Page 73 of Milo

With a thud, I land on dirt, grime, rocks, my body sore, aching, filthy.

It's so cold. It's freezing. Darkness. I can't see.

A spine-chilling growl penetrates my skull, "Welcome home."

No.

"We've been expecting you."

No!

I jolt awake, grabbing my chest. My heart hammers, a sheen of sweat covering my entire body, my breathing ragged, frantic. I check the time. 2 a.m.

Not again.

I'm so tired. I'm so tired of this. I just want to sleep. I just want some rest. I want to close my eyes and see nothing.

Taking several deep breaths, my gaze darts to the dresser, to the pistol resting on top of the black cabinet. A foul taste coats my tongue.

I didn't mean to kill him.

I didn't.

I was aiming for his shoulder.

Or maybe his arm. His hand. I don't know. I don't fucking remember. It's a blur. So vague. It happened so fast. One second.

It took a second.

I clench my jaw. This is my fault. I should've trained more. I should've practiced. I should've mastered the pistol before he gave it to me, let me use it, let me slaughter.

I was scared. Shaking. I wasn't thinking. I just pulled the trigger.

Idiot.

Well, never again.

With vengeful determination coursing through my veins, I swing my legs over the bed and slide on a pair of slippers. I grab a satin blue robe and toss it over my nighty, my feet carrying me toward the gun.

Hesitating for a moment, I swallow back the guilt and palm the weapon, pocketing it as I make my way to the range.

I haven't been able to touch the pistol since it happened. It's dirty. It's deadly. But I need to learn how to control it. How to use it. So this never happens again.

I won't let it happen ever again.

He's an idiot. He praised me. He told me that I was skilled. I wasn't. I'm an amateur.

Not for long.

Flicking on the fluorescent lights, I march toward the armory, grabbing a handful of bullets and shoving them in my pocket. I lay the gun down on the side table as I slide on ear protection. My gaze darts to the targets at the far end of the range.

I won't leave until these bullets hit that target in the exact locations that I'm aiming.

I need to get better. If I'm going to carry a gun, then I need to be its master, not the other way around.

I let out a shaky breath, yanking the gun off the table. I release the cylinder and load five rounds of .38 special into the chambers.

I snap it shut.

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