“You're scaring me with the gun,” I tell him, pretending to be his child.
“I know,” he says, “I don't want to scare you. I just want you to be safe. In case an intruder comes. That's why I have the gun out.”
“Thank you for protecting me, Daddy,” I say, pretending to agree with him.
But we both know the truth. We can only lie to ourselves for so long.
In the bedroom, I cover my face. The shock of the situation stuns me. Marjorie has died. In this bed… and Horace doesn’t know how to continue without her.
I look over at Horace. He is shaking again. Weak, tears in his eyes. He loved this woman. Their depravity made them perfect for one another.
But I'm not weak right now. I'm not shaking. I'm not crying.
In fact, I'm stronger than ever.
And that fantasy of mine, the one that I've been clinging to for the last four years since they took me hostage? Well, it's no longer such a daydream.
I'm done living in their fantasy.
Horace must notice the look in my eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, child,” he says, lunging at me with the gun in his hand. He points it at me, as if to shoot.
“She’s breathing,” I say, lying to him to catch him off guard.
I barrel toward Horace and knock the gun out of his hand.
He doesn't even realize what's happening until it's too late.
He dives for me, but I have the gun now. He wrestles on top of me, his hands surprisingly strong as he attempts to choke me, to stop me. Tears fill my eyes, my kidnapper now my murderer.
I won’t let this be how my story ends.
I swallow, for a moment scared to shoot him.
I’m sunshine. I want to be light.
But more than that, I want to live.
Marjorie is dead. This man has been my captor.
He never once asked me if I wanted to stay. He simply locked me up and threw away the key.
“Don't do this to your father,” he growls, as delusional as he was the day we met.
I'll never forgive myself for getting in his car. I was broke, alone, needing a ride to get away from a bad situation. Horace and Marjorie gave me one.
Of course, I never realized they were going to take me to their house. Keep me. Now I get to leave.
“Don't do something you'll regret,” he hisses. My breath is ragged, and I have the gun in my hand.
But I'm still imagining that man with the axe, the beard. My hero, my fantasy.
I'm not going to die in this house.
No. I'm going to end up somewhere that feels like home.
I pull the trigger.
3