“Children shouldn’t play with guns.”
“Who said I was playing?”
He paused then, actually looking at me. His eyes raked over my body, looking for recognition. His eyes lingered on my cheek, undoubtedly examining the scar, although I doubted it would help. As it turned out, some of the thugs that work for the ministry like leaving their mark on their victims. A calling card of sorts. The cut on my face was similar to one that had been left on no less than twenty other teens. I was sure there were others, I just hadn’t met them yet. Standing before me was a man. Someone I would never forget. He was the one who had ripped me from my bed. Had thrown me into shackles, then squeezed them tight enough to wring blood from my wrists. He stood before me and clearly did not remember me. Why would he? I was just one of the many he had tortured. Nothing special about little Celia Jäger. At least there hadn’t been.
“Do you know what I find odd?”
“My limited experience has shown that no ministry officials lock their homes, yet everyone stays out. Regular citizens lock and bolt their homes yet can’t keep anyone out.”
“And I think it’s time that changes.”
“That what changes?”
“That the ministry starts experiencing what fear is. Fear mixed with the hopelessness that comes from knowing that nothing you do will protect you.”
He scoffed, “I suppose you are going to teach me that then?”
“Not at all sir.”
“No. No, you are the lesson.”
I pulled the trigger and as his blood pooled pulled out my paintbrushes. Time was of the essence. My alibi would only hold for another thirty minutes.
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Prompt: “Children shouldn’t play with guns.” “Who said I was playing?”