Trafficked

Inside of our family’s warehouse, again I purposely zone out to the screams of an unknown man and to his very willing assailant. There’s nothing “human” in humanity- especially as I stand watching dispassionately as my step-father, Mason beats this same man zealously within an inch of his life, for a crime everyone, except my step-father KNOWS he didn’t commit.
I’m not even sure what his name is, “Thomas, Tom, Tim”, something, I suppose it doesn’t matter. His desperate cries fall on deaf ears, no one is strong enough or stupid enough to go up against Mason Duprey, hit man and assassin to the powerful shadowy elitist community of Hollywood. The one man who could do anything about it, Raffe Steward, leers and instigates the beating, because in the end, it’s his son, Ryan who should be beaten for impregnating my half-sister, Catarina. Yet, I digress.
“Hmm?” I inquire. I shouldn’t have. I know what the old man asked - it's always the same question he asks every time an execution is about to happen. A public encomium to his authority, a representation that if anyone fucks with our family, they will most definitely be dealt with- SEVERELY.
“LIFE,” I vocalize stressing with inner satisfaction, knowing the truth. Knowing that if the man was to live, my old man would have no choice but to execute Catarina for lying. I would have a price on my head for outing the “real” truth, and Mason’s position would be challenged, if not, nonexistent. Catarina, lovingly called “Cat” by my overly oblivious step-mother, casts a hateful disapproving glare at me. “If only looks could kill,” I think smiling inwardly at myself.
I know, regardless of my vote, he’s going to kill this man, and he’s going to make him before giving him the relief of death, but all I can feel is overwhelming pity. Over and over, Mason continues to kick him in the stomach and back, beating him with a crowbar until his head is nearly the size of a watermelon, his skull is cracked and liquid brain matter is seeping out. I don’t understand how this man is still living, I have to give it to him, he has a fighting spirit.
Looking at the facial expressions of everyone gathered in the circle around the chaos, the only emotions buzzing through the crowd of onlookers are malice, hate, and what’s worst- is their extreme indifference to human life. I amaze even myself as I push through the crowd, but what’s most rewarding is the look of confusion and surprise on Mason’s face as I stalk up to him and his bloody human meat prize. I cannot show weakness, although, inside I’m nearly want to double over in fear.
He growled at me in an offensive posture. Until I whisper in a tone, only he and his right hand man, Raffe can hear. “You shouldn’t play with your food, Mason,” I reply to his questioning look, all the while withdrawing my small silver plated .22 caliber handgun. Without looking away from Mason, I swiftly pulled the trigger, leveling two bullets through “what’s his name’s” head. Then I curtsied and smiled. The crowd roars out in approval.
Displeasure and rage flares through Mason’s eyes, only for a moment, I could read it, even if no one else can. I slid the handgun back into my small purse, secured the long strap over my head against my shoulder across my body, gave Cat a curt nod, and left. Enough DRAMA for the day. I may be only seventeen, but I need a drink- and not a glass of milk.