3, 2, 1

The gun feels cold when it touches my skin. It moves away then presses into my scalp once again. I know this is from the shaking of his hands. He's sobbing, broken, shuddering sobs, but I can't look at him. I keep my eyes tightly shut. He tells me it's for my own good, that he loves me. There's no other way. He has to protect me. He loves me. There are bad people in the world who would do bad things if they could. He's saving me. This is mercy. He loves me. My father loves me. All this I know, but I let him keep saying it. If only for his peace of mind.

A pounding on the door interrupts his babbling. He curses. The gun wavers. I count the seconds until it's all over. Until the bad men get in. 22, 21, 20, 19. The gun moves away from my head. What is he doing? 15, 14, 13. The pounding increases. 10, 9, 8. A loud crash and the sound of angry voices. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . Bang.

Pain explodes from my side, and blocks out every thought but the thoughts of pain. My eyes flutter open to see my father pick me up and hold me in his thick arms. From over my father's arms I see the enforcers knock down the door and barge in our home. They point their rifles at us, and my father starts to run. Pain like a burning fire shoots through my body once more as I embrace the closing darkness that I hope is death.

I'm jolted to consciousnesses, though barely. I'm alive. I can't believe I'm alive. How am I alive? The fire is still there, but at least I can think. Water drips onto my pale cheek. It isn't until the sound of my father's sobbing reaches my clouded mind that I discover the water is his tears. The pain grows sharp with each step he takes. I count the steps, the great, bounding steps. He says he's sorry. Over and over again he says he's sorry. The thud of his footsteps turns to crunching and after a while the acrid smell of the river floods my senses. My father slows and he starts to stumble. I can tell the ground is getting softer as we travel closer to the water. There is the resonating crack of a rifle being fired and my father cries out in pain. He falls to his knees. I can feel my body tumble out of his tight grip.

I open my eyes just a crack. I'm laying in the wet sand, the raging river so close. Through my blurred vision I watch as the enforcers, in their ebony black armored suits, drag away my screaming father covered in blood. My blood. I try to move my arm to reach out to him, but my limbs won't seem to work. One of the enforcers splits off from the group and walks towards me. I count the steps he takes. Already he's walked 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 . . . I slip away into darkness.

I'm awake, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling in an unfamiliar room. I look down to see my left hip bandaged with spots of blood seeping through the linen. My father shot me. He's probably dead. The image of my father being dragged away plagues my vision. It won't go away. I try to block it from my thoughts but it won't leave. They have to die. The bad men, the enforcers, they have to die. I have to kill them. I want to tear them limb from limb. Wait, no. I'm not a murderer, I'm only ten. I replay them barging in, destroying my home. I want them dead. Stop! I can't think this way. Why am I thinking this way? I try to banish the thoughts and the images. But the thoughts keep pushing. They keep invading my mind. My heart pounds, my stomach twists. An ache in my chest flares up, suffocating me. I'm suffocating. I can't breath. My feet tingle. I'm not real. This isn't real. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. It starts to lessen. I keep counting. I can breathe. I begin to dig my fingers into my bandaged side. Shards of pain pierce through my thoughts. My body returns to me. I am real. This pain is real. I keep counting.

The door to the room opens and a man wearing a long white coat steps in. He has a young face, made to look older by a neatly trimmed brown beard. The man looks at me, simply looks at me, and I'm filled with fear. He's going to kill me. Instantly the ache returns. I want to scream but I can't. My arms and legs stop working. I can't move. I can't move. I can't move. The man comes closer. My brain is screaming at my body to run, to fight. He's holding a blade. Oh gods he's holding a blade. The man's next to me now and he reaches for me. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me!

But he doesn't. Instead he cuts the bandage on my hip. His hands are gentle as he removes the linen and places a cool, wet cloth on the newly stitched wound. The knot in my stomach releases.

The man begins to talk. His voice is deep and soothing. He tells me he's a doctor and he found me by the river barely alive. The man tells me his name. I forget it immediately. He says I'm a lucky girl that he brought his supplies home with him. He says it's a miracle I'm still alive and kicking. That causes him to chortle. He checks the state of my stitches. A few had opened. He can't fathom why. He doesn't seem to notice the marks of my fingernails imprinted on the flesh. I count the stitches. When he asks me what really happened I clench my teeth shut and tighten my lips. It's obvious I don't want to talk about it. The man nods.

After numbing me from pain and once more closing my wound, the doctor re-bandages my hip then smooths my honey blonde hair back and kisses me on the forehead. I start crying, releasing everything that had built up for so long. He continues to stroke my hair a while, gently cooing until my gasping sobs start to subside. Once he's sure I've finished letting it all out, he leaves. As he exits the room I hate him for that gentle touch. I hate him for leaving me alone to my thoughts. Doesn't he know that they scare me? Why be so kind and then leave? I'm so afraid. I'm so alone. The bad guys did this. They made me alone. They gave me these invasive thoughts. I want to kill them. I want to kill them. I want to kill them. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . .