As the elevator began its descent, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a text from my parents. "Sorry, we'll be home late tonight, Mae. So much paperwork! We're trying to get all our papers graded before the holidays. Make sure you bundle up; it's going to get really cold. We love you!" My parents teach at the City University of New York. Mom teaches Journalism, and Dad teaches Literature. No wonder why I have a love of books.
'Ding' went the elevator as it opened on the ground floor. I slipped my phone into jean pocket, and walked looking for George. There he was, at the welcome desk, reading. I tried to tiptoe to sneak up on him, but as usual he saw me before I had taken more than five steps. "Nice try Mae. You should know you can't sneak up on me by now" he said, putting down his book.
"Hey George. What book are you reading today?" I asked, glancing at the title. "A Catcher in the Rye" it stated, with a simple scarlet with no decoration, like wrapping paper lain out on a carpet before you put it on the present.
"I'm reading the story of a depressed young man on the precipice of adulthood who really needs to stop swearing and get listened to." He said with a smile.
"I tried to read that once; there were to many swears for my taste."
"This is New York we're talking about. You should be immune to the uncouth language of grouchy city dwellers by now." he chuckled,
"Well, when you're parents charge you a dollar for every cuss word; you wouldn't be too fond of them either. Hey George, where's that book you owe me?"
"Right here, my friend." He handed me a hardcover copy of The Great Gatsby. I grasped the book as if it were made of spider silk, about to come apart in my hand. Two golden eyes looked back at me, eyes looking as if she were a goddess among foolish mortals. "How about a kiss for that book?" he asked, leaning towards me with a playful glint in his eyes.
I quickly slapped him on the head with those golden eyes on that purple cover. "Idiot. You know I could get you fired for harassment."
"Yeah, but you wouldn't since I'm so cute." He pouted childishly.
"As amusing as all this is, I'm kind of on a time limit here." said a neutral voice nearby. I spun around to see a Hispanic teenager right behind me. He was about four inches taller than me, with a slender frame. He had a swath of thick, curly hair and a prominent scar on his throat. His eyebrows were so thin I had to wonder if they were stenciled in with a pencil.
He reached for me, but he wasn't able to get me. I was wrenched behind the desk, clawed fingers shoving me down. "Stay down there Mae!" shouted George. Well, at least I think it was George. This guy had longer ears like a dog's, and clawed hands, but he had George's sandy brown hair and amber eyes.
I stared at his form in a state of stupor as he dropped to all fours and hair started to sprout from all over his body. He was a man one moment, and a wolf the next. He looked at me with a plea in his eyes. He growled at the boy, who threw himself at the dog version of George.
As any sane person would, I screamed like a violated banshee. I crawled under the desk as they grappled for a grip on each other. George was trying to bite the other one in the throat as he thrashed around like he was a flooded river. You would expect the Mexican to be dead by now, or at least severely maimed, but he was a dancer, avoiding every blow and responding with a graceful blur of a kick. I glanced down at my hand to see the hardcover copy of The Great Gatsby. I picked it up and threw it at the brawling pair.
It sailed true and steady, right into the boy's face. He staggered back, his broken nose leaking blood like a loose faucet. This gave George an advantage, and he took it, leaping for the boy's throat. I thought George would get the Mexican, but the boy moved faster than my eyes could comprehend. I blinked and the Mexican had bitten George in the throat. George let out a howl as his body convulsed back into a man, thankfully with all of his clothes on.
George was struggling to breathe as a scarlet bib spread its way to his chest, staining his crisp button-up shirt with blood. The Mexican merely looked at George and said something presumably very rude in Spanish. He turned his gaze towards me, and quicker than a fish is snapped out of water he had me in an iron grasp. I literally mean iron.
He wrapped an iron chain around my throat, and he held me to his chest backwards so I couldn't see his face unless I looked up. As soon as the iron touched my tender skin, the burning began. It felt as if the fire of the Pit of Hell was on my skin. I screeched an inhuman cry, begging for him to stop. He merely dragged me away from George, who had a glassy look in his eyes. Oh. My. Bronte. George was dead.
Tears streamed down my face as the Mexican dragged me along, the iron collar along my neck increasing in fury as my body wracked in pain. His steel grip tightened at my futile struggle to get away. He said something in Spanish that I didn't understand. "Es hora de irse a casa pequeña princesa."
"What?" I moaned as my world started to flicker. The fire eating at my neck only increased as pressure grew greater. Air was getting harder and harder to find. As he dragged me through the glass doors, my world went black. I wasn't sure if I would see the light of day again.
Reading Addicted here! Virtual hug for Mimi-Marie34! Quote of the day: 'Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can' Arthur Ashe.
My thoughts and prayers go out to those affected by the rioting going on in Turkey, and the war in Syria. Has anything ever been accomplished by war? The answer is no. 65 million soldiers alone were killed in combat during War World Two. That's just soldiers alone. May it never happen again.
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