" ...I can tell he's not looking for me, but he's looking for something else of value."
There wasn't a knock.
There was hardly even a peep.
The moment as soon as I heard my door being slid across the carpet floor, I slipped my hand underneath my pillow toward the gun. My fingers softly graze the hard metal as I take hold of it. The chilling warmth of his presence slowly comes near me. His breathing begins to get shallow; a sign that tells me he's trying to sneak near me. I make sure I have the gun gripped good.
I feel his face near me to check if I'm sleep. My breathing stays the same throughout-soft, continuing, and unaware. I even manage to fake a little snore, which backs him off a little. In my mind I pray to God that he'll just go away because if I have to use the gun, I will. As of what I know, my dad has never been man of violence, which is why he always opposes of my wishes to be a detective. He'll take thousands of hurtful words and let rage seep down into the very last bit of his soul rather than allow it to hurt someone. I admire him for that because it's something I'd never be able to do. As for my mom, well, I believe she has no soul. She left my dad and two brothers when I was three.
Judging by the intruder's actions I can tell he's not looking for me, but he's looking for something else of value. Slowly, he pulls out a drawer on my dresser and softly fumbles through all the things. After not finding anything he moves, but not far. The noise of friction from his pants give him away. I hear a set of keys jingle from my key ring that I keep hidden all the way under the bottom, in the back of the whole dresser, close to the corner of the walls. I expect him to stop and fear that he'll wake me, however he continues looking through the keys. It has only hits me now of what he's actually looking for.
My moments are swift and steady. I'm up on my knees facing the guy. "Don't move," I say. The gun juts out, right towards the base of his skull on the back of his head, and the safety has been put up in the midst of the reaction. He pauses and drops the keys. "Stand," I whisper, just in case he didn't come alone. I didn't want to deal with two.
When he stands and turns I take note of all his features. Like most people part of gang-type groups there's a sigma, some type of emblem that represents them. Just below his ear and a small distance away, above the beginning of his jawline was a black star. Over the star showed a small, thin, white scar-something a knife would've done-going through it. His bright green eyes glow through the dark just as a cat's; showing that if I had shoot him earlier he'd still be alive with only one departed life and eight more to go. He looks to be in his thirties. Whether mid to late I can't tell. All I know is that it was stupid for him to only come out with just a black hat and dark clothes. What about the gloves? The mask? His pale face glows, just as his eyes, giving away every detail. Either this was a just-planned operation where he had to look normal to bypass others, or he's inexperienced. Plus, he stays inside the room with a soon-to-be victim, who was "sleep, " jingling keys.
Just by the look in his eyes I can tell guns don't scare him much. He begins to speak with a quiet raspy New Jersey sounding accent. "You look just as my daughter."
"And," I reply.
I shift my knees off my bed until I'm eventually standing. There's a couple of problems. He's twice my size and my height. I'm not short, nor tall, he's just gigantic. I have to admit, I feel a little small standing here in my cozy pajama pants and humongous white shirt, a size that he could probably fit inside. However many differences and intimidations I feel, I do see some resemblance. I can see the black hair, pale face, the freckles that align our stubby nose (only I have more), and lips that turn to automatic frowns. "However," he says. "You don't have her eyes." And that's when the devil opens his gates. I could see a rush of fire swell him up inside as he starts grabbing at my gun. It takes all the strength and energy to keep quiet, not to pull the trigger, and to keep it away from him as well. I feel pain in my arm as it's being twisted like a pretzel.
I grit my teeth and put the barrel to his head. "Let go," I warn. But he doesn't listen. Doesn't he realize? I have all the power in my hand, something powerful enough to destroy him. But, he doesn't listen. My arm is on the verge of breaking. "Please," I plead. He shakes his head as his hand gets tighter. "Please," I say. "How old is your daughter?" I ask. His eyes search mine questionly. I see him swallow as his grip gets lighter. "Eighteen."
The moment happened fast.
He had his hand reaching for his pocket. I shouted. If only he'd been faster I wouldn't have got away with erupting his shoulder blade to pieces.
I run down the hall in the most quietest way looking behind me to make sure he's still there. I start to see the wallpaper. It's gotta be somewhere near three in the morning because I fell asleep at two with my brother Henry; it hasn't felt much longer than two o'clock. I stop just after running down the stairs, before I get to the kitchen. I press the back of my body close to the refrigerator. There's yelling all over the place. I hear my dad and my brother Michael. Where's Henry? There are flower vases and dishes being shattered on the kitchen floor. I feel thuds against the wall from a body being beaten up on. I hold out my gun.
I take my first step out and feel a sudden rush of someone moving in front of me. We're definitely outnumbered. Just like the man in my room, they're all dressed in black, except they have on masks. I count about nine of them.
