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Story Begining
May 8, 2010
I spun around, my hair flying. He was right behind me, still. I reached into my back pocket, gripping the cool metal of Daddy's pistol. I pulled it out and pointed it at him. This is what he deserved, to be shot, to not live again. He had his chance and he ruined it. I was doing him a favor, yeah, that was it, a favor. Nothing more, nothing less. He stopped in his tracks, dread and anxiety crossing his face. I nodded, telling him in a tacit gesture that he had done it this time; that this time he was going to pay.
© Brooke W., Weston, MA
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