I blinked my eyes open. I had been dozing on and off for a few days. I
relaxed my face and closed my eyes gently, pretending to be asleep. I
didn't want Hank to put me asleep again.
My arm was sore in the spot where he had continually jabbed the syringe. My lip quavered and I fought to keep my composure.
I heard the door creak open, and the shallow slap of shoes on concrete was coming closer to me. Hank poked me with the tip of his shoe, gently at first, and then gradually harder. "Please don't put me to sleep again," I begged, crying.
"Oh, don't worry," he assured me. "There'll be no more of that." I knew his words should comfort me, but the strange grin on his face convinced me that he had something much worse in mind. And, knowing what he was capable of, that scared me even more.
"So," I began, taking a deep breath, "what do you have in mind?"
He smiled. "Well, I always thought that getting back at your mother would give me the satisfaction that I've been searching for all of these years. But then I realized that I can't just get back at Sara. I have to get rid of every single reminder of that awful night so long ago." He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye before directing his gaze back at me. "And that's where you come in."
That's when I realized it. Hank was crazy. That glint in his eye, the pleasure he took in my pain, these were the signs of a truly crazy man.
"I'll be right back," he said. When he returned, he was holding a packet of matches and a gallon of gasoline.
"No," I choked out, as I realized what he had planned. He laughed at my protests.
Unscrewing the cap of the gasoline container, Hank began dousing the room in the flammable liquid. The fumes floated around me, pulling at me, choking me. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.
Just then, the familiar sound of police sirens pierced the night. I breathed a sigh of relief. But Hank was unfazed. He paused for a moment, his eyes trained on the sound, before quickening his pace around the room. He was careful to hit every single inch of the room with the gasoline.
Satisfied, he stepped back and screwed the cap back onto the jug. He stepped just outside the door to admire his work. Then, he turned his gaze to me quickly. He winked at me.
He pulled out the package of matched and quickly lit one. He cast one last glance at me before tossing it into the room. The room erupted in smoke and fire. Above the crackling of the fire, I could hear the high pitched screech of Hank's laughter.
My arm was sore in the spot where he had continually jabbed the syringe. My lip quavered and I fought to keep my composure.
I heard the door creak open, and the shallow slap of shoes on concrete was coming closer to me. Hank poked me with the tip of his shoe, gently at first, and then gradually harder. "Please don't put me to sleep again," I begged, crying.
"Oh, don't worry," he assured me. "There'll be no more of that." I knew his words should comfort me, but the strange grin on his face convinced me that he had something much worse in mind. And, knowing what he was capable of, that scared me even more.
"So," I began, taking a deep breath, "what do you have in mind?"
He smiled. "Well, I always thought that getting back at your mother would give me the satisfaction that I've been searching for all of these years. But then I realized that I can't just get back at Sara. I have to get rid of every single reminder of that awful night so long ago." He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye before directing his gaze back at me. "And that's where you come in."
That's when I realized it. Hank was crazy. That glint in his eye, the pleasure he took in my pain, these were the signs of a truly crazy man.
"I'll be right back," he said. When he returned, he was holding a packet of matches and a gallon of gasoline.
"No," I choked out, as I realized what he had planned. He laughed at my protests.
Unscrewing the cap of the gasoline container, Hank began dousing the room in the flammable liquid. The fumes floated around me, pulling at me, choking me. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.
Just then, the familiar sound of police sirens pierced the night. I breathed a sigh of relief. But Hank was unfazed. He paused for a moment, his eyes trained on the sound, before quickening his pace around the room. He was careful to hit every single inch of the room with the gasoline.
Satisfied, he stepped back and screwed the cap back onto the jug. He stepped just outside the door to admire his work. Then, he turned his gaze to me quickly. He winked at me.
He pulled out the package of matched and quickly lit one. He cast one last glance at me before tossing it into the room. The room erupted in smoke and fire. Above the crackling of the fire, I could hear the high pitched screech of Hank's laughter.