Treacherous
Three/Ten
I'm preparing to make my daring escape an hour later, still nursing my single drink, still unsure of what was in it. Malt liquor, maybe? Nothing I was used to.
Everyone's nice enough in their own destructive little way.
I don't have any problems, but the 'outsider' stigma lurks persistently in the corner of my mind as I find myself fully aware of its meaning for the first time in my life-these people have a bond that is most certainly not easily penetrated.
So, yeah, I sneak out when no one's looking, okay? Can you really blame me?
I run into no resistance until I reach my car, halfway down a now-darkened street-I can barely make out the shape of my Impala.
Do these people not believe in street lights?
I'm debating heading back to the party to beg for an escort, trying to convince myself that I could handle being branded both an outsider and a wimp all in one evening. Honestly, I can't.
And who knows, the person chosen to escort me may actually be scarier than a deserted street.
This is Charming, after all. What's the worst that can happen?
I'm reaching my beloved car when someone steps out from behind it, actually pops up out of nowhere like this is some cheesy horror movie and I'm the bitch dumb enough to run around in her underwear investigating strange noises in the basement, alone.
Or the bitch dumb enough to try and navigate an unfamiliar street in the dark, also alone.
I hadn't known anyone was there, but I'd learn later that he'd seen me coming a mile off,
not that this information makes me feel any better.
I immediately drop the keys I had been clutching, turn on my heel to run, and start screaming bloody murder all in one fluid movement.
Whoever it is reaches out and grabs my arm, halting me before I can get more than a few steps away. And I had been hurrying. It's almost embarrassing.
Even more so when I hear a low rumbling chuckle as something metal and cold is pressed into my open palm. My keys.
"You dropped these."
The voice sounds like the owner had been gargling with gravel recently, but the tone was cordial enough. Not that I can say the same for myself once I've whipped around to face him indignantly.
"What the FUCK do you think you're doing, scaring people like that?"
It wasn't until I was done with my screaming that I actually took in the apparition before me. 6'2, wearing leather, sporting a tattooed head.
Well, shit. He was definitely going to kill me now.
Unbelievably, he starts laughing. At me. To my face.
I almost would have preferred death, had I not known that my cat Murray was waiting
on dinner at home.
"I'm sorry."
Wait, he's apologizing?
"Relax. I was just smokin'."
Incredibly, he produces a lit cigarette for proof.
Here I was, almost dead of a heart attack, and he'd held onto his smoke.
I cocked an eyebrow at him-I'd come this far, why not push my luck, right?
"Tired of the kiddie party?"
The man in front of me scoffs at this.
"Security."
I stand there, blinking at him. These people need to security for a kids birthday party? What were they, the mob? Before I could respond to this (like I even had a response) a truck full of men flies past us, one of them leaning out of the window far enough to call me 'Croeater scum'. From his tone (and the way the biker next to me tensed up), I assume this was meant as an insult, but it's lost on me completely. "Stupid pricks."
He mutters and appears to physically shake it off before turning his attention back to me, throwing his cigarette butt away.
"Look, next time someone startles you, make sure to hang onto your keys.
Use 'em in your fist, or jab 'em in the eye,"
He's got a hold of me again, demonstrating, and flashes a grin that, unbelievably, I find myself returning. "Then run like hell?"
I ask. It seems like the sensible thing. He full-on smiles, eclipsing the grin entirely.
"You got it. Get home safe."
He pats the top of my car before melting back into the shadows.
I nod, answering even though I can no longer see him.
"I'll try. Also...thanks."
Everyone's nice enough in their own destructive little way.
I don't have any problems, but the 'outsider' stigma lurks persistently in the corner of my mind as I find myself fully aware of its meaning for the first time in my life-these people have a bond that is most certainly not easily penetrated.
So, yeah, I sneak out when no one's looking, okay? Can you really blame me?
I run into no resistance until I reach my car, halfway down a now-darkened street-I can barely make out the shape of my Impala.
Do these people not believe in street lights?
I'm debating heading back to the party to beg for an escort, trying to convince myself that I could handle being branded both an outsider and a wimp all in one evening. Honestly, I can't.
And who knows, the person chosen to escort me may actually be scarier than a deserted street.
This is Charming, after all. What's the worst that can happen?
I'm reaching my beloved car when someone steps out from behind it, actually pops up out of nowhere like this is some cheesy horror movie and I'm the bitch dumb enough to run around in her underwear investigating strange noises in the basement, alone.
Or the bitch dumb enough to try and navigate an unfamiliar street in the dark, also alone.
I hadn't known anyone was there, but I'd learn later that he'd seen me coming a mile off,
not that this information makes me feel any better.
I immediately drop the keys I had been clutching, turn on my heel to run, and start screaming bloody murder all in one fluid movement.
Whoever it is reaches out and grabs my arm, halting me before I can get more than a few steps away. And I had been hurrying. It's almost embarrassing.
Even more so when I hear a low rumbling chuckle as something metal and cold is pressed into my open palm. My keys.
"You dropped these."
The voice sounds like the owner had been gargling with gravel recently, but the tone was cordial enough. Not that I can say the same for myself once I've whipped around to face him indignantly.
"What the FUCK do you think you're doing, scaring people like that?"
It wasn't until I was done with my screaming that I actually took in the apparition before me. 6'2, wearing leather, sporting a tattooed head.
Well, shit. He was definitely going to kill me now.
Unbelievably, he starts laughing. At me. To my face.
I almost would have preferred death, had I not known that my cat Murray was waiting
on dinner at home.
"I'm sorry."
Wait, he's apologizing?
"Relax. I was just smokin'."
Incredibly, he produces a lit cigarette for proof.
Here I was, almost dead of a heart attack, and he'd held onto his smoke.
I cocked an eyebrow at him-I'd come this far, why not push my luck, right?
"Tired of the kiddie party?"
The man in front of me scoffs at this.
"Security."
I stand there, blinking at him. These people need to security for a kids birthday party? What were they, the mob? Before I could respond to this (like I even had a response) a truck full of men flies past us, one of them leaning out of the window far enough to call me 'Croeater scum'. From his tone (and the way the biker next to me tensed up), I assume this was meant as an insult, but it's lost on me completely. "Stupid pricks."
He mutters and appears to physically shake it off before turning his attention back to me, throwing his cigarette butt away.
"Look, next time someone startles you, make sure to hang onto your keys.
Use 'em in your fist, or jab 'em in the eye,"
He's got a hold of me again, demonstrating, and flashes a grin that, unbelievably, I find myself returning. "Then run like hell?"
I ask. It seems like the sensible thing. He full-on smiles, eclipsing the grin entirely.
"You got it. Get home safe."
He pats the top of my car before melting back into the shadows.
I nod, answering even though I can no longer see him.
"I'll try. Also...thanks."