I felt a warm liquid oozing from my forehead. Instinctively, I touched it with one finger. When I pulled my hand back, the red stain on my fingertip told me everything. Blood.
A scream cut through the air — raw, agonized. My heart slammed against my ribs as rage surged inside me. I ran into the room where the scream echoed.
It was Chris.
My hands shook as I raised the barrel and aimed at his head. My finger curled on the trigger.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I losing my mind? Why the fuck am I about to shoot Chris?
Bang.
Smoke curled from the muzzle. Chris — my childhood friend, my only friend — slumped with a clean hole through his forehead.
The gun slipped from my trembling hands. I dropped to my knees, the weight of what I'd done crushing me.
What the fuck... I just shot him. I killed him. He was my only friend. How the fuck could I do that? He was screaming for me to stop. He—
The thoughts came rushing in like a storm, dark and venomous.
He killed Judy. You didn't do anything wrong. He wasn't your friend — he was a disgrace to society. He won't be the last. That's right, let that little bitch get what he deserves. Burn in hell, pendejo. This is for Judy.
My legs steadied. I picked up the pistol and walked out of the office, then out of the warehouse.
A man in his thirties stood there, a .357 Magnum in his hands, an orange van parked behind him. He aimed straight at me.
"Get in," he barked.
"No."
"It wasn't a choice. Get in, or get shot."
"I'll take the second option."
I pulled the trigger. The bullet sliced through the tension and tore into his shoulder. He fired back wildly, but I dodged at the last second and sprinted into the warehouse. I slammed the button to close the doors.
The van's engine roared as he peeled away, vanishing into the distance. I exhaled in relief as the heavy doors finally clanged shut.
I climbed the stairs back to the office where Chris's body lay.
"Why, Chris?" I whispered.
His corpse stared blankly.
"Why'd it have to come to this, man? Why couldn't you have killed someone else? Maybe then you'd still be alive." My voice cracked as I tossed the pistol onto the desk and stumbled to the liquor cabinet.
I poured a shot of whiskey, raised the glass, and said, "Saludos por el éxito de eliminar al imbécil que mató a Judy."
I downed it in one go and hurled the glass to the floor, shattering it into glittering shards.
The bottle came next. I ripped it from the cabinet, staggered downstairs, and climbed into the pickup truck parked there. I tipped the bottle high, chugging until the burn clawed down my throat. Then I rolled down the window and threw it, listening to the crash as it exploded against the pavement outside.
I opened the glove box. Inside was a set of keys and a cassette tape with the word Visitas scrawled across the label. I pocketed the tape and clutched the keys.
Back upstairs, I collapsed on the office couch and passed out.
The Next Day
I woke, heavy-headed but alive. The keys jingled in my hand as I walked back to the truck. The ignition sputtered, then roared to life.
I hit the button to open the warehouse doors. Sunlight spilled in, blinding and merciless.
Without looking back, I drove out into it.
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