"In Which Reality is No Damsel in Distress, Pt. 1 "

· · ·

"In order to kick ass, you must first lift your foot."

-

Jen Sincero

· · ·

1:10 AM

Somewhere in Averill

https://youtu.be/TOhtZdINkY0

I'm not a coward.

Well, not usually.

Although, what I just did a few moments ago doesn't really help my cause.

Nope.

I just scrambled, pushed myself through an unsuspecting customer, and blended into the throngs of streetwalkers like someone who's on the FBI's Most Wanted List.

But what really pushed the nail in the coffin is that I wasn't even sure if he was walking straight towards me.

Oh, no. Instead of thinking logically, I just jumped to a conclusion, something I always remind myself not to do. But do I listen? NO!

I had to have this crazy idea in my head that he had somehow felt a connection with me throughout his final performance. Like, what kind of a fucked-up clichéd idea was that?!

It was a good thing I was mostly drunk (I can't believe coffee had failed me) or else this would be a whole new level of cluster-fuck.

At least, I know I'm having these weird ideas inside my head under the effects of alcohol. It has to be the only thing that makes sense as to why I'm feeling like this.

My fight versus flight responses was triggered (that's it!) and I chose flight (okay that came out wrong) physically (yeah, that's it!) instead of emotionally. 

So here I am, paying the price of my complete lack of rationality.

Trudging through the miserable cold morning air, my shoulders huddled as the wind nips through my leather jacket and my semi-dry skinny jeans while I found my way to the Baviera townhouse residence without falling on my face.

I do know that around the corner I have to take a left, I ponder for a bit as I take another left between Jerricks Street and Belgrave Boulevard.

I know, it might seem like I'm horrible with directions. I'm not — most of the time.

But with the dull flickering lights from the lampposts, the dark moonless sky, and the dry air irritating my contacts, I might as well walk down the streets with my eyes closed.

I make another left and find myself in another dead-end wall. Great.

CRUNCH! comes the sound of a leaf being stepped on.

I swiftly turn my head around, my hair whipping into the air as I look behind me.

Walking a few meters behind me was a short man in dark clothing, a baseball cap obscuring his face.

He soon stops as he catches me looking at him, tipping his cap lower, and making an observation on the worn-out graffiti on a wall.

I narrow my eyes.

He avoids my glare, casually staring at the graffiti like it was a Banksy* masterpiece. His body language, however, was too rigid — like a predator silently studying its prey. And just my luck, I happen to be that said prey.

Okay, hold up, Michaels. You already jumped to conclusions earlier with a certain sex god. You do not want to be that paranoid girl who thinks every stranger you encounter — hot or otherwise — is out to get you!

The reasonable part of me goes against every impulse within me to run or fight.

I take a deep breath. Right, he's probably just a guy who happens to be out on a very early morning walk.

In the same direction as you. With a cartoon mask on.

At that thought, the tightening feeling in my gut intensifies.

Maybe, he's just weird that way. After all, we are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into a mutual weirdness called—

Whoa! Wrong thought! Stay out of my head, Dr. Seuss!

I thump my head with both hands.

If that guy is really as innocent as he is — in a weird, sicko way — then fine, let him be. But if he is out to mug me or assault me, he'd sooner get a broken nose — that is, if he could catch me.

Without warning, I break off into a run, pumping my legs as I zigzag through the streets as fast as my low-heeled motorcycle boots can carry me. 

Everything around me blurs as adrenaline takes over my body.

I slip into a random alley where a tall metal fence greets me. This time, I stayed close by the exit, checking for any rabid dogs and my wannabe assaulter.

My body slumps down against the wall, my adrenaline dropping fast. This was too much cardio.

I ignore the putrid smell of rotten food and decay festering in a dumpster beside me. I take a couple of deep breaths while checking if the coast was clear.

I try not to scream as a couple of rats pass in between my feet, making small splashes on the puddle I'm standing on.

The scent of petrichor drifts into the dank air, treading lightly and sneakily until it tickles my nose.

AH—I fight back a sneeze.

The bright streetlights from the other side of the fence catch my eye. I slip deeper into the alley.

Now that I think about it, the familiar landscape from the street was a couple of blocks away from Tia's house!

I yip in excitement — and relief — at the thought of a warm bed, a cup of cocoa, and sleep. I almost break into a happy dance when a wave of nausea attacks me.

Not again. I fight back the instinct to vomit, my eyes twitching at the sudden weight in my head.

I was only a few feet away from safety when a loud THUNK! echoes behind me. And, it wasn't the rats.

I glance behind me, instantly aware that the masked man from earlier was right behind me.

Was zeum Teufel!

What the fuck!

I try to run past him, only to crash into a wall of bricks.

The next thing I knew, I was falling on my ass. The taste of rust coats my mouth when I accidentally bit my tongue.

The second man, the hard human that was blocking my only way to freedom, was also dressed in dark clothing.

He was more than a few inches taller than his partner (I estimate around 6'2" and 6'4")with hulking shoulders and thighs the size of tree trunks.

His hoodie covers his head, while a cartoon mask hides his eyes. Yet, it was the way he licks his lips as he looms over me that betrays his malicious intent. Their malicious intent.

I scramble on my feet and away from him.

They begin to walk towards me from both sides, clearly planning to corner me and spike fear into me.

I veer right and towards the dingy brick walls (which may or may have not been peed on, judging from the smell), my eyes never leaving them as I try to walk sideways.

CLICK! A shaft of light from the nearby streetlamps catches on to something metal. The first man had pulled a serrated blade knife from his pocket.

Ooh, shiny! I marvel briefly at the way the blade glints — not even a scratch or a drop of blood on the surface.

Well, if I did get cut or skewered, at least I know I wouldn't die of tetanus — just blood loss.

The irony brings a smile to my face. Something the first man didn't plan to cause.

Just when I'm almost passing near the second man that I sway on my feet.

He catches on to this and blocks my path with an arm.

"Where you goin', lil' lady?" The first man asks menacingly, playing with his knife and obviously not expecting me to answer.

"Away," I reply anyway, slightly hypnotized by the way he tosses the knife in mid-air and catching it.

Snap out of it, Michaels! Also, who's he calling 'lil' lady'? He's barely an inch taller than me.

"We can't have that, can we, Nev?" He motions at his partner. 

His partner nods in silent agreement.

Underneath the crude quality of his voice, I thought I caught the merest hint of a South Bronx accent. 

So, out-of-town masked thugs. Who would've guessed? This is what happens when you rate your neighborhood's Crime and Safety Grade with a shitty 'C-' on Niche.* You might as well have screamed, 'Come, plunder our town!'

I watch him throw and catch his knife for the last time before training it at me. Oh-kay, I guess demonstrations are over.

"This is a stick-up, lady."

"Tch, finally!" I throw my hands up, eyes heavenward. "For a second there, I thought you guys were lost circus performers busking with knives."

AHCK! My vision begins to distort again. My back hits the wall in a silent THUD!

The bristling contact felt like a hundred tiny spiders crawling on my skin and into my ears.

My knees contract. I begin to slide down the wall when the man calls for my attention again.

"I said this is a stick-up, lady," he growls.

"I'm sorry"— I bite back another laugh — "did you just say you have a stick up your ass?"

Knife Guy (yeah, that really defines his character) grits his teeth. "I'm not kidding, lady."

I roll my eyes. "Obviously, you're not a kidney or a lady. You're too..."— I try to search his features for a word to describe him. I settled for his bushy beard and the hair peppered generously on the backs of his fingers.

"Hairy, for that — in a good masculine way."

I may be too wasted to have common sense right now, but I'm not that offensive (I prefer to do that when I'm sober).

KG (Knife Guy was too long of a name) clearly did not appreciate my compliment. Waving his knife towards me, he sends me an annoyed look. "You think you're a comedian, don'tcha?"

I quickly shake my head, intensifying the call for a bucket to puke in.

"Nope-p, just drunk," and supposed to be peeing in fear by now.

I snort at the thought — which turns into a burst of full-blown laughter. There was no way I'm peeing in fear. 

Both men look at me like I'm stark raving mad.

KG's partner, 'Nev' (a name I refuse to believe to be true), almost cracks into a smile. What can I say? I have an infectious laugh (ha-ha-ha)

"Look, Terry. She thinks she's funny." 'Nev' comments.

KG (who now happens to be Terry) facepalms. "How many times do I have to tell ya, you nitwit?! No real names when we're on the job."

I wipe an imaginary tear from the side of my eye. "I am, aren't I?"

Or, was it because I was too tanked to think everything I say is comedic gold? Nah! I am funny!

"Aw, look at me. I'm arguing with myself while a guy is pointing a knife at me"— I double over in laughter — "it's not even supposed to be funny!"

"If you think dying with a knife sticking in your gut, then yeah!" he barks out, trying to act all tough and cool.

I look at him thoughtfully. "For a thug, you talk funny."

"I'm funny?!" Terry scoffs in disbelief, turning to 'Nev' for some sort of support.

I ignore him and face 'Nev'. "And you look..." I narrow my eyes, trying to rack my brain to remember something.

I gasp. "Goofy! Holy unicorns pissin' rainbows! I just remembered where I saw you two before!" I point excitedly at them.

Both men share an uneasy look, and by the shift in their posture, are more alert than ever. As if recognizing them is something to be ashamed about.

"Go ahead and say it. We dare you," Terry says, clearly as a threat.

I roll my eyes and focus on my remaining — and interested — audience, 'Nev'. "The Mickey Mouse Show!"

'Nev' tilts his head in confusion.

I sigh and point at him. "You're Goofy and" — I turn to a frowning Terry — "you're Donald Duck. Though I could be wrong and you might as well be Uncle Scrooge."

"In our defense, the store ran out of other masks!" cries 'Nev', who apparently just felt horrified for getting caught in wearing a children's mask.

"I think it's cute!" I reassure him.

"Thanks," he mumbles, slightly straightening his mask.

"Shut up, 'Nev'! Shut up! Shut up!" KG bellows, stomping his foot.

He snaps his head back to me.

He snaps his head back in my direction.

"I'm telling you one last time, give us what you got unless you want my partner here" —

CRRAACK! At my right, 'Nev' cracks his knuckles as his face stretches in a toothy grin.

"To take more than your stuff. And trust me, he likes his women struggling and screaming." 

(To be Cont.)

· · ·

UH-OH, you just had to open that big mouth Ave!

What do you think's gonna happen to her now?

Write your speculations in the comment section.

· · ·

PLAYLIST

My Echo, My Shadow, and Me — The Ink Spots

· · ·

TRANSLATION

Was zum Teufel?! — What the fuck?!

· · ·

*[F/N]*

Banksy — a pseudonymous England-based street artist, political activist, and film director whose real name and identity remain unconfirmed and the subject of speculation.

Niche — a real website that provides insights on schools, companies, and neighborhoods and ranks them based on a set of criteria.

· · ·

· · ·

Copyright © 2017 Lei André