Cynthia turned to see what made her tremble. A man had entered the room in the few seconds she had spent opening the fridge for a drink. She had seen guns in movies, today, it was real. The man pointed one at her. She dropped the bottle in her hand and the drink flowed rapidly as if to escape the room.
Cynthia wished the land under her feet could open and swallow her. She was clueless. Should she start begging? Or attack? She looked at Clinton playing on a chair next her dressing table. Could she save Clinton?
“Don’t move!” the man’s hoarse voice snatched her from her thoughts.
The man moved closer in a menacing pace. He gripped her neck and pressed the pistol hard against her forehead. It felt cold, death felt cold. She needed to pray, possibly her last.
The pistol was silent. It was only a matter of luck that it wasn’t Cynthia’s blood that splashed in the room. The man had pulled the trigger; its effect was a confluence of Clinton’s blood and the spilled drink.
Cynthia closed her eyes in agony and pressed her teeth against her lower lip so hard that she could taste blood. When she opened her eyes, they were bloodshot; she could see her blurred image in the mirror now painted in Clinton’s blood. The man had left her with a smudge on her neck.
The man tucked the gun under his blazer and flashed Cynthia his phone’s screen. It had Mrs Kingsley’s picture. She was the woman whose husband she had been seeing. She understood and could only thank her stars that the nauseating sight of gun was no more, and perhaps, that cold death had passed her over.
“This is a first warning” he said. “It should be the last, or you die” he added with a smirk that emerged from the corner of his eyes.
“Now, promise me” the man said, “that you will remove that thing in your stomach”.
“I promise” Cynthia blurted, amazed at how fast she could speak. She could only hope that was all. That sinister small machine in his blazer must not work again, not today, not anymore as far as it concerned her.
“Be seen with Mr Kingsley and die”, he threatened and made out of the room.
Cynthia locked her door against the man. When she pressed a button on the wall, it sent light down a golden chandelier and she could see more blots of blood.
Clinton lay, lifeless in the pool of its blood. She released the mist of tears in her eyes, sad her dog had to die for barking, but then, she thought, it could have been worse.
She picked her phone beside her T.V and searched for her doctor’s number. Cynthia caressed her tummy and pitied the foetus inside. It should be gone. After all, promises are to be kept and there was only a first warning.