Running down the stairs with tears streaming down my face, my shoulder slid across the wallpaper to keep me steady as I raced to the ground floor. Not able to slow without toppling, no arms to balance, all my hands could do was grip the gun. My right upper arm took the force as I slammed hard into the thin door, the hardboard cracking down the middle as it stopped my fall.

With an ache in my hand, I let it my grip relax. Head darting left and right, I sought out shadows, but the only disturbances in the light were thin flashes through the remains of the front door’s glass. Twisting my wrists still held tight by the cuffs, I turned towards the back door, moving past the sideboard and ran, slowing to a stop as the first shards of glass pricked at my bare feet. I turned, squinting under the stairs, looking for anything I could use to protect my feet. Seeing a rabble of disorganised shoes, I ran back and pushed my feet in a pair of white trainers which were way too big, sliding on with no need for my hands. A scream came from up the stairs and I looked to the door, hesitating while I searched out its surface for some lock, some mechanism I could use to slow their return, but found nothing I could operate without my hands. I would have to hope the slowing gunfire had been enough to hide the call. I twisted, keeping my feet wide and ran towards the back door, flashing a look down as the laces whipped up, slapping at my ankles.

Contorting my hands around the side, I ignored the tension at my wrists as I tried the handle with my right, unable to stop slapping and scratching the gun against the metal. It was locked. Still locked, I thought, as I remembered the last time I’d tried, desperate to escape. With my night vision improving, I looked to the wide windows at its side, shuffling along the dining table to follow. Not able to raise my hands high, I angled the handle of the old fashioned window with my nose and it moved just enough for me to push it wide with my forehead. Feeling the chill air wash over me while I used my foot to hook a chair from under the dining table. The chair scrapped across the tile floor, the loudest sound in the moment, my actions no longer drowned by gunfire, only competing with the footsteps above.

Teetering for balance on the frame, I toppled headfirst, my hands letting go of the grip, the gun landing before my shoulder. Thankful for grass under the window, I shook off the ache, pausing for the pain to dissipate, taking a deep breath as I tried not to think what would have happened if it had been concrete under the window. After the darkness inside, the outdoors glowed with moonlight. Standing, the gun caught my eye. I dropped back to my knees and fumbled it from the ground, adrenaline racing as I heard shouts inside the house.

Not able to stop myself as I stood, I looked back through the window. Ignoring the hurried sounds, my eyes froze on the fat fuck’s body abandoned, open mouthed, on the floor. Eventually I ran, could do nothing else, but instead of trying to figure how I could climb the tall fence growing in my vision, my mind instead played over the three frames of light as the room brightened in the bullet’s flash. The frames hung for a second, fixing on Toni’s evolving expression with each pull of the trigger, her body forced back, unable to absorb the momentum while she watched me desperately trying to correct my aim.

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Reading out of sequence, here’s the rest of Season Two.

Not read Season One? Here it is.