[indent][indent][color=90bbbb]Arcturo's haunted, blue eyes stared at the dim screen of his phone, reading the brief message—[i]"Alive."[/i] Suddenly, he was a sobbing mess. The emotional trauma of the evening had been too much for him. He stood, spurred into action, but stopped dead in his tracks as the windows behind him shook in their casings. A new sense of dread washed over him, running down his spine. He took another drink, feeling the cold ice press against his lips. He cursed quietly to himself, he had never been a big drinker but tonight he was done with etiquette. He pulled the bottle from his desk, taking a healthy swig before plopping down in his chair. Alive. They were alive, his daughters. That was something, right? But.. what hope could there be for them? He had seen what was happening outside. The cold truth of it was, they were all going to die.

He glanced down at the still open book, at the large pink lettering spellings his second daughter's name—Makiah. He reached out, hesitantly at first, before defeat settled in him. What else was he to do? What else could he do? Good people were being slaughtered in the street, trained men and women with weapons. And what did he have? Nothing but a handgun he'd never had to use, Hell he didn't even know how to use it. Fear clutched his heart as he caught the barest trace of movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow moving in front of his office window. He stared, and stared, but it didn't return. Another swig from the bottle, and he turned the page.

Makiah, screaming at the top of her glee filled lungs, riding on his shoulders. He could almost feel her tiny little legs, almost hear her laughter. Her sister was there too, just a stricken with happiness at seeing the fun her sister was having. Arcturo wiped a tear from his eye, thinking back at what a Daddy's girl Makiah had been. Another picture on the page, the Fourth of July. Makiah was showcased in her little griller's outfit, putting on a grand show of being such a big cook.. well, Daddy's little helper as he had called her. A second picture, capturing Kiah sharing the holiday cheer with their dog by filling his bowl with pink lemonade. The chuckle that resounded from Arcturo however, was dead and lifeless.

The pages were soundless are he carefully perused through them, taking in all the memories he'd collected over the years. The girls had always given him a hard time about being [i]"That Dad."[/i] The kind that seemed permanently attached to a camera, or a record—How he wished he had some of those home movies with him now, to forget this insanity. Still, the pictures took him back. Makiah giving her best [i]"Big Girl"[/i] face, shouldering a pink backpack on one side and ready for her first day of high school. Distantly, he could hear the way he chuckled at her as she hid her anxiety.

The pages moved faster now. Makiah in choir, standing in long red robes and her mouth agape as she held a shrill note; Makiah all dressed up in a red marching outfit, with one of those ridiculous hats with the fluffy plumes on her head as she huffed away at a saxophone; Makiah winning third place in a state sponsored art contest, she had sculpted a T-Rex. The memories flashed by, Arcturo's hands moved faster, as if he was afraid he wouldn't have time to finish. Makiah and her sister, dressed up for Halloween and both a little more provocatively than he would have liked.

Christmas. Makiah had been so full of life, getting her first car. She'd nearly shattered his ribs with her hugs. He remembered Natalie had gone with him, to help him pick it out. Nobody knew Makiah better than her sister. They shared a bond that he could never match, but his little Ki had loved him. He stopped on a picture of Makiah up on stage, playing Wendy in a play about Peter Pan. His thumb traced over the image, feeling the odd texture of the protective sleeve. Next to that, a picture of them all singing, one of the few his wife had captured. Nat had complimented his voice, saying he sounded like "A wood chipper eating a cat". 

This was it.. No more plays, no more games, no more performances or songs, no smiles, no more hugs. No more chances to guide or teach them, to fix what he did wrong. There was no more time. The thud of something slamming into the wall running the length of the corridor outside his door. A low growl, and then suddenly the loud wails of somebody in terror.. somebody dying. Arcturo reached into his drawer, pulling out the pistol and aiming it at the door. He took another swig of whiskey, his head spinning. He remembered to thumb down the safety, his index hanging over the trigger.

Once more he glanced down. Makiah smiled up at him, surrounded by her pretty friends, arms laden with bags. She was a shopper, just like her mother. She'd always been a popular girl, always hanging around with the [i]"in"[/i] crowds. Despite the fact that she had made decent grades, she didn't try hard for college. Instead she had argued a rather well put together case about how getting a job early on was better than student debt. Fortunately, she knew how to manage her money well. She had moved herself out, and even helped out Nat by giving her a place to stay after her latest breakup. Makiah was never a floozy, at least not that Arcturo knew about, but she had sense enough to put her job before her love life. He wasn't even sure if she'd ever actually lived with anybody else besides Nat.

Her turned the final page. The last picture had all of them, the whole family, excluding the old dog. Elliora had gotten a new lapdog, some fluffy mongrel he couldn't remember the name of, a pom-pom or something close to that. Makiah had been devastated after [url=http://i.imgur.com/przAcIY.jpg]Mac Grooger[/url] passed away, the first dog which she in her young age had taken the liberty of naming. However, upon meeting the newest addition to their family and being overcome with joy, she'd promptly named him [url=http://i.imgur.com/tEIXi5t.jpg]Sergeant Waffles, The Destroyer of Worlds.[/url]

His lips moved ever so slightly, uttering the barest traces of sound. For the first time in his life, he was praying, to what ever god was listening as he typed out a reply. The barrel of the gun wavered unsteadily, pressed against the side of his head. His finger sliding smoothly in position over the trigger. [i]This is it,[/i] he thought, [i]I'm all out of time.[/i] He pressed send for the last time.
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