Page 7 of Collateral Damage

“Did you know, that a cigarette burns to 752°F?” Tears pile up until they break down his face, trying to make sense of my words as I hover it in front of him.

“He wouldn't-” he worked with criminals and he sounds surprised?

“No? Wouldn't he?” I blow a gale of smoke causing him to choke on it as my hand lowers, closing the gap between my cigarette and the back of his hand.

“Please, I have a-” before he has a chance to speak, I shove a rag down his throat, watching him squirm like salt on a worm.

“It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.” My knife slices between his veins, pinning his hand to the arm of the sofa, pushing a hole into his flesh, burning a bullet wound into the hand that wielded his gun.

“The truth hurts. Doesn't it?…” He's being so fucking loud it's just escalating my rage. He had no place to cry like a bitch. Theback of my hand finds his cheek as I stand to my feet, towering over him.

“That burning sensation. Imagine that.Over. And over. And over. Again…”I rip my leather glove off, revealing my battered hand from within, primarily smothered in ink to cover my wounds but remnants of craters in my flesh still remain.

“For your sake. I'll make this quick. Believe it or not, I'm not as sadistic as my Father. And I'm sick of fucking looking at you. This isover.” I shove the barrel of my gun inside his mouth, pushing the fabric to the back of his throat further, choking him until he leans back into the sofa, my boot finding his torso to keep him pinned beneath me before pulling the trigger, effectively using it as an added silencer.

It's finally over.

C H A P T E R 4

MY NIGHTMARE

Puppet

Iwake abruptly to the voices in my head. Screams down my ear that felt so real I questioned if it was a nightmare but I feel uneasy. I am usually such a heavy sleeper and this insulin knocks me out.How strange. My heart is still racing as I check my phone and its literally midnight?12:32 AM.I lay there for a moment, trying to come up with a reason as to why I am awake at this damn time of night when I hear shuffling downstairs. But not them. Unless Dad's digging his way to China to find something.

What is going on?

I sit up in my silky white pyjamas, my legs flooding cold as I slide them out from underneath the duvet and make my way to the hallway. They must still be awake, all the lights are on? I go to knock on their bedroom door. No answer. They are usually in bed by now. Maybe they are having a horror movie night. If they are I'll be mad, they know I love horror movies, regardless of if I went to bed early.Blasphemy.

I make my way downstairs quietly and can still hear the TV, white noise now sawing at my ears. Maybe they have fallen asleep and forgot to turn the TV off? Walking into the living room they are both sitting on the sofa. Well… more, slumped? They look asleep. I creep my way to the coffee table reaching forthe remote and press the power button glancing up to catch their reflection in the black screen.

Am I still dreaming?

I go to scream but nothing comes out. My feet are nailed to the floor, frozen in fear.Paralysed. Squinting my lids so hard I see stars as I reopen them trying to take away this nightmare I'm currently living in.

Come on Alora. Wake up. Wake. UP.

I turn my head slowly, terrified to admit this reality, hoping it was still in my head but this time it’s not in my head, it’s very much real,this can't be real.This has to be a dream. Why aren't I waking up? Both of them are sitting with two clean bullet holes through the centre of their brows, singular tears of blood leaking down the circumference of their faces, dripping onto their white attire, they are staring back at me with their eyes wide open, if nightmares walked among us this would be it. The white in their eyes bloodshot and dull of any glimmer, freeze frame faces, dripping with fear, like they had been frozen and on a tape, the expressions still etched into their lifeless body. Solid like stone.Pale. Cold. Stiff.

Dead.

Play - ‘That Home - The Cinematic Orchestra’

They aredead. I think I'm going to barf… I can't breathe, yelping in oxygen as my chest heaves. I lose all feeling in my legs as I collapse onto the wooden oak floor. The back of the sofa is bleeding red, seeping into the fabric and the stench of metal is tainting the air. I claw for their legs, struggling to steady my breathing as uncontrollable tears begin to flood my face. These bullet wounds are fresh, whoever did this is still in this house, that is what must have woken me up. My bitter face turns to the noises coming from the basement and my heart sinks, lowerand lower until it sits in the pit of my stomach, wiping my wet lashes to clear my blurry vision, fumbling for my father’s phone.Shit. I don't know the damn password.FUCK. And I just touched crucial evidence,my fingerprints are all over it. I stand quietly, trembling to hold my weight as my eyes fix to the door down the corridor ahead leading to my least favourite part of the house. I suck in to hold my breath as cries try to escape my mouth. I can feel sweat forming like a rash all over my flesh, burning me from the inside out, adrenaline kick starting, causing my head to thump. I've watched enough murder documentaries to see where this is going. But watching it and actually partaking in one is very different and suddenly I can't think.

Think, Alora think!

I need a weapon. Looking over at the kitchen door, I swallow blades down the inside of my throat, building up the courage to move quietly and carefully towards the room. I'm quivering as the mix of fear and the temperature of the night sweep the back of my neck. Reaching the block of knives, I slide one out gently and I can't hear anything over the hollow drumming in my head and the static white noise grating at my hearing, it's nauseating. I'm on the verge of vomiting. Fear I've never experienced is now flooding every nerve aligning my body.

The door.

They got in somehow. The door must be open. Tip toeing lightly around the island I grab the door handle, squeezing my face up like a raisin as I twist it clockwise praying it doesn't make too much sound. I tug it towards me slightly and it jams.The bastard locked it back up.I tug it a little harder as my eyes run, cutting down my cheeks, closing my throat to sob silently into the window of the doorframe. I'm going to die tonight. And I'm not ready to die.

I don't understand. Who would do this? Why? What unorthodox deed did my father commit that led to his demise?

Footsteps begin to make their way up the basement staircase and I could have sworn my hearts stopped beating.

Alora. You need to move. NOW.

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