Devil's Objective

The streets always seemed different at four in the morning. The walk back to my apartment was short, but always sketchy. I disliked the darkness because of this. Relief came to me whenever I stepped under a streetlamp, but it left quickly when I left the comfort of the light. As I passed the yellow pedestrian crossing sign, I thought to myself, “Two blocks and I will be there.”

I made it to the corner across from my building and, without looking, crossed the street. A car horn blared loudly, causing me to freeze mid-step. Bright headlights flashed and blinded me as a car came skidding around the corner playing obnoxiously loud music. My eyes went doe-eyed as I mentally screamed at my stubborn legs to move. You know how there is always that female character who is completely stupid, especially in horror films? I never thought that, of all people, I would be the village idiot. As my end approached, a pair of arms grabbed me and yanked me from my stupor, pulling me onto the sidewalk away from harm.

Gasping, I realized I had been holding my breath. My body began to shake as the adrenaline hit me and a small sob escaped my lips. The hands that gripped my arms tightly, slackened and the arms that belonged to those hands wrapped around me in a hug. A warm feeling spread through my body almost immediately and I stopped shaking, my sobs subsided.

“What were you thinking?” A harsh, breathy male voice spoke. I looked up, startled from his tone. He sounded almost angry with me. “You could have been killed.” I took in his appearance. Dark hair, light eyes, pale and tatted up; he looked like a total tool.

“Does it matter? Do not get pissy with me. I did not ask for you to rescue me,” I replied, angrily. This man had no business being mad at me.

He pushed me away from him and adjusted the leather jacket he wore. “Chivalry’s not dead; girls like you kill it. Chivalry is murdered by thousands of you girls daily.” I peered at him curiously.

“What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at, is that when someone saves you, thank them. I was only worried,” he replied, shoving his hand into a tight pocket in his extremely skinny jeans. He fished a packet of Marlboro Smoothes out and a match, lighting it.

This man was crazy. I was talking to a delusional maniac. He was probably homeless too. “Why would you be worried about a stranger? You don’t know me.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly not have heard me, until he spoke up suddenly. “I was worried because I might not have had the chance to meet you. Make sense?”

“I think I’m going to go,” I said, but I still stood there.

“You think; so, what do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” With that, I turned around and walked into my apartment building. I passed Emmanuel, who seemed to want to bitch me out for something I have not done, avoided the rickety elevator that would one-day lead to someone’s doom, and trekked up the flights of stairs to the sixth floor. I opened the loose door of my apartment and shut it behind me. I slid the chain and turned the dead bolt to lock. I glanced over the room and sighed, sliding down to sit on the ground.

I got up after a minute, grabbed a wine glass, bottle of Sherry, and walked out to the back door of my apartment. It led out to the fire escape. I leaned over the rail, setting my glass on it, and gasped silently as I spotted Mr. Delusional-Homeless-Maniac walking down the alleyway below me. He stopped right below me. Thinking I was better off sitting inside with the radio, I backed away, knocking over my wine glass, sending it tumbling down at it. I shut my eyes tightly and ducked just as I heard it shatter.

“Fuck!” Grabbing the bars tightly, I leaned over to the edge and saw him staring up at the fire escape and cursing a storm.

I have no idea what made me say it, but I stood up and apologized to him. “I’m sorry,” I shouted over the railing down to him. My hair spilled down and around my face freely, blocking his view of my face.

“You have got to be kidding me Princess,” he shouted back. “You’re apologizing?”

“Don’t call me Princess.” I turned back around and went inside locking the door behind me. Sighing, I went to my bedroom dresser and grabbed my bra and cheekies before showering. I turned my CD player on and blow-dried my hair when I finished and sat on the counter as I brushed my hair afterward, listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I was in love with the song “Home.” When I was done, I put on a robe, took another wine glass from the kitchen and went back out the fire escape where I left my Sherry.

As I reached to open the door, I heard shuffling footsteps right outside. I felt my body turn cold as a shadow passed over the curtain. The shuffling stopped suddenly and I breathed out, realizing I was holding my breath. Slowly and carefully, I moved the curtain away and saw the worse sight ever. Mr. Delusional-Homeless-Maniac was sitting out on the stairs.

Thinking, I set the wine glass down, grabbed a steak knife and went back to the door, flinging it open with a bang. He snapped his head towards me, eyes open wide. “What the fuck, is that a knife?!”

“I’m asking questions here, what do you want, stalker?” I pointed the knife at him clumsily attempting to be threatening.

“Who would stalk you?” He said it with such an attitude that it made me want to stab him.

“What do you want?” I asked again, trying to figure out how to get to the police. The phone lines were still out from yesterday and I was out of minutes on my cell.

“You dropped a wine glass on me.”

“It was an accident.”

“I don’t think you actually care.”

“I apologized.”

“Are you always this kind?”

“Are you always fucking creepy?”

He grimaced at me. “Girls shouldn’t speak like that. It takes away from their beauty.”

“Then fuck beauty; all of it. Now get off my fire escape, creep.”

He rolled his eyes and stared at me with a dull expression on his face. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with my creep self at the party.”

My eyes widened and the knife fumbled in my hands. Naively I tried to catch it and sliced my hand. “Shit!” I cried out, feeling my eyes well up with tears. “Get away from me!” I backed away into my apartment as he picked up the knife. He merely proceeded to follow me into my apartment and past me. I used my robe to stop the bleeding, biting my lip to keep from crying. I watched through blurred eyes as he moved around, turning on the kitchen sink. I shrank back as he approached me, bending down to get face to face.

He sighed. “Where are your Band-Aids? You might have to go to the hospital if it’s deep.” The stinging feeling wouldn’t go away and it was hard to admit it, but I needed him.

“Bathroom shelf. Peroxide’s beside it too.” I tried my hardest not to sob like the baby I wanted to be at that moment. He went off to my bathroom and came back seconds later. Kneeling before me, he grabbed a cotton ball and dabbed it in the peroxide before taking my hand carefully and gently. “It’s going to hurt…” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Yes.”

After he had bandaged my hand and I stopped crying over the stinging pain, we stared at each other, him in fascination and me unsure. I took in his appearance more this time. He had a white V-neck on under a black leather jacket. His skinny jeans were black and were slightly faded and frayed at the bottom. His shoes were Bed Stu Oxfords. I knew this because I love shoes; they’re my “thing.” He had a two finger ring on his right hand for his middle and ring fingers, and a ring on his thumb. His left hand had nothing, but a few scratches and a deep scar running from the pinky to the wrist.

“I’ll go,” he stated after some time.

“That would be best.”