Writer's Debate

When I woke, I found myself being pulled out of the trunk that was my comfort, and would soon be my Hell. I swiveled my head upward as it happened, and saw that it was the third man - Jimmy, as I would soon know him to be - who was lifting me out of the trunk. “Get on the ground, Princess,” he said gruffly. But as I looked at him, I realized that he had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen, even if it was for just a split second. Knowing that I saw - at least, I think he knew - Jimmy quickly turned his head away, staring across the desert as if to find a solution to whatever emotional dilemma he had out there, in the open air. Poor guy. Thinking back, now that I’ve been delivered from it all, I don’t really blame him at all. He didn’t want to do what he did, that much is obvious when I think about it. Of course, I never thought I would forgive him. “It doesn’t matter whether he wanted to or not, he did it, and that’s all that matters.” But when you get to be my age, you start to understand people a little bit better. You start to see yourself in their shoes, and learn that, yes, you being held at gunpoint is a fairly acceptable excuse to do damn near anything. But I digress. In any event, I found myself kneeling on the side of that dirt road, when the old man - Boss - told Mr. Slickback-Hair - Johnny - to let me go. If anything, he was a man of his word. You have to admire a man of his word. But then Johnny began arguing with him, saying to keep me, talking about the ransom they could reap from keeping me. Boss shrugged him off, and then...well... You know what happened. Johnny didn’t respond well. Not. At. All. I’ll spare the gory details this time, don’t worry. You already know them, I assume. But I will say, it was oddly beautiful, seeing the red splatter against the lime green. Disturbing, obviously. It clearly screwed me up for a good thirty years. But there was something disquietingly beautiful about the whole thing, I must say. It was here when I really got screwed up, when I was put back in the trunk with the corpse that was once Boss, as blood that seeped from his wounds started to slowly drip down onto my skin. My eyes were closed, as I couldn’t bear to look at this horrible...thing. I just couldn’t. But then I did. And what I saw was what really screwed it all up for me, I think. That was what made me start to implode on myself, what made me get disowned from the family (with trust fund in tow, luckily) only a year after. That was what made it impossible to obey my perfect family’s orders for me to become a perfect little girl once again. That’s what made me run to New York City, hoping to escape. That’s what I couldn’t escape, not until tonight. I hope. When I opened my eyes, I found them looking into Boss’. Those cold, cold eyes. Not his fault of course. He was dead. But they stared at me like brown, cold marbles, his face contorted into some bizarre grin of shock, and possible relief at death. I wonder whether everyone finds death to be a relief. Who knows? I guess the dead do. Either way, I may find out soon enough. Spoilers. I...I know Boss wasn’t a cold heart. But those eyes. Those... I’m sorry, Dr. Bruce. I have to stop for a moment. Then I’ll finish my story and send this puppy to you, I swear. I just can’t handle dragging on and on. The point hurts too much. Just, please. A moment.