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FORTY-SEVEN

STACY HOWARD

My hands and fingers ache from gripping the gun. It’s outstretched, pointed at the stairs. The muscles in my arms have grown tired, quivering. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here with my back against the pole I’m chained to, legs spread out in front of me, looking down the sight of the revolver. Beads of sweat have gathered at my hairline, slithering down my forehead and the nape of my neck. I hear footsteps above me, heavy, like always. Tears instantly cascade from my eyes. My heart races as the adrenaline kicks in, slowing the whole world down.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks all the way open, and I finally see them—the shoes I have heard so many times before. They descend, methodically, calmly, one by one. More of the figure comes into view, his shins, his knees, the tips of his fingers hanging at his sides, his waist, his chest, his neck, and then his face.

“Stacy,” he says, wide-eyed as though shocked to find me down here.

I recognize him immediately. He puts his hands up and takes a small step toward me.

His mouth parts as he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out because I don’t give him the chance to talk. I pull the trigger and scream out in unison with the two deafening bangs. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hear the hammer of the revolver click over and over but there’re no more bullets left. All I can hear is a high-pitched ringing and the sound of my own cries.