I have never seen an uglier face than the one looming before me. His eyes are like nothing I have ever seen before- merciless, full of a hatred unknown to me. Feeling my sister's warm body behind me, I push her farther against the wall, into the corner. If he decides to use the gun in his hand, it won't hit her. He can only take one shot. After that, Mr. Cleary from next door will probably get concerned for his own safety and call the cops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a curtain flutter behind a closed, shaded window belonging to Mr. Cleary's house, only fifty feet or so from Ali's and my bedroom window. Last summer, he even tore down his fence because he thought our garden was so beautiful. He has a very clear view. Deep in my heart, I wish that he'd help us; two young girls. But I know he won't. He thinks if things go wrong, the man will come for him.

"Give me your pretty little sister. She won't be harmed," he coaxes with a sickening smile. Liar, I want to say. You'll do anything to get what you want. Behind me, Ali sucks in a terrified breath. I squeeze her hand to let her know that all will be fine. Seeing that his first attempt did nothing to convince me- that I'm not as stupid as he wishes, not as scared as he hopes- he tries a different approach. "Give me your sister and I won't hurt you."

From that one sentence, I know that I have a huge advantage over him. Maybe he's never felt love before, just as he's never felt the effect of a single smile coming from a loved one. He doesn't know what lengths a person would go to to protect that someone who opens the intangible parts of the world. The parts that you can only believe in.

This man doesn't know what one sister would do for another. I let go of my little sisters hand, hating the empty space her hand leaves behind.

The horrid man points a gun at me. He wants me to give him my sister. Now that he's gotten the thought into his head, he will never let go of it. I know his type. I won't ever let go of my sister, either. I want to cry as he puts the cold metal to my head. "Give me the girl," he says in a hushed, ghostly tone that tells me just how maniacal he is.

My sister tells me to let him take me. She begs for me to not to get myself killed. Her eyes plead with mine. The crack of my heart breaking can be heard from miles around, seen by anyone looking at my face. I wish I could tell her how much I love her. That if I were to let her get hurt, to see her be killed instead of me, I couldn't live with the person inside me. The man threatens to pull the trigger. I take my sister's hand back and she squeezes it back. She's sure that this is me giving in to her pleas. She hopes that I'll give her to the monster before us. I grip her hand harder and harder to make sure that my plan won't fail. The man pushes the gun harder against my head, forcing my head to tilt a little.

“Mister,” I whisper, not able to get the fear completely out of my thoughts, “If you are going to shoot me, I will you to look into my eyes as you do so. The last thing I want to see before I die is the face of my killer. That way, God will know who to punish. The universe will only take me or my sister from this world tonight; one of us will go free. One of us will go to the police. You will spend the rest of your days in prison." I don't know if Ali hears the underlying orders in my apparent burst of defiance. I hope she does later. I continue to distract the man. "If you pull that trigger now, just see what you do. I assure you will never be able to walk away from this, for the memory will become a shadow.” I keep my eyes focused on his animal gaze. No. His daemon gaze. He applies more pressure to the trigger.

Ali, my sister, notices. She screams. She tries to pull away from my tightening grip on her hand. She shouts at me, asks me what I'm doing. Stop, she says. Stop it.

“Don't you worry. It's all about love,” I say softly enough so that the killer cannot hear me. He doesn't deserve to hear my last words. He is an evil man with a heart full of coal. I can hear the police sirens down the street. They won't get here in time; they won't get to him in time.

I don't let go of Ali as I lunge forward. With all the strength in my arm, I fling her to the side. The window shatters as she flies through it. She'll be fine. Our bedroom is on the bottom floor of the mansion. Ali and I wanted a bedroom where we could open the door in the mornings and see the bright colors of the flowers in the garden. Where we could open the window and smell their sweet scent. She'll be fine. She'll land in the bushes with only a few scrapes. A few cuts, a few bruises. Then Ali will run for help.

The last thing I am to see are the killer's beady, crazed eyes, flashing in the light of Ali's nightlight. The last thing I hear is the sound of a gunshot mixed with my sister’s second scream. The last thing I smell are the flowers Ali and I planted side by side, occasionally stopping for seed wars, where we flung seeds at each other, laughing under the sun's warm gaze. The last thing I taste is the rusty taste of blood in my mouth. The last thing I feel is love for my sister flooding all my senses, making death a peaceful thing.

She'll be alright.