“Go to hell.”
That’s what I say. All he hears is a muffled noise that sounds unrecognizable at best. For all he knows, I’ve just asked him to color in a picture of a friendly dinosaur.
I keep squirming…
Until I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.
I freeze.
“That’s fucking better.” His palm on my mouth shifts, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
Literally, not metaphorically.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth, and then we’re going to take a little walk to my van. You’re not going to struggle or call out for help. If you do, you’re a dead little lady. Am I perfectly clear?”
I can barely hear him, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears, but I nod my head, understanding a lot more than he realizes.
As promised, his hand disappears from my mouth—and my lungs plead for me to take a long drawing breath of the soothing cool air. To ease my throat, which is sore from screaming.
Dampness rolls down my face, but I can’t tell if it’s from tears or random raindrops that are beginning to fall.
The gun moves from my head, and he pushes me forward. I can no longer see it or feel it, but it’s there all the same.
I’m not a religious person—but that doesn’t stop me from praying to God or any other deity who can help me. Praying that I’ll get through this.
That I won’t become another statistic.
There are so many things I have left to do on this planet, like the Christmas show.
If I don’t survive this, there won’t be a Christmas show. Not unless the teachers go through with it to honor my final wishes.
Maybe God will let me return to earth to watch it.
Or I could be an angel and help with spreading good deeds.
I could live with that (no pun intended).
The man tells me where to go—which isn’t the same place where I’d like to tellhimto go.
When faced with death, people go through many phases before acceptance kicks in. They bargain with God. They promise they’ll be a better person if he lets them live.
They’ll give up smoking or drinking too much coffee or whatever their vice is.
I’m too busy for that.
I’m planning all the things I can return to earth to do as an angel—like Clarence inIt’s a Wonderful Life.
I’ll probably have to start small. Rookie stuff. The bigger good deeds are no doubt delegated to the more experienced, senior angels.
This is assuming I’ll return in human form. Maybe God has a sense of humor and will send me down as a dog.
A cute dog like Whiskey.
The thought that I’ll never see Whiskey again clenches my heart in an invisible fist. It tightens when I realize I might never again see anyone I love.
My friends.
My mother.
