(All picture credits to their respective owners)
The bloke waving the rifle is on the floor now, grasping his bullet wounded leg and winching in pain, biting his lips to keep from crying. I may be old, but my aim is steady through experience, accurate through practice and precise through emotion, and I’m overflowing with it right now. I turn my sight towards the big fella now, and he’s still lying there on the floor, not even trying to get up, as he bloody well shouldn’t, blood seeping onto his chest from the deceased fella atop of him, shot straight in the neck, occasionally squirting some out onto the floor. The fella with the bruised face is now crouching in front of the window, and the little wuss is sitting to the right of my feet, next to the burnt closet, shivering and trying to cover his face and his ears, sobbing something to himself.
But I have no time for these monsters. One way or the other, they all are responsible for my daughter’s death. I’m trying to maintain myself, to keep my hands from quivering with regret and loss and my eyes from flooding, but I cannot. There’s too much rain out there, too much blow, and I cannot call anyone at this hour, no police, no rangers, no help. Yet, I will not let that stop me, my daughter will be avenged. I accidentally glance at her burnt remains and turn quickly towards the bloke with the bleeding leg. What have you done to my child? Wasn’t her mother enough? Wasn’t her life enough? Her own child? Wasn’t my weight on her enough? You… One of you took her from me. That chance to let her be more than what she got. By all that’s in my might, there shall be repercussions, she shall be avenged. Continue reading “The Trails Run Frail Part 4 Of 5”