I dash down the alleyway, smoke curling from the barrel of my recently fired gun. I sniff deeply, savoring the scent with a slow smile widening my lips. Ah, gunpowder. How I love you so.
A piece of some forgotten memory pushes its way to the front of my mind - love. Didn't I love something - someone? Wasn't there someone, once?
A wave of forced forgetfulness washes over me. Oh, never mind.
The alleyway is a dead end. "Craptastic," I mutter, turning and hefting my dual guns up, preparing to fight.
But this time, they've called out the full police force, from the looks of it. And for New York City, that's no small deal.
I manage to shoot five of the men lethally before the first bullet finds my leg, which I think is rather impressive. I fall, supporting my weight on my uninjured knee, but the searing pain is quickly cut off and I stand again, continuing to fire as I lean on my good leg.
Outta bullets. Crap, crap, crap. I toss my gun to the side and consider my limited options.
A bullet finds my stomach before I can decide on a course of action and I fall. This time, I am unable to rise.
The last three months flash before my eyes, a replay of my life - what I can remember of it. I have killed one hundred people. Not bad. At least I'm leaving behind a legacy.
Something is tickling at the back of my mind. Someone was shot once, someone who wasn't one of my chosen victims. Who were they? Why am I thinking of them now, with my dying breaths?
A head of dark hair...a quiet voice...a dazzling grin...a flash of huge hands lifting me up, up, up...
A policeman stares down at me with disgust and raises his gun, leveling it with my chest. He fires.
I am freed.
YOU ARE READING
Sixteen-year-old Sage Greene was locked in a maximum-security asylum for the criminally insane after murdering nearly 200 civilians. It isn't her, though - it's the voices. There are two sides to Sage: the normal, self-conscious teenager, and the Vo...