I'm doing this from memory, so I hope this one's accurate. Hope you enjoy...
Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.
Spots. Bright, white spots. Pain. Air. I'm drinking air into my lungs so fast I'm coughing like a chain smoker.
I'm alive. But how?
I'm lying backwards on the floor, the chair still firmly planted underneath me. My eyes are beginning to focus—there's the same brown walls, the same brown floor…but wait, what's that?
Something solid. A stone. Something…Jackson. Dates. I think an etching…
A headstone.
A gravestone.
My eyes focus elsewhere. I don't want to look at it too much. It's a clue, and a reminder…I'm not out of this yet.
"You came back to life," he says. This voice is calmer, methodical. I look up and those eyes are back—the ones that are always searching, always wondering, always studying.
"Raphael," I reply.
"There can only be one reason," he says.
Of course there's only one reason. "I was given CPR?"
"There are no coincidences." Medicine is a coincidence? I know it was around even in the Bible…
"How many members are on your team?"
Now why the hell would you want to know that? I think.
"Seven."
And now he's quoting Revelations again, something about archangels and horsemen. I vaguely remember the quote—bottom line: not looking good for me.
He lifts me back upright, as if steadying a target for practice.
"Choose one to die."
Are you serious?!
"No."
Now he's going into his pocket…he's pulling something out…
Oh, hell. Not that. Please, anything but that…
He loads the bullet, spins the chamber, levels his 'instrument' again merely inches from my temple.
He 'fires.' I can hear everything—the motion of the chamber, the hammer falling onto the empty hole where a bullet should be, the sound of my breath growing louder, my heart racing faster…
"Choose."
Christ, he's serious. He's not gonna stop, not until I tell him to kill someone…
"Kill me." What the hell—I'm here anyway. Outside of the people behind that little camera, there's no one who will notice I'm gone very much. One of them will explain things to Mom…I hope.
"I thought you said you weren't one of them…"
Well, yeah, I did, but you've got a loaded revolver pointed at me. Historically, people will say just about anything to avoid being shot.
"I lied." There, now, you see? Now you even have a 'reason' to kill me, and spare them…
"There are six other members. Choose one to die."
For the love of God…I'm offering to let you kill me, like you've been trying to do for so long, and you're not all over this?! Why does someone else have to die?
And then, it hits me…it's about me having to choose.
Well, I've got news for you…
"No."
He levels the revolver again. "Choose."
"No." Maybe this time he'll finally shoot me.
He 'fires.' The sounds get louder with every shot. I can't drink air in fast enough.
"Choose."
"I won't do it."
He 'fires' again. Dear God, when will this nightmare be over?
"Life is a choice."
Now that's the most bizarre thing I've heard in days. He wants me to kill people by 'choosing' them, all so I can save my life?
"No." I think quick about everyone behind that camera. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing, not calling out…
He 'fires' again. Eventually, my luck will run out.
My eyes dance around the room, and they fall onto that headstone.
Headstone…
"Choose."
Who would get such a message? Gideon? Morgan?
No. I know. I know, and I'm sorry…
"I choose…Aaron Hotchner."
He lowers the revolver. His eyes are demanding an explanation.
"He's a classic narcissist. Thinks he's better than everyone else on the team." I quote 'Scripture' to drive the point home, and it works.
But I know better. Hotch isn't a narcissist. Sometimes he's a little too driven, and definitely a workaholic, but never a narcissist. I pray to God they heard me, figured out exactly what I 'said'…
'Raphael' raises the revolver. What the hell—I just gave you what you wanted…!
He raises it, slightly higher than my forehead.
And fires.
The sound is loud enough to deafen small children. It's a sobering thought, the idea that a tiny piece of metal was just inches from separating me from my life.
Now satisfied, 'Raphael' returns his instrument to his pocket, turns on his heel, and leaves.
And all I can do is stare.