TWENTY-NINE - ROMAN
“Wh—what?” Her words had gone from strong and threatening to weak and forced.
“You heard me. I didn’t stutter.”
“No, that’s not true,” she whispered.
“What part don’t you believe? I killed Elliott.”
“I’m not going in there,” she attempted to protest.
I flicked the safety off. “The fuck you aren’t.”
This was the last place anyone wanted to go. Those who’d heard about it never wanted to see to believe; those who’d experienced it wished they hadn’t.
It was a makeshift solitary confinement space where people were kept if they fucked up or got out of line.
Some made it out; few did not. There was no overhead light, no window, no bed or seating.
Just three walls, a cold, flooded floor, and a thick metal door with a cutout just big enough for airflow, small enough the person inside couldn’t fit through it.
Once the door was closed, the only way to get out was from the outside, and if the lights on the other side were shut off, the entire space went pitch-black.
I pushed her forward into the room. She lost balance, stumbling over her own feet, falling to the ground and landing with a splash.
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” She tried to clamor to her feet but lost balance again, landing on her hands and knees.
“It’s for your own good.” Before she could try to stand up and make a run for it, I leveled my arm with the gun still in my hand, pointing it straight at her.
She fell on her ass and scurried backward, pressing herself against the wall.
It’s a shame. That dress was so pretty on her.
I froze for a brief moment, just like before, second-guessing, doubting what I was about to do.
But I had to remind myself this was just a job. Don’t take it personally.
I gave her one last look. Her eyes were tired and tearful in the dim lighting, silently begging me not to hurt her. I didn’t want to do this—I had to. There was no other way.
She opened her mouth to make one final plea for her life.
Just before I slammed the door shut, I pulled the trigger.