Anna
She grins down at me ghoulishly and though I hate the way her lips peel back over her teeth, I can’t look away. Not from bravery or courage or any of that, but because I know that this may well be the last thing I see. The last thing in this life I see will be the smile of the woman who kills me. She twists the gun and the barrel tugs at the skin of my head, pulling at it, twisting it, wrenching at it. I feel like I am in someone else’s nightmare. Surely, I reason, this can’t be happening to me. I am a cheerleader and a veterinary student. Things like this don’t happen to women like me. But it’s now, in the last moments of my life, that I realize that nobody is immune to the chaos of life. This could’ve happened to any woman. It merely takes the right circumstances—the wrong circumstances.
“Do you hear the madness out there?” She smiles.
I hate the way she smiles. It’s carefree and sickening at the same time. It’s like a mixture between the woman she once was and the sadist’s face she adopted when experiencing the years of torture. She’s not a person anymore, not really, not like the rest of us. She’s a twisted caricature of a person.
“Answer me!” she cries. “You won’t steal these last moments from me, bitch!”
“I hear it,” I mumble, shrinking away from her as much as I can, which isn’t much at all when her gun is planted against my skull.
“Do you think there’s any chance that your little lover man will get to you? First, he was taken away by security. Three big strong men. What, do you think, are the chances he got free of them? Oh, fine, let’s assume that he used his Black magic and somehow made it happen . . .” She pauses. I see it in her face. She’s wondering whether to go on with her soliloquy or just end it all.
“Well, what else?” I urge, my voice hoarse, all the phony nonchalance and confidence gone from it now. I’m just a woman on her back, speaking for her life.
She sighs. “Well, even if he did somehow get back into the arena, there’s the crowd, isn’t there? You hear them. Chaos out there, absolute chaos. And then even if he could get through the crowd—which I very much doubt, you know—there are my men, four of them, just as tough and deadly as Samson is. Do you really think he loves you enough to try and get through all that, let alone succeed?”
I don’t have to ponder the question. I know the answer. Yes, and I love him just as much.
She shakes her head. “Enough talk,” she snaps.
I close my eyes now and wait for it to come. I can’t fight. My body is exhausted, drained, and there’s nothing I can do but wait for the inevitable to happen.
In my last moments, I go to the turnstile. I walk through the turnstile and onto the field. Roses and daisies and flowers of every color of the rainbow burst around me, their fragrance filling the air and their petals ushering me onto the lush vibrant grass. I walk deep into the field, a smile on my face, more content and at ease than anybody is capable in life. I think, if I am going to die it will not be with her twisted smile in my mind, but my peaceful place, my happy place. I wish I could’ve lived longer, done more, but it seems that isn’t in the cards for me and I have to accept that, have to understand that there’s nothing I can do but be happy, be truly happy for one last time in my life.
I walk deeper and deeper into the field until the turnstile is a pinprick behind me. And then the dogs lope toward me, hundreds of them, their tongues dangling happily between their teeth and their barks and yelps high-pitched and beautiful on the air. They envelop me and when I think it can’t get more perfect, the image couldn’t possibly be more complete, the dogs part and Samson walks down the aisle they make, smiling, arms outstretched.
“I love you so much,” he says. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a killer. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a bad man. I love you and I’ll never stop loving you.”
I fall into his arms and a dozen little dogs wrap around out ankles and lap at our skin, rough, wet tongues sending prickles dancing all over our bodies. Love blooms in my chest and I try with all my effort to imagine that this is real, this is the real world and the world in which there is a gun to my head, in which my brains are about to become crimson patterns on the floor, is fake. That is fake and this is real. I am content, I am safe, I am secure, I am happy.
But then I open my eyes, and River’s grin spreads wider.
“This is it,” she sighs. “I’m almost sad to do it. I’ve enjoyed our little time together. I feel like it’s really helped me come to terms with some things. But, you know, it can’t last forever. I wish it could, but . . .”
She pulls the trigger. I see black.
###
What surprises me most is the lack of pain. I thought there’d be massive pain, pain like I’ve never experienced before. I’d assumed that, for one hellish second, I’d feel the bullet enter my head, feel everything empty out of me. I’d assumed that the pain would grip me and I would scream out, if only for a fraction of a second. But there is no pain, and stranger still, I can feel my eyes, my hands, my legs; I feel the pressure of the floor beneath me and the rising and falling of my chest. And then sound enters this strange world, and I hear River grunting, and, and . . .
Yes! Yes! Samson! Yes!
I open my eyes. I am not dead.
I rise to my feet and watch as Samson wrenches River away from me. My ears are ringing and when I look down, I see the space where the bullet hit, a fine dent in the concrete floor, a fine dent where it ricocheted directly next to my head. The gun went off, but it missed me, missed me by less than an inch. I can hear, but everything is muffled.
Samson tears River away from me, snaps her wrist, and she drops the gun. I dive on it, scoop it up, hold it to my chest. I hold it close and then back away, watching the scene, knowing that there’s little I can do.
Samson is bleeding from his head and his face, blood gushing from his nose, but from the way he moves, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with him. He’s like a machine, I think. He came for me and he’s like a machine. My machine, my man. He saved me! Samson!
River yelps when he snaps her wrist, and then turns and tries to struggle in his grip. Samson wraps his arm around her, squeezing her chest, holding her still as he reaches into his pocket with his free hand and takes out the dart gun. He presses it against her neck, there’s a small pump, and then River’s eyes go slack and she falls from Samson’s grip and to the floor as though she is boneless.
Samson steps away from her, looking down at the dart which protrudes from her neck, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, his gaze turns to me. His eyes are soft, softer than I’ve ever seen them, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I wouldn’t blame him, would never blame him for showing me the softer side of himself.
He steps over River and opens his arms. “Anna,” he says, voice heavy. “Anna, I . . .”
“Hush,” I say, ignoring the thrumming in my ears, just glad that he’s here, I’m not dead, I’m with my man. “Just . . . hush.”
I meet him in the middle of the room, the room I was sure moments ago would be my tomb. Then I fall into his chest and he embraces me fiercely, holding me to him like he’s scared I’ll float away.
“I love you, Anna,” he says. “I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve said it the first moment I saw you. I love you so damn much.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper into the tightness of his chest. “I love you, Samson.”
Then the air is alive with the sounds of sirens.
“We have to get out of here,” he says. “But first . . .”
He backs away from me and takes his cellphone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have to let the police know where to find her. The dart will knock her out for at least a few hours, but if the police don’t know where to look . . .”
He dials a number, lifts the cell to his ear, and then begins talking frantically to somebody named Officer Gomez.
When the call is over, he drops the cell back into his pocket and takes my hand. It’s warm, and strong, and the feel of it embracing mine is almost too much to handle.
“Come on,” he says, leading me away from the room, away from River. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say. I try to laugh. It’s a small laugh, still half-terrified, but the sound of it in my ringing ears is welcome, blissful.
###
We watch from Samson’s car across the street as River and her four cronies are hauled out in cuffs and placed in the back of police cars. River is carried like a baby, but she’s still cuffed, and as we watch the officer who carries her turns to one of his colleagues with a sideway glance. I don’t hear what he says, but I imagine it’s something like, ‘We finally got her.’ As far as I know, the police have wanted her for a while, wanted to catch the psychopathic woman who thrives on murder and pain. She’s placed into the back of the car and the door is shut and locked behind her. When she wakes, she’ll be in a police cell, and then prosecuted for a dozen charges, backdated all the way to the start of her career. She’ll be put away, but she won’t die, and that’s what Samson wanted.
“But I won’t leave it to chance,” he tells me, as the police form a line around the arena. “I’ll give them evidence, enough evidence that she’ll go away for life. There’s no way in hell I’ll leave it to chance and witnesses.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Won’t the police want you, too?”
Samson shrugs and starts the car. “Maybe,” he admits. “But that’s not a worry for right now. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
The engine thrums to life and he turns to smile, a half-smile on his lips.
“Do you regret meeting me, Anna?” he says.
I reach across the car and touch his face, careful to be gentle lest I make the wounds worse. “Never,” I say.
We drive away into the night.