"David Jensen," I said clearly as if I was accusing him of all the sins he had committed, only by a name. The documents that I've found in his jacket told me about his identity, trying to fool me into thinking he was a teacher. Why would a mobster like him disguise himself as a boring teacher? Why did he kidnap my mom? And why he wanted to kill me and my best friend?
Those questions again. The questions that appeared in my head were written in blood and shouted that I can't deal with this person in the right ways. Brute force must be used.
"What David Jensen?" David tried to mask his surprise. I knew basic information about him, including where he lived. Maybe I should just get in the car and find out if he has a family like I had.
Had. That's right. Past tense. My mother was gone and so was my father. I was left alone for everything. Therefore, no one could blame me for the method by which I was going to get the answers.
"None. There's no David Jensen because I'm going to kill him," I revealed my plans, feeling like a cartoon villain character. The voice coming out of my mouth froze me and goosebumps jumped all over my body. Do all killers feel this way before they say the word?
KILL.
It was hard to believe my own words. Did I really say it out loud? Am I seriously going to do this? And if so, how?
David wriggled in his seat uncomfortably, and I noticed a box of something sticking out from his jacket pocket. I got scared of what might be in it. Otto searched him because he offered himself, saying it will make him feel safer. I guess I should have done it, just to be sure. It was my mess. I should take care of it.
With a slightly shaking hand, I reached into a hole in his piece of clothing and exhaled relieved as I looked at the harmless pack of cigarettes.
"Do you smoke?" I asked, first pulling out a cigarette from the box and then the fire from my pocket. Even though I didn't fall for an unhealthy habit of smoking, I've always carried a lighter.
My father gave it to me. He liked smoking, saying it makes him calm. Isn't this an excuse everyone uses? Is it really that way, or is it just a pretext for them to put poison in their bodies?
I realized that I was doing the same thing, desperately looking for a false pretext to give me some hint of peace. So that people didn't ask me the same questions over and over again.
How are you? – Fine.
Not: I'm not fine because my father killed someone in our living room.
What were you doing last night? – Nothing interesting. I was studying.
Not: I was burying a dead body in the woods. My typical program for the evening.
How much I looked like my father. Maybe he knew it. Did he give me this lighter because he expected me to start smoking, too? Did he try to indicate to me that sooner or later I will be completely the way he is?
Maybe most children want to be like their parents. I belonged to a minority that didn't want that shit. Even now, I was being sick with the thought of doing the same things as Lucifer.
I waited for the man to nod, giving me consent to put a cigarette in his mouth. He immediately inhaled it, like it was something that gave him power. A few seconds later, I took the cigarette away so the smoke could be exhaled from his lungs.
I let him smoke the half, then I rolled up his black T-shirt with his jacket and extinguished a still burning tip on his hand. Drilling deeper and deeper, I tried to get used to the aching expression of the man in front of me while his muffed hissing got into my ears, but I persistently ignored it. The longer I looked at David's suffering, the weaker I felt. The disgust I felt for him has been slowly disappearing, and instead, I felt that disgust of myself grow with each of his new sighs.
I couldn't imagine how big the pain must have been, but the man in the black handled it quite well. He gritted his teeth, and except for the occasional rumble and drops of sweat running down his forehead, there was nothing to indicate torture.
Shouldn't I feel relieved? Shouldn't I feel strong because I had him tied to a chair? Why, instead of anger disappearing, was I feeling something rough inside?
I looked down and dropped the cigarette stub.
"Do you have enough?" David asked with laughter. Shouldn't I be the one asking this question? Disgusted, I turned my back on him, taking a deep breath. A picture of his face as I burned a hole in his hand, was still in front of me. I came to terms with the fact that I won't forget this picture any time soon.
In the back pocket of my pants, I felt a slight movement, so I turned back to David instinctively, seeing the twinkle of the pocketknife spike flash in his hand. Somehow, I completely forgot that I had taken it with me for protection. And my protection has almost become my doom. In my mind, I scolded myself for not being more careful.
With his hand strapped to the arm of the chair, there was nothing David could do to me. There was no reason to be afraid, but I reacted promptly anyway – grabbing the knife, clutching it in my brittle fingers.
"You think I'm easy prey, don't you?" I snapped. David grinned in amusement, seemingly enjoying my indignation.
"I don't think that," he said, and I frowned because I knew what he was about to say, "I know it. You're weak. At first, I thought you were like O'Donnell, but now I see I was wrong. You can't even hurt me without looking away. You're pathetic." David's words reminded me of Lucifer, which made my heart constrict. "You're a coward. You're letting fear overwhelm you. How do you want to defend yourself when I'll be gone?" he used to remind me.
Guess what, dad. You're not here. And I know exactly what to do to defend myself, even without you.
Thoughtlessly, I lunged at David, knocking him to the floor with a chair, and with clenched fists, I began to punch him in the face like it was the only thing I knew. What he said lit a fire in me, just like I lit his cigarette and now, I was the one whose flames burned dangerously. The red blood flowing from his face didn't discourage me, on the contrary – I finally felt the adrenaline and power, because the man who was trying to hurt me was now on the ground below me, and I had the opportunity to hurt him in any way.
David stopped perceiving, but that didn't stop my hands either. They continued in what they were made for, fists even more clenched, punches stronger. Who knows what would have happened if Otto hadn't grabbed my shoulders and dragged me away from David's unconscious body?
Soon as I've realized that Otto had pulled me out of the warehouse, I started screaming, covering my eyes with bloody hands, which protested against the bright light. The sun was already in the sky, showing it was a brand-new day. How long have I been locked up with David in a dark room?
"What are you doing?!" I yelled at Otto and pushed him into his chest, making him back off a little. Instead of the answer, he gave me another question.
"What the hell are you doing?" His pupils stretched wildly, then pulled back.
"I'm taking revenge!" I shrieked. Doesn't he understand that this man tried to kill us? Maybe he's one of my mom's three kidnappers.
"You mean – you've already done it," Otto said a little quieter, examining me with his dark eyes.
"What do you mean?" I didn't understand. I was shaking. I didn't want to know what he had to think, seeing me like that.
My friend's eyes stopped running around, and instead, Otto focused his gaze on one point, looking somewhere deep into my soul, which kind of scared me.
"Do you even realize how long you've been punching him?"
I didn't understand where this question was supposed to lead to. Or to be more precise, I didn't want to understand.
"Otto, what-"
"Answer me," he insisted, which made me wonder where he's taking his patience from.
"I don't know," came out of me without thinking. "Long time."
"A long time," he repeated. "Ria, it's been a long time. David is dead."
Full of fear and uncertainty, I shook my lashes madly and quickly.