Futurespan Excerpt

Prologue

 

Amelia stood in the bedroom of her prison sure that she had finally found a way out: a way to end it. Having been trapped for what felt like a very long time – and indeed it had been most of her short life – she couldn’t quite believe that she was actually clutching salvation in her small hands. It was heavy, the gun, but she grasped it tightly. The metal was cold against her palm as she held it steady, shaking only a little she kept it pointed firmly at his sleeping chest. She watched the slow rise and fall, contrasting with her own quick, shallow breaths as she surveyed the gross sleeping form of the man on the bed. Him with his slack, fat face, and his great beer-belly protruding out from his grubby vest: he repulsed her. But she fought the urge to bolt, even though this time he couldn’t have stopped her, and she stood summoning the last little bit of courage she needed to actually do it. She took a deep breath, praying that he wouldn’t wake up, squeezed her eyes tight shut and then pulled the trigger, three times in quick succession, just to be sure.

 

The force of the gun took her by surprise and her hands were shaking terribly as she lowered it. On opening her eyes she saw that there wasn’t as much blood as she had expected. What was there was a dark, barely red-black ooze pouring slickly from the wounds in his chest and being sucked into the mattress. He hadn’t even woken up, but sick gargling noises had escaped his chest as the bullets had ripped through his lungs, allowing blood to pool in them and still his breath for good. He had convulsed briefly and then stilled. Amelia stared at him. Dead. She could barely believe it. The scene she had imagined so many times was finally before her eyes.

 

‘Bye, Dad,’ she whispered as she dropped the gun on the floor. It landed with a final clunk, and she did not look back.

 

In the corridor outside she slouched against the wall, feeling as if she was finally able to breathe again. A strange feeling filled her chest: somewhere between elation and panic. She waited expectantly. But she waited long enough for her breathing to completely return to normal: for what, deep down, she knew was much too long, and nothing had happened. Grim realisation settled in her stomach and she slid to the floor as great, shaking sobs shook her. Wrapping her arms around herself she rocked, devastated: it had taken everything she had to pull the trigger. She sobbed and sobbed. That’s it, she thought. It must not have worked. She pulled herself up with renewed purpose, wiping hot tears from her cheeks as she went.

 

From the doorway he did look dead. He was laid there splayed and still, but reluctantly she went over to check, picking up the gun and using it to prod his face. This elicited no response, and no breathing was evident. He was dead – had to be – but then why was she still here? So she put the gun to his head and fired it, taking no chances this time, the bullet launching out of the gun straight through his frontal bone. Black-red goo erupted from inside and she was splattered with it. She looked at her now undeniably dead father and screamed in horror and frustration. ‘I did it!’ she screamed to no one. ‘I did it! He’s dead!’ She wiped her hands on his chest, covering them with blood and goo. ‘Look!’ she screamed, holding up her hands. ‘He’s dead. Look!’ Her voice broke and the sobs came again, unwelcomed. She sank onto the floor, her back against the bed. ‘He’s dead and I’m still here,’ she cried desperately.

 

Wherever here was.

 

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