Matt
There's this tree I used to climb when I was a kid. It was one of those real skinny pines that had low hanging branches, perfect for climbing. I spent a lot of time up in that tree. The only thing was, there was so much sap in it, I would often come home covered in it. Drove my mother nuts. Dad used to joke that if he could throw me against the wall and I didn't stick, then it wasn't time for me to come in for dinner yet. The worst days were when he tried.
I frickin' loved that tree. It was an escape, and I used to sit in it for hours, either spying on my sister and her friends or hiding from my father. I did all my best thinking at the top of that thing, and as far as I know, it's still there. Not that I'm brave enough to go and find out for sure. That tree is right next to my childhood home. The same childhood home where my mother murdered my father. So yeah, no going back.
I haven't thought about that tree in ages, so it's funny that that is the place I retreat to as Kurt Dace pounds his fists into my face relentlessly. I don't even think he has a plan at this point. There's no method to his madness, nor any pattern to the blows that snap my head back and empty my lungs. His sole objective seems to be to to inflict as much pain as possible. An objective, I might add, that he's achieving quite well.
I think of Gabby a lot. About the life I had planned for us and the things we were going to do. No one knows this, but a relative of mine left me some lakefront property up in Michigan. It's secluded and just basically untamed forest at this point, but its mine and I have plans for it. I'm going to build her a house. A place where we can take all those wayward kids she's inevitably going to want to save in our lifetime. It's a good house, too - a strong house, and she loves it like she loves me and calls it Our Shack, even though it's got more space than we'll ever need, even with our 130 adopted children. Or at least the version I imagine of her in my head does as a yet another well-aimed blow to the face explodes stars in front of my eyes and sends more blood pouring down my chin as the bones in my nose break. I guess they were right, all those writers and scientists. I guess your life really does flash before your eyes right before you die.
"It's not even about the money, really," Dace is saying at me once my ears finally stop ringing and I can actually hear again. He pulls back his arm and pile drives his knuckles into my midsection. All the air rushes out of my lungs and I cough and sputter, trying to pull it back in again. The pain is indescribable as the serrated edges of my broken ribs grate against one another in my desperate attempt to start breathing again.
"Me and Eddie, we had something special. He was like a brother to me." He backhands me across the cheek and my teeth cut into the side of my mouth.
I've managed to bring some air back in, but it's not enough, and dark, black spots move in to take the place of the fading white stars. Gabby is the paramedic, but I've had enough field training to know that I'm not going to be able to take much more of this. If Dace doesn't let up soon, I'm not going to make it.
"You smoke eaters are a tight knit bunch," he continues on, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back so I'm forced to look at him. The world spins as I try to stay conscious, but I do somehow manage to find him with my one good eye, the other having long ago swollen shut. "Surely you know what I'm talking about?"
I don't know what words try to form on my lips, defiant snark or pathetic begging, but all I manage to do is choke on blood. Dace pulls his hand back in disgust and I can't keep my head up when his hand is suddenly gone from my hair. It falls forward and I don't have enough energy to lift it back up again.
I'm fading. I can literally feel my body beginning to shut down, and I'm kind of glad for it. It means the end. It means no more pain. I can rest now.
Colors dim and my wheezing breaths begin to slow. Is this how they're going to find me, the guys at the firehouse? My friends? Is this going to be someone's last vision of me: tied to a chair and dead of oxygen deprivation, internal organ failure, and blood loss? Not exactly the way I pictured going out. It was always a blaze of glory in my mind, or the exact opposite and expiring in my bed, an old man having led a good life. Not like this. ...Or is Dace going to do something to my body that's going to land me in the Chicago PD record books forever?
"You think they're gonna miss you when you're gone?" Dace asks me out of the blue. I'd almost forgotten he was still here. He sidles up beside me, something metallic held in his hand. It's shiny and glints in the weak light. I don't need both my eyes to know that it's a gun. "How about that wife of yours?"
If I weren't half dead already and tied to a chair, I'd murder him for bringing up Gabby.
"Let's find out, shall we?" He levels the gun at me, and pulls the trigger.