Page 101 of Inevitable Endings
And now, I am one of them.
That is how my father choked on his own blood, his body twitching, fingers curling into the floor before turning still. I remember the way his eyes glazed over, empty, like he had never existed at all. That is how my brother bled out in the gutter, lungs filling with red, his mouth still open in a scream that never finished. That is how countless men before me have fallen, throats slit, bullets buried deep, bones shattered, forgotten in shallow graves no one would ever find.
That is how I will go, too.
No grave. No name whispered in mourning. No hand to hold as the last breath leaves my lungs.
I tell myself I am not afraid. But the truth is, I don’t know how to be anything but afraid.
Not of dying. No, that is the easy part.
I am afraid of how little it matters.
How little I have mattered to anyone.
How the world will not change when my body swings from this ceiling. How the sun will rise tomorrow, golden and warm, and I will not be there to see it. How people will wake, drink their coffee, kiss their lovers, keep living, as if I had never been hereat all.
That is my punishment.
The door creaks open, and I feel my jaw clench instinctively. My heart tightens with a mix of anger and bitter disappointment as I see him. Petrov.
His figure emerges from the shadows, but he’s not alone. He’s being dragged. The two men hauling him forward move with little effort, his weight nearly dead in their grip. Chains rattle against the floor with every step, the sound sharp, grating. His posture is stiff, but there’s no denying the weight that hangs over him. He’s here, and I can feel it, my stomach twists in the way it always does when I think of him. Betrayal. Again.
I’ve always known this day would come. Petrov is like a storm, unpredictable, impossible to trust. The past haunts me in the most visceral way, and every inch of my being tells me that this man, this traitor, will only bring more ruin.
His captors release him with a shove, and he stumbles forward. The chains around his wrists and ankles clatter against the ground as he tries to steady himself. His movements are slow, deliberate, almost like he’s dragging himself. His eyes never meet mine, as if he knows what’s coming, as if he knows I’ve already made my judgment. And I’m ready to voice it, ready to condemn him, to finally cut him out of my life like the cancerous wound he’s always been. I can already feel the words forming on the tip of my tongue: I knew you’d do this. I knew you were just waiting for the right moment to turn against me.
But as he steps into the dim light of the room, something stops me. It’s a small thing at first, a flicker of doubt that gnaws at my insides. There’s something wrong. Something in the way he moves, or rather, how he can’t move. The way his shoulders are slumped, as though he’s carrying the weight of the world on them, far heavier than any man should bear.
I watch him more closely, and my breath catches in mychest. His face is a mess; bruised, swollen, covered in dark, angry marks. His lips are cracked and bleeding, his eyes dull and sunken. He’s barely standing, the chains pulling against his every movement, but somehow, he manages to keep moving toward me, each step more of a struggle than the last. His clothes are torn, and I can see the remnants of blood soaking through his shirt.
My jaw loosens, the anger dissolving into something heavier, more complicated. I have to force myself to breathe steadily. What the hell happened to him? This isn’t the Petrov I remember, the one who would betray anyone without blinking, who wore his treachery like a badge of honor. This man... this man looks broken.
A mix of suspicion and concern knots in my stomach as I take in the sight of him. He’s no longer the enemy I thought he was. No, this man is something else entirely. A man who’s been crushed by forces even more unforgiving than I could imagine.
I can’t keep my eyes from tracing the bloodstains on his clothes, the way he falters with each step. I want to ask him what happened, but the words die in my throat. Something inside me is still too proud, too bitter to give him the satisfaction of sympathy. I’ve been burned too many times by this man.
Yet, the anger is not enough to overshadow the sharp sting of something else, something darker, something far more unsettling than the betrayal I had been ready to feel. Fear.
His eyes flick toward the other guards standing at the door. Petrov is barely standing, but his gaze, though weary, is still there.
‘‘Do you know what’s happening?’’ His voice is raw, cracked, but it still carries the edge of urgency. He’s not asking for my pity. He’s not here to beg for mercy, because he hasn’t done anything to ask mercy for.
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I take a long, hard lookat him—really look at him. His face is gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his body trembling, and yet I can feel the faint pulse of defiance still lingering beneath the surface. He’s been through hell, but there’s something else in his eyes, something I can’t quite place. Something... desperate.
We stare at each other and slowly realize our own minds and external factors have played us both.
This is it. The end.
And I’m going first.
The door creaks open, and two more figures step inside. They don’t speak; they don’t need to. Their presence is the announcement we’ve been waiting for. The gun on one of their hips gleams in the low light, a silent promise of violence. The tension is thick enough to choke on, but neither Petrov nor I move. We’re both too aware of the situation, too aware that the fate of both our lives is now tied to this single, impossible moment.
The door slams shut behind them, and they move into position, flanking us with cold, practiced efficiency. The restraints on my wrists, sharp and unforgiving, remind me of the situation I’m in. I flex my fingers, trying to ease the ache, but it’s useless. Every inch of me is a prisoner. The words of Nick echo in my head—‘‘You’ll live up to the myth of being dead.’’I can almost feel the weight of it pressing on my chest, a crushing weight that leaves me hollow, lifeless.
The leader of the two guards steps forward, his face blank, eyes betraying no emotion. His hands hover near the firearm, his finger itching for theinevitable.
But before I can even gather my thoughts, Petrov moves.
