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It’s not too late.
“Make my hand three inches,” Malcolm mumbles, looking around for the solution.
It’s not too late.
Images of Ainsley’s body, butchered fill his head.
It’s not too late.
“Hammer,” he says as he sees his solution.
It’s not too late.
His mother, her lips trying to form his name as she bleeds out, lays in front of him.
“You're not real,” he says, laying his hand flat.
It’s not too late.
“One… two…” he takes a deep breath before bringing the hammer down on his hand.
Upon impact, he involuntarily wails, unable to stop until he’s out of air.
It’s not too late.
There it is. He made his hand three inches. Malcolm a piece of fabric around his broken hand before picking up a crowbar with the other, because it’s not too late.
His ears fill with ringing and fuzz like static from a TV as he crawls up from under his house to save his family.
The words that leave his mouth don’t go through any sort of filter as he yells. It’s pure instinct “Watkins! I know you’re here. This is my house. My family. ”
It’s not too late.
If there’s any response, he doesn’t hear it.
He hears his blood pumping. He hears static. He hears Dr. Whitly, almost taunting him.
It’s not too late.
Then he sees it. Ainsley’s blonde hair turned red. The life slowly draining from her eyes. Oh God. He can’t look away from his sister’s pleading eyes. Not until they go blank.
Not until he hears his mother begging. Not with Watkins for her life, but with Malcolm. To turn around and save her, because Watkins has her pinned.
“You don’t have to do this,” Malcolm says, stopping a few feet from Watkins, trying to keep his anger at bay.
It’s not too late.
Maybe he couldn’t save Ainsley, but he can save his mother. Malcolm glances at the crowbar gripped tightly in his hand, the thought crossing his mind.
“You can end this,” Dr. Whitly is back. “We can end this, my boy.”
“No,” Malcolm’s voice is quiet, but stern as he argues with the hallucination.
He’s not real. He’s not here. Malcolm doesn’t have to listen to Dr. Whitly.
“Watkins,” Malcolm says, trying to buy himself- his mother- more time.
To talk Watkins out of this.
Watkins looks over his shoulder at Malcolm, a crazed look in his eyes. Then he brings the axe down. Then again. And again.
Jessica’s cry rips through the air, drawing Malcolm from the thin veil of shock that settled over him. He sees red and not just from the blood that sprays from his mother’s body as Watkins withdraws the axe.
It’s too late.
“Finish it,” Dr. Whitly hisses.
Malcolm doesn’t tell himself that Dr. Whitly isn’t here. That he isn’t real. Because for once in his life, Malcolm welcomes the voice.
Dr. Whitly glances at the crowbar in Malcolm’s hand, reminding him it’s there. His knuckles are white, yet he somehow grips the crowbar tighter. Then he makes the decision, closing the space between him and Watkins as Watkins brings the axe down once more.
It’s too late.
Watkins doesn’t notice how Malcolm nears him. No, he’s too caught up in the thrill of the kill. Watkins doesn’t notice- at least until the crowbar comes in contact with his head, sending his body crumbling to the ground. Then again as Malcolm lets his rage take control.
It’s too late.
Malcolm’s own senses take over. Oh God. He drops to his knees, landing in Watkins’ blood, kneeling in front of the body.
“No,” Malcolm realizes the weight of what he just did.
Of how easy it came to him. How instincts took over. How he listened to that voice inside his head that he claims to hate. How he killed John Watkins.
After all, he is his father’s son, and it’s too late .