I'm Just the Worst Type of Guy to Argue With.

I looked up at the man who had just killed every person in my family. His haunting voice talking about how the killing of my mother was his favorite angered me so I had to let it out. He was being very careless of watching me, most likely assuming I wouldn't try to do much, seeing as I looked stricken with grief.

He was wrong. I would try something, I couldn't just go like this.

"I'm not going with you!" I hissed, having already pulled the blade from his hand and plunging it deep into the side of his neck and ripping it out, black blood oozing over my hand.

I didn't believe I could kill him.

I didn't believe I could beat him.

I didn't believe I'd live to grow old.

I was persuaded into believing this man would kill me.

I was persuaded into believing that my death would be his most awarding kill yet.

But, I was also persuaded to believe that I could at least stall him, buying myself just a few more moments of precious life without being in the torturing hands of this man.

His screams echoed through the church. I dug the knife into each of his eyes, and pulled it out.
"At least my mother didn't die in vain, fucker!" I hissed and ran, climbing out an open window behind the alter in the church.

The cool, crisp air of the night felt like death's fingers gripping around my soul.
I began running.

Running from all the things in that church that scared me. Gerard, for example, but to his surprise, he wasn't the most terrifying thing to me in that church, and I bet if he knew that, it would upset him more then anything.

The most horrifying thing in that church was the fearful, dead looks of my loved ones. Not Gerard's sadistic, evil grin that struck death into the souls of thousands.
I began running.

Running from death.

Running from torture.

Running from salvation.

Because, Death is Salvation.