Hesitation is not a word in my vocabulary anymore. I rush out into the garden running in the only direction I know. I take a left through the small gate, where the body of another man lies, and this time when I see the gun, I take it from the dead man’s hand and head down past the deck where I remember Antonio’s relatives were eating by the water on that day we went for a walk. In my mind, the only direction to go is toward the wooden pavilion, marking it in my sights, but I stop in my tracks when I see two figures in its center. I think about changing direction, to flee to the other side where the trees are dense, where I could hide, but something stops me. I realize it’s two men, one standing over another, beating the guy who’s on the ground. It’s not just some guy, but Antonio.
Antonio is on the ground.
I check the gun I’m holding. It’s one of those automatic pistols and without even knowing to check if there are bullets or not, I lift it with both hands and point it toward the guy beating Antonio and walk toward them.
“Stop!” I yell out, stepping distance away from the pavilion now. The clarity and strength in my own voice surprise me. All I know is that this is war, and only the strongest will survive.
“What the fuck?” The man, with a bloody lip, and torn shirt, puts his hands up when he sees me. I realize he has a bloody knife in his right hand.
“Step back!” I shout again, noticing that Antonio is breathing heavily, blood staining his shirt as if he’s been stabbed in his stomach.
“Woah, take it easy, sweetheart.”
“Shoot him!” Antonio shouts with a broken voice.
My hands shake with anticipation and doubt, to which the guy laughs.
“I’ll tell you what. If you walk away now, then I won’t follow. Otherwise,” he readjusts his hold on the knife, “after I slit his throat, it’ll be your turn next. What do you say?”
I look at him, then at Antonio. I’m unable to stop my hands from shaking.
“Suit yourself,” the man says, then he goes to make a move for Antonio.
I pull the trigger, unsure of what to expect, certainly not the amount of power you can actually feel when the bullet blasts out of the gun and into the chest of the asshole with the knife. From my palms to my shoulders, pain vibrates through my muscles. The guy drops real fast and tries to inhale, but it sounds like he is trying to inflate a balloon with a hole. I step over him, aim the gun again and squeeze the trigger, this time hitting him between the eyes and putting a stop to his attempts of sucking in any more air.
“Fuck,” Antonio voices, holding himself up by leaning on his elbows. “Mia! Come here, help me up.”
He reaches a hand toward me, struggling to get up. There’s a lot of blood, and I want to run over, hold him and help him. But I don’t.
“Jesus, what are you doing?”
He holds his arm in front of his body now, staring up at me with wide eyes—because now, it’s him who I point the gun toward.