I can't move.
I tried, but it hurts. My bones hurt, and my body aches. Every breath I take burns, and I find myself wishing I were dead with every passing hour. It's so easy to wish for that; so much easier than to believe that I'd ever find a way out of here.
I remember getting kicked out of Walmart for skateboarding down the aisles and trashing the soda section. I remember getting suspended for spray-painting "Wife Beater" on my abusive geometry teachers classroom door. I remember getting kicked out of highschool for defending a chick that got called a "Motherless Freak", maybe breaking the guy that called her that's nose.
But above all of that, I don't remember doing anything to deserve this.
I didn't think I'd die like this. I honestly didn't think I'd die at all. Death seems to be one of those subjects thats always on the table, but everyone manages to brush off like it's no big deal. I don't think anyone expects to die the way they do. But there's one thing I am glad about. I'm glad that if anyone, it was me that died. I'm glad that it wasn't any of my kids, or Dante, or Connor, or Care, or Dean; or anyone. I'm even glad it wasn't the homeless guy that lives on the corner of our street. I'm not saying that I'm happy to die. I'm just saying that I'm glad it was me before anyone else.
Just as the idea of going out without a boom came to mind, I heard footsteps approach me. I didn't open my eyes when he crouched next to me, taking in his peppermint cologne that I've come to recognize and hate at the same time. It was such a normal routine. He came in to try and feed me, I refuse, he hurts me in one way or another, and he leaves with me half dead on the ground. When I wake up the next day, the process repeats itself. I heard him sigh, "It's kind of sad to look at you this way, kid."
I let out a weak, single laugh. "Hypocrite."
He grunts. "Guess so..."
There was a silence.
I opened my eyes when the confusion of why he wasn't starting our normal routine flooded my mind. He was looking down at me, a soft yet still cold expression on his face. He looked like he was thinking of something, or looking back on something. Then I realized.
He was going to kill me.
He was finally going to kill me.
I closed my eyes at the sight of him sliding out his dagger. "You know, I'll kind of miss messing with you." he said.
I smiled slightly. "And I'll miss other things...but not you. Definitely not you."
He smirked before holding the knife to my throat, letting out the cliché "Any last words?" I heard the knowing smile in his voice.
I laughed. "That's stupid." I slowly relaxed, "But, yeah..." I whispered and paused. "Dante..." I sighed shakily. "I've been in here a long time, and I'm so sorry that I've given up on the idea that I'd ever get out. I'm sorry that I left you. I'm sorry that I've been waiting for this moment for a while now. I'm sorry that I'm saying all of this when I know that you'll never hear it. And...I know it's a cheesy last thing to say, but..." I smile slightly and breathe, "I love you."
The knife pressed harder against my throat, but before anything could happen, Lance froze.
Andi's actually giving up? A voice in my head asked.
The warm, nostalgic voice made me want to cry, but I kept calm and whispered. "Andi's given up on alot of things before."
What about that time you chased a squirrel around town for like an hour until you finally caught it?