19. Rhett
Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me.
“You have ten more seconds, Everett, before I choose for you.”
Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me. Micah, the kid, or me.
Evil, innocent, or damaged.
Risk, condemnation, or cowardice.
Micah, the kid, or me.
It’s the third time I’ve stood holding this revolver. The kid is around fifteen now. I’m trying to lean on odds, instincts, the fucking impossible, to deduce if this could be the time he’s placed a bullet in the chamber.
I’m so sorry, Ana.
I want the life we painted together during that first date I refused to believe in the tucked-away Italian restaurant. It was the first day of the beginning of our lives, and we fucking deserve to see life through together.
“Fine—”
I lift the barrel toward Micah, and I shoot.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each click is agony and flashes of Ana.
Again.
Agony.
Again.
Ana.
The tension in me pours out when I’m left still standing, facing off with Micah, and I drop the gun, bracing on my knees with violent trembles.
“Well, that was stupid,” Micah says.
I snap, lunging for him, but I’m dragged back before I can even get close. One strike to my temple, and I black out.