Chapter 9 - The Final Snap
From his hiding spot beneath the heavy oak table, the boy watched the struggle unfold in slow motion. He saw his mother’s grip slip on the weapon. He saw Arthur’s smug, triumphant grin widening as he began to overpower her.
Something inside the boy snapped. It wasn't fear anymore; it was the cold, blinding realization that nobody was coming to save them unless they saved themselves.
He remembered the kitchen floorboards. He remembered the blood beside the cookie. He remembered the sound of his own bones cracking.
With his good left hand, the boy reached out from under the table, grabbed the heavy iron fireplace poker by its cold steel shaft, and crawled out silently behind Arthur’s back.
Arthur was too busy dominating Sarah, leaning in close to whisper threats into her ear, to notice the small shadow rising behind him.
"Say goodbye to your little game, Sarah," Arthur whispered, wrenching the pistol completely out of her hand.
"Look down," the boy said.
Arthur froze. Before he could turn his head, the boy swung the heavy iron poker with every ounce of strength in his small body, bringing it down squarely across Arthur’s right knee with a sickening crunch.
Arthur let out a shriek of pure, unadulterated agony, his leg buckling instantly beneath him as he crashed hard onto the splintered wood floor, clutching his shattered kneecap. The pistol slid across the room, coming to a halt near the fireplace.
Sarah didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, picked up the pistol, racked the slide with a sharp, metallic clack, and pressed the cold barrel directly between Arthur’s eyes as he writhed on the floor, weeping and gasping for air.
"Which drawer, Arthur?" Sarah asked, her voice echoing in the dead silence of the cabin.
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Arthur stared up at her, his face pale, streaming with tears and snot, the invincible facade utterly destroyed in a matter of seconds. "Sarah... please... my leg..."
"Which drawer?" she repeated, pressing the barrel harder against his forehead.
