Wrin Chikaya (wrin) wrote,
Wrin Chikaya

  • Music:

yes, this is fiction

It's dark, it's raining, it's a parking lot, and I'm trembling.

My hands are wet, cold, fumbling for my keys, little silver things, slippery as they are, trying to find that tiny square-edged one, the one that fits, into the door, the door of my Firefly--


He's drunk; I can smell it, ratty t-shirt, ruffled hair, I fumble more furiously and hope he thinks I didn't hear and not that I'm ignoring him, not what I'm doing, hoping against hope that this man, this man with this hand curiously, frighteningly in his pants, will give me the benefit of the doubt.


I dropped my keys.


"Didn't you hear me?"

I swing around, looking at him, not wanting to bend at the waist to pick up my keys and getting a good look at him I immediately know that this is the biggest mistake I ever have made.

"... uh... Yes?" I stammer.

"I need a ride home," he's walking forward, he's reaching for my arm, I twitch to one side, trying to avoid his touch, skidding my shoe on the ground, trying to kick my keys to the other side so I can pick them up easier.

"I, uh, I'm waiting for a friend," why the fucking standard, why friday night, why now, why this guy, why me

He grabs my arm.

The world stops.

"I said, I need a ride home," he grins, my eyes are wild, I can't see anything, whipping my head from side to side, I can hear the thumping music, the security guard at the door to the club is easily 500 feet away...

I look him straight in the eyes, trying my hardest not to tremble.

"I can't."

His hand, his other hand, the hand not gripping my wrist so tight I can feel the pulses pounding tinglingly into my thumb, the hand in his pants, it moves, ever so slightly, an unnatural shape coming into being beneath his shirt and I immediately lose bladder control.

He grins wider.

The gun -- it's black, it's wet, and whatever it is, it's magazine-loaded, is something he pulls out slowly, like he's pulling out his genitals, like he's pulling out a baby. I stare, transfixed, for maybe half a second, before completely losing it.

I fly off the deep end.

I twist wildly, he's drunk, thank God, and can't keep a good grip on my wrist. Fuck my keys, he can have my car, I take off running towards the entrance to the club.


The heel on my shoe breaks and I fall, pebbles grinding into my knee, my palms, my forearms. I am breathing raggedly. I feel like my heart is missing, it's in my head, in my ears, it's thumping loudly and making my vision shift with the strength of its beating. I can't see. I wipe the wet hair off my face, twisting my neck around to see him. He isn't following me, he's playing with his gun, his probably-loaded gun, fingering it like a twelve year old fingers a lighter. Reverently. With fascination.

Off go the shoes, and I'm running again, half-jogging, half-limping, looking appropriately pathetic, all I want is an approach at that door. All I want is for the bouncer to take me seriously. All I want is for one phone call, all I want is for warmth, all I want is for it to be half an hour ago, I want Christine to be here, I want my keys, in my hand, and I want this to have not happened.

I'm tugging at his shirt, the security guard, this drunk girl, pathetic, shoeless, sticky-haired and sobbing, clutching at him, begging him, "please, please, I just need the phone," and he stares at me, security-apathy intact, as if I'm insane.

I point at my car, where he's standing -- was standing.

Dare I go back?

I've just experienced possibly the most frightening experience of my life and a lot of people would call me a pussy, say it was nothing, he didn't even hurt me.

But that doesn't stop me from driving home erratically, and locking myself in my bedroom for two days, refusing to come out even to eat, until the panic subsides.
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