The Cabin
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#emergency
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"Go ahead. Do it." He challenges the woman. "Call 'em."
She's pinned to the wall, her back there. He's not even touching her, he doesn't need to. His eyes are enough to pin her.
Her heart is pounding, like she's found a thief in the house and he's taking his time. Leisurely, he lounges on the couch, but he means business.
This exchange has taken an eternity. She came in running, the keys in her hands rattled as she focused that key head into the socket. The wide, heavy door opened and she panted and panted with her back to it. She slammed it shut. Her eyes were tightly closed. She quickly turned to the window to look out. Trembling hands pulled back the curtains.
Her tired shoulders and dragging feet came right in, collapsing on the kitchen counter as she caught her breath.
Her sobs were soft, but he heard them. Her shoulders bobbed as she wheezed inaudibly. Then came the loud growl. It's how it usually is when you cry with all your might and no one's watching. But she's mad. She cries with this anger, biting down on her sleeve.
He sat back, leg up, and watched from the couch. He's at home. She's the foreigner. But it's completely opposite.
He's not the one with the keys to the cabin.
The sad girl turned, and then she screamed. He cringed a little, bracing himself, but he did wait for it.
No lights are on, the electricity is out. He couldn't get to it, no strength. He was a dark shadow to her.
"Okay, shut up," he said calmly, when she screamed too loud, and too long.
Silence. Finally.
"Jesus," he said to himself. He's breathing shallow, he doesn't need this right now.
That's when she ran for the landline.
He sighed watching her. Now they stare at one another. "I'd like to see you try," he adds when she pauses over the numpad. The phone set in her palm, the coiled cord tangled in places—the device is from another era, its color and make reminds him of his devious, young days when he was free.
She's shaking in her bones, snot down her nose. Tears soak her cheeks and red eyes.
He smiles. She looks a good mess.
"This is an emergency, no?" He teases. His eyes catch the moon from the window. "A vulnerable woman. A stranger in her house." He tilts his head. "Is it your house? Hm. I think it's Daddy's."
She's mute. Her fur jacket, the designer shoes, loud chains dangle from her leather purse. So fucking loud. Whoever is chasing her should track her down by sound and perfume alone. His nostrils flare at the new scent in the stale air.
She jolts to life. She taps on a single button. That's when he points the barrel. His arm over the back of the couch.
"They'll find you. It kind of looks like you don't want to be found."
She stops and looks. Sweat on his brow. His eyes flutter a little. She drops her eyes and he's playing the part, but he's wounded. There's blood on the floors in polka-dots, there's blood in his hand around the grip of the Glock.
"Leave," he says through a snarl.
"Get out!" she shouts hysterically. They talk over one another.
It's silent. No one is moving. Neither is leaving. They're both on the run.
He laughs.
"It's gonna be a long night, pretty girl," he says. He lays his head on his shoulder. The gun slowly dips. He's out cold.
Headlights brighten the room from the windows. If it's far, she can't tell. But this isn't going to work. She moves. She makes a choice.
Pretty Girl drags this stranger out of sight, away from windows.
It was a long night. A long week. A very long predicament.
….
End.
Had this bunny hopping for a while xoxo