"Pick up, pick up, pick up!" she whispered desperately into the phone, her jaw grit tight. Her heart beat an unsteady drum solo against her ribcage, her breathing erratic as she tried to calm herself. The closet was beginning to close in on her, each ring amping her adrenaline, her head stuffy, eyes watering. "C'mon, John!" Time was running out; soon enough they would find her, pull her, take her to him.
If she was lucky.
'You've reached John. You know what to do.'
"Goddamn it, John!" she screamed before she could stop herself. She slapped a hand over mouth, but it was too late; a shout, then two.
Then the booted feet against the door. Once. Twice.
"Fuck it," she grunted, bursting through the closet doors and stumbling into her bedroom. She immediately tripped over a pair of jeans, but recovered in time to dive into the bathroom just as the first henchmen crossed the threshold. She slammed the door shut and scrambled to the small window, shoving it upwards so hard, the glass cracked. She maneuvered her tiny body through the even smaller space, bruising her hips, scraping her sides, her sweat acting as lubricant as she managed to squeeze out just as the one she recognized as Igor grabbed her left foot. Red Converse gone, she belly-crawled down the fire escape for the first flight, then rolled head-over-feet for the next three. She kicked down the extension and grabbed the railings, sliding down and slicing open her hands, one bare foot tasting wet concrete for only a millisecond before she took off running, tiptoes propelling her forward, through the rain, then the crowds of a popping Saturday night in the East Village.
No one noticed the blood. No one noticed the torn clothing. Everyone ignored the little Black girl tearing through, against the flow, her face twisted in desperate agony, a broken phone clutched tight in her fist.
Not until the gunshots started.
Then screaming. Panic. Running in all sorts of directions. Bodies fell around her, so she cut down East 3rd, but it made no difference. White girls stopped giggling, horror painting their faces just before the splatters of crimson redecorated. She could barely hear the screams anymore as the tears blurred her vision.
It was so fucking cold and she didn't have a coat on.
Her breath was losing her as she turned on Bowery, a mistake, she knew. The crowds were worse here, but maybe, just maybe somebody would give a damn.
No one did. More died.
They were doing this on purpose. More than once, they could've taken her down, if not killed her, but she was running from them, making them give effort.
She would pay dearly.
Finally, she'd had enough; she cut down East 7th, then Shevchenko, crouching behind the Catholic school.
Waiting.
She looked at the cell phone in her hand, the screen missing chunks of glass, its face flickering. Still, she knew it had use, enough power for one last call.
She thought of her, thought to reach out, but then remembered those last words, the last look of disgust. The sob escaped her lips before she could choke it back, her fingers trembling as she dialed the number one last time.
She didn't bother begging for him to pick up. She knew he wouldn't. Maybe couldn't. Either way, she'd never hear that reassuring timbre ever again.
Aside from his greeting.
'You've reached John. You know what to do.'
She couldn't speak, her throat tight, her saliva metallic in her mouth. But then heard the shout.
"John. They're going to kill me. Listen carefully and listen good. Fury Whips Tiamat and I Live to Tell the Tale." She blew out a breath and shut her eyes tight. "Texting is Not an Option, John. Tell her I love her."
She ended the call and dismantled the phone, crushing the SIM card and motherboard into as many pieces as her deft little fingers could manage. She then stood, crunching the rest under the heel of her well-worn red Converse. Her favourite pair. The last pair she'd given her.
"Well, well, well."
Igor. As beautiful as he was dumb. They'd fucked once. He was prettier clothed.
"Looking for this, little chickie?"
She turned slowly, hands in the air, a confident smirk on her lips. The rain hardly bothered her now, her skin no longer cold, though the goosepimples dotting along her umber flesh told otherwise. Her breath left her in clouds of grey, her lips blue against the white of her teeth.
Igor held her Converse in the air, waving it tauntingly.
She reached slowly behind her back and Igor's eyes widened, her smile mocking him.
"No!" he shouted, holding up a hand in protest.
But it was too late.
The bullets rained as freely as the droplets from the sky, crimson running with clear as her body hit the concrete, both hands empty, her smile still bright as she stared, unseeing, into the night sky.
