I try to look past the black metal aimed at me, to the man behind it. The gun might lead to my death, but Enzo will be the one squeezing the trigger.
I don’t know why I ask him to kill me without using the gun. It will make no difference. I will be dead no matter how he does it. A gun might even make my death swifter.
I don’t want to die from a bullet to the head.
If Enzo is going to kill me, I want him to do it with his bare hands. I want him to feel the life he’s taking, and how desperate, determined I am to live. And a tiny part of me hopes he won’t be able to kill me if he’s forced to endure my heart stopping, my breathing slowing, and my essence leaving my body.
I swallow hard, trying to remain calm.
No, it won’t make a difference. He will kill me either way, unless I find a
