{IRIS' JOURNAL}
My hand clamped down on my mouth, as I beheld dad shooting a man down countless times, expressionlessly. His eyes were cold, and he didn't even flinch. He didn't look like my father to me. No, he was someone else.
Blood splattered on Elvis' face, but Elvis didn't even budge. Nor did he push the man away for fear of being hit.
It meant two things— One: he trusted my father's bullet skills. Two: this wasn't the first time my father was shooting someone.
Then Mr. Sullivan turned, and saw me.
‘Iris.’ He called in surprise, and everyone turned to me. Dad looked white, like a nightmare had crept upon him. Mr. Dickson looked like I was disrupting a movie he was enjoying, and Elvis just looked blank.
The dead man went limp in Elvis' arms, and Elvis let him thud to the grou
