Scar
By A.M. Brooks
Copyright © 2021 A.M. Brooks
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Thank you for respecting the hard work and creativity of this author.
Note: This story may not be suitable for persons under the age of 18.
Cover: Hang Le- Hang Le Design
Formatting: Elaine York- Allusion Publishing
Editing and Proofreading: Rebecca- Fairest of All Book Reviews
She conquered all her demons and wore her scars like wings.
-Atticus
Scarlet - Age 15
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a man right before he dies? His throat will swallow in double time, the saliva drying up, causing his mouth to try and make extra. His lips will part, usually to plead, sometimes in surprise, but more often than not, it’s to curse. The nostrils will flare out and his breathing will quicken before becoming shallow. The light will dim from his glossy orbs. His pupils will dilate as if they’re attracted to the danger standing in front of them. Attracted to me.
“You can’t be serious, Raul!” the man shouts at my father, though his eyes never leave mine. I hold my position, feet cemented to the ground, arms locked out in front of me with a secure grip on the 9mm in my hands. There is a silencer on the end, but let’s be honest, with the way this guy is shouting, someone had to have heard him by now. A small part of me prays, prays that my father will look at me. That he will see the dread in my eyes and the paleness of my face. I’m fifteen. I should not be standing in front of a man, making him bow down on his knees, only to turn the weapon to his head in the end. This shouldn’t be my life.
Only my father doesn’t spare me a glance. He keeps his black, beady eyes on the man kneeling on the floor. I don’t even know this man’s name. One minute I was in a restaurant waiting for my father and the next a bag was thrown over my head, and I was led to this empty warehouse.
“Solomon, you can’t be that surprised?” My father taunts him. A sadistic smile glides across his reddened lips while his arms spread wide from his body, his suit jacket tightening from the motion. “You steal from me, I take from you, simple as that.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” the man argues in earnest. A sheen of sweat coats his skin, dripping down the front of his ruffled button-up shirt, creating a pool of dampened cloth. He looks like a lawyer or maybe an accountant, only I know my father usually doesn’t keep regular company with men in legit businesses, so he’s probably a criminal as well.
My eyes slide over him, stopping short at the gold band on his ring finger. My finger wavers over the trigger. The man, Solomon, must see something pass over my features because he suddenly sneers in my direction, spitting at my shoes.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” My dad quirks his brow and clicks his tongue. “She’s known how to handle a gun since she was seven. Never misses a target.”
Solomon’s skin turns ashen. I concentrate on breathing, sucking breath in, pushing it out to calm the buzzing in my ears. My skin tingles and dances with nerves. Yes, my father taught me to hold a gun when I was seven. For years, I’ve been under his strict training on the skills of weaponry. Learning to shoot by the time I was eleven. When I was younger, I had hoped it was his way of trying to bond with me, so I never told anyone. Not my friends, not my teachers or even my other family members. I pushed myself until my aim was true, and I never wavered.
“Any last words?” my father asks, even though his words are condescending.
“I never knew you to be the type of man that let his little bitch of a daughter do his dirty work for him.” Solomon’s voice is outraged, like he can’t believe his life is hanging in my hands.
I can’t believe it either. I’m silently hoping this is a joke or just one more way for my father to test my loyalty to him. There’s no way my father would actually make me kill someone…would he? I don’t even like it when squirrels get in the way of my targets at home. My thumb itches to flick the safety and call his bluff. Of course, I know my father is a criminal. I know he has roots deep in the Mexican cartel. He’s also been the only parent in my life since I was three years old. At one point, I liked to believe he was a good man. It was rumored he used to lavish my mother in jewels and silks, and take her on trips. Everyone said he treated her like a queen, in and out of the public eye. That was before she passed away. Since then, I’ve heard the gossip, and I’ve eavesdropped at enough parties to know Raul is not a man to be crossed. He may have been soft with my mother but that was years ago. The past also doesn’t explain why I’m here now, in this position, deciding someone else’s fate.
“Do you mean the same bitch of a daughter you thought pretty enough to make an offer on? So she’s good enough to fuck, but not good enough to kill you?” Father laughs. My stomach sinks. I’m disliking this Solomon, more and more, but I still don’t want to kill him. “Pull the trigger, Mi hija.”
“Papa.” I shake my head; I can’t do this. I don’t want to be a murderer. My eyes lift to the other hired suits in the room. None of them will meet my gaze; they keep their faces averted, ignoring me. Even Jerrett, who I like to think of as my friend, mostly because he’s nineteen and closest to my age, and he also helps with my training, keeps his eyes firmly locked on my father.
“Do it,” my father repeats, moving in closer to me until I can smell his Italian cologne and the lingering scent of stale, cigar smoke. I choke, my mouth trying to swallow around the dryness. “You will do it now, mija.”
My eyes flick up and clash with his. His already dark irises are watching my every move. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. As if sensing my hesitancy, he comes to stand right next to me, his chest brushing against my extended arms. “He is not a good man. He stole from me and wanted to buy your body.”
“He’s married.” I shake my head in denial.
My father scoffs. “You think a wife and children matter to men like him? Dios mio. He’s an arms dealer. He sells illegal guns to children on the streets who fight against me. He’s a threat to our family. Dispara sin dudar, vuélale los sesos si se mueve.”
Shoot without fear. Straight between the eyes if he moves.
“Protect our family,” he urges again.
But who will protect me?
“Please,” the whimper escapes my lips without meaning to. Solomon’s eyes flash wickedly. He can see I’m not a killer. There is no blood on my hands.
Father’s head whips from me to him, a snarl twisting his lips. “DO. IT. NOW! You will do this and prove your loyalty to this family!” Spittle flies against my cheek with every angry word he yells in my face. My legs shake, my heart races, and my mind runs through every and all possibilities on how I can get out of this. He wouldn’t kill me, would he?
“Now, Scarlet. He’s a monster. He prays on children. He stole money from us. If you’re going to be part of my legacy, you will pull the fucking trigger.” Father leans in closer to me, his lips whispering against the shell of my ear, “Don’t be weak like your mother.” I flinch in response. “She wasn’t able to handle this life. You, mijita, can either join me or join your mother.”