Branded(76)

As quietly as I can, I turn the handle to the back door and open it, surprised the hinges don’t squeak. I’m not sure the crazy cop with a gun pressed into my baby’s skull would notice it, anyway. I look around the man’s shoulder and get a good look at my daughter. She’s so pretty, even with tears runnin’ down her cheeks, that it makes my damn chest hurt. I shoulda seen just how perfect and pretty she was when she was little. I watched her so much lately that I memorized every beautiful feature of her grown-up face, even though I could never get close enough to really look at ‘em.

I turn off the sappy shit when I see the cop pull the slide release on the gun and I whisper a prayer into the quiet night.

“Lord, forgive me.”

I aim, and pull the trigger.





I realize I’m not dead when I hear screaming. My eyes fly open and I see Jackson standing in front of me, staring at the ceiling. I glance up and find it covered in flames, quickly spreading towards the back door. Something out of the corner of room catches my eye and I see the ghost from my past waltz through the open back door with a gun in his hands. He’s aged a great deal and his brown hair is now white, but I would recognize him anywhere.

“Hi, baby,” he tells me with a smile. “I was aiming for his head but I guess I’m a little rusty in my old age. Guess I should have recognized the smell of gas before I fired.”

I immediately start fighting against the ropes, twisting and turning my body as hard as I can, screaming for someone to help while the fire quickly spreads across the cabinets, licking against the walls.

Jackson takes off running in the direction of the living room and I watch in shock as my father flies across the room, much faster than I would have ever thought possible considering his age. He jumps over my legs and tackles Jackson with his arms around his waist right in the doorway. Both men crash to the floor with a loud thud and immediately start wrestling. I turn away from their fight as the crackle and snap of the fire spreading echoes all around me. Smoke fills the room and I try to take low, shallow breaths as I pull so hard against the rope that my wrists burn and I can feel blood dripping down my arms.

The blast from a gun makes me scream and I whip my head back to where my father and Jackson were fighting.

My father straddles Jackson, still holding the gun towards him. I glance down and see a bloody hole blooming on Jackson’s shirt right over his stomach. I look up and my father’s eyes meet mine for the first time in fifteen years and I can’t stop the scream that flies out of my mouth. I know I said I wanted him to just fucking show himself after all these weeks of notes and threats, but I immediately want to take it all back. When I look into his eyes, I see him coming after me with a gun in his hand the day I saw him murder someone in his bedroom. I see him charging towards me, wanting nothing more than to end my life and relieve himself of the burden that was me. I see the hatred when he glared at me across the courtroom the day I testified against him and I see every single time he dragged me out of my hiding places, held me against the table and burned me with his cigarette.

As he gets up from Jordan’s body and walks towards me with the gun while the fire rages out of control around us, I’m not quite sure which is scarier. He quickly steps over my legs to get to the other side of my body, putting himself in between the fire and me as he squats down next to me. I pull my legs up to my chest and bury my face in my knees so I won’t have to look at him when he kills me. I don’t want my last sight to be his face. I hear something click, feel my arms jerking back and forth and then suddenly, they drop down to my sides. I look up in confusion to see my father holding a pocketknife in his hand.

I quickly scramble away from him, my arms screaming in protest as I move my feet and legs as fast as I can, coughing from the smoke as I get to my feet and jump over Jackson’s body, refusing to look down at him.

“Seraphina, wait!” my father shouts as I make it to the doorway to the living room.

I slowly turn to face him even though every instinct inside of me is telling me to run. Run from this house and never look back.

My father stands and takes a step towards me, stopping when he sees the fear on my face. His frame is silhouetted by fire as it spreads along all of the cupboards and most of the walls and ceiling.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry for everything I ever done to you. You never deserved any of that shit. You were a good girl. God blessed me with the most beautiful little girl in the world and I never appreciated it.”

My eyes fill with tears from his words and the smoke making its way towards me. Is this some kind of joke or a dream? Why is he saying these things to me?