This isn't gonna end well, is it? Mr. Sergei's pickup truck comes to a stop at the dump. I jump out of the trunk and run behind several bags of trash. Mr. Sergei grabs the garbage bag and hauls it into a fenced off building near the dump. What is he doing? I hear a noise come from inside—a muffled grunt. Was there someone alive in the bag? Several screams follow the grunt, the last one cut off as if they had fallen unconscious—or died—halfway through. Suddenly, the door to the building opens and Mr. Sergei steps out. He looks right at my hiding spot—almost as it he knows I'm there. But that's not possible. He couldn't. Mr. Sergei walks towards the fence and puts his hand on it. He looks through the crack in the wood that I was peering through, right into my eyes. I jump back in shock. "Alexei!" He greets me with a smile as if I hadn't been spying on him for the past hour. "I didn't expect to see you here! I thought you were working out in the basement," Mr. Sergei says, unlocking the fence for me. "I went to look for you. Are some of the weights missing? The barbell feels too light now," I ask, only telling a small fraction of the reason I'm out at the dump stalking him. Mr. Sergei's face lights up. "Alexei…I think you just got a lot stronger! This is great! I can start showing you some more hard-core stuff," He leads me towards the little building. "We need to find your skill," Mr. Sergei says, complying with my wishes to stop learning marksmanship. "Something you're comfortable with and good at." I'm grateful he understands how scared I get when I hold a gun, how much of a strong urge I get to do something—something I'll definitely regret. Mr. Sergei is proving to be someone I can trust in. I'm glad he took me in.
Mr. Sergei opens the door of the little building and I can finally see what's inside. Another man, with a similar hair color and body type to the one from the basement, lies on the floor, also with his arms and legs bound by handcuffs. Mr. Sergei looks around the building—a shed, I realize, likely for a knife, if it's anything like the last time. He doesn't find one, his brows furrowing. "Alexei, could you pass me those shears?" He points to a large pair of shears on the wall. I hand them to him. Mr. Sergei holds the shears with two hands and lifts them over his head. I turn away, not wanting to see the blood about to come. "Alexei. I didn't say you could turn away, could I? Hold him in place for me," Mr. Sergei orders. I hold the man's shoulders down, stopping whatever small attempts at struggling he had left in him. Mr. Sergei's face spreads into a grin as he brings the scissors down on the man's exposed neck.