Beat

I stood there, staring out the window, but the tears refused to come. I didn't understand myself. I didn't really understand anything going on in my mind the past few months, but how could I be so... calm?

Giving up on trying to force myself into feeling, I took off my shoes and threw them at the wall. I hate heels, but I felt like I should dress up because I knew my mother would have wanted me to.

I pulled on a pair of baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped into my sneakers. I grabbed my sunglasses, and I shoved my wallet in my back pocket, just in case. Then I stood at my door for a good five minutes, my hand frozen on the knob, debating...
I knew Danny could be dangerous at times like these, but on the other hand, I needed to get the hell out of the house. And this is where I am, deciding if the pain is worth the simple happiness of freedom. If only for a few hours. It always ends up being worth it.

He's sitting on the couch sniffling when I enter the living room. "Where the fuck are you goin?"

"Nowhere you'd be interested in," I say casually as I fight for every step towards the front door. It's only ten or fifteen feet, but it seems like a mile. Danny has that affect on you. An everyday motion seems like a whole list of complicated choreography in his presence.
"Well if you tell me," he says, jumping in front of me, "maybe I'll let you go."
There's a sinister look on his face, the look I'm afraid of, the look that precedes a whole list of inevitability. The order never changes: his clenched fist, a hit, I fall down, we fight, I lose, then I run.
Every time, it never changes.
"Danny, please. Just let me go. I didn't do anything."
He laughs at the fear in my eyes. I hate how he does that, reduces me to so little.
Then it all happens: the clench. He swings, I duck, he backs me into a corner, hits me in the face a couple times, lands a blow to my stomach and I fall. We fought, I lost.
On the ground, spitting out the last of the blood in my mouth, and another kick lands in my stomach, "One for the road." he laughs bitterly.
Then comes the next part: run. I always run, never to anywhere, I just run, and don't think. I just watch, as everything flashes by like I'm trying to fast forward to a better time, but when it's all over, I have to go back and do it again.
This is why I've spent the last ten years, counting down.

2 years 6 months 4 days

2 years 6 months 4 days, until I'm an adult.
Until then, I have nowhere else to go.
The bitter cold bites at my cheeks when I step outside. I ignore it, and pull the sunglasses down over my eyes. No one can see the how I feel when they're there. No one can see the fear in my eyes, and the hope that I can live through the next couple years.
Now I run. The easiest thing to do is run. Especially away. So I do. Houses, cars, even people, zoom past me, but I keep going. I ignore the way the cars slow down and the people turn to look as I fly past. And I run. It gets dark, I still run.
I run until I can't breathe anymore. When I come to a stop, first thing I see is a music store. I begin to walk towards it, praying they have a bathroom.
The inside isn't the fanciest thing, but they have some really good names, and plenty of old records. So I suppose they can't be too bad.

There are only two people in the store: one is the sales clerk, who is sitting with his combat boots propped up on the counter and flipping through an issue of a guitar magazine. He reminds me, faintly, of a model for one of those mens fashion magazines, but he has neon blue hair, and is dressed much more like he belongs in a band, right down to the completely mangled blue jeans.

The other is a lone figure at the back of the store, looking at very rare instruments. He is dressed in a pair of black pants and a black sweatshirt. I can't tell what he looks like, really, because he is wearing, an oddly large pair of sunglasses, and a baseball cap pulled down as far as it will go. Hopefully, he's not planning to rob the place.

I pull my sunglasses back and prop them on top of my head, and browse a bit among the albums. With nothing really catching my eye, I meander over to the drums before making my way towards the bathroom; being careful not to get too close to sunglass guy.

The bathroom, not surprisingly, is empty. I use the first stall with a door and return to the sinks to wash my hands. The person in the mirror stares, pathetically, back at me as I pretend to scrub away the germs from my palms. I can't look into my own eyes, because I know what they'll say. The same thing they always say, "Get out. Find help."

But it's not that easy. It never has been, and now, after today... it's just going to get worse.

I take my time to survey the new cuts and bruises on my face, spending a good two or three minutes on each one. Black eye... busted lip, its bleeding, the blood tastes like copper. I wash my mouth out in the sink and and do my best to ease the swelling with some cold water. It doesn't work.

I hear a crash from the main part of the store. My curiosity precedes the rest of my senses and I open the door to see what's going on.

The sight I find, would probably scare most people, but for someone living through hell, it's be more surprise than fear.

There are four men in the store, two of them, are moving expensive equipment outside into a van, one is pointing a gun at the sales clerk, who is now standing in front of the counter, his hands in the air. The other has sunglass guy pinned in the corner, a gun pointed at him as well.

All six people turn and look when the bathroom door slams behind me, and I all I can think of is kicking the door for giving me away.

"You!" the clerk's gunman yells, pointing his gun at me, "on the ground, NOW!"
I follow his orders, slowly, never removing my gaze from his eyes. This must have made him uncomfortable, because he quickly looks away, trying to find a point somewhere on the wall behind me.

"You too," gunman number two yells at Sunglasses, "right there next to her, MOVE IT."

Sunglasses obeys and I feel his figure drop to the floor next to me. He's shaking.
"I swear if either of you think about moving..." I feel Sunglasses tense up next to me.
We lay there a while, eventually gunman number one brings the clerk, whose name tag says Josh, over and makes him get down on the other side of me. He smells like hair gel and brownies. And suddenly I remember how hungry I am. More time passes by and gunman number one goes to help the two unarmed thugs. They are having trouble moving a very large amp.

Out of nowhere I see flashing lights, red and blue.

"Who the hell called the cops?!" one of them yells.
"It couldn't be one of them," gunman number one points to the two guys, Josh and sunglasses, "We've had guns on them the whole time."

One of them kicks me swiftly in the side. I groan at the familiar pain, reminding me of the bruises there. Sunglasses clenches his fists and Josh tries to move, but is shoved back down by the barrel of a pistol. "Was it you?!" number two yells at me, "did you call the cops on us?!" he kicks me again; "Answer me dammit!"

"It was the alarm!" Josh the clerk, says angrily, "Some of the equipment has a silent alarm trained to it and if you trip it more than three times in a row, the police are immediately notified."

Number one kicks the clerk twice before moving up front to lock the doors and yell, "We're not coming out, we have hostages." through the glass.

"Oh great," Josh mutters.
Gunman number two kicks him again, "shut up."
But he is only voicing what all three of us are thinking. These guys are definitely not professionals, and my best guess is that they are total idiots. They seem like the only know what they've seen in movies.
More time passes by, the police call the store phone a number of times and try to negotiate with the gunmen and the supposed leader finally agrees to receive food from them, and he picks me of all people to help him retrieve it. The gun is pressed to my forehead as we walk out the front door. Its daylight out already. How long had I been in the store? We slowly walk out into the middle of the parking lot, halfway in between the storefront and the line of police cars outside, where the four pizza boxes are laid. My sunglasses fall to the ground as I bend down to pick the pizza boxes up, I consider reaching for them, but the gunman, presses the gun harder into my forehead, a sign I don't choose to ignore.

Then we quickly back into the music store, all the way behind the makeshift cover they've made of the store shelving. He shoves me towards one of the unarmed thugs, who takes me to the back where Josh and Sunglasses (who still has them secured across his face) are now sitting up against the wall.

The thug snatches the pizzas out of my hands, "Sit," he commands.

I sit down in the large space between the other two and quietly cross my legs, Indian style. My calmness amazes me.

He drops a box in front of the three of us, "Eat."

I open the box and suddenly I'm not hungry anymore, it's sausage. I lean back against the wall as Josh picks up a slice a practically swallows it whole. Sunglasses just frowns.

"What's the matter?" gunman number two asks, aggravated.

"I'm a vegetarian." I say weekly, it almost sounds selfish. He scoffs and picks up a box that was on bottom of the stack, "Here." he hands it to me, he almost sounds sincere. Its cheese. I grab a slice and so does Sunglasses, and we scarf our pizza down quietly together. I'm not really a vegetarian, but sausage pizza always makes me sick. Vegetarian is easier to explain.

More time passes by and the gunmen become lenient enough to let us talk amongst ourselves. Josh introduces himself, I reply simply with my name.

"What about you?" he asks, we both turn to Sunglasses. He shrugs.

"Oh come on. We're not total strangers; I mean we've shared a meal together. We're practically dating."

I laugh slightly, Josh smiles. One of the gunmen glares over at us. We shut up but we still look over a Sunglasses, waiting I guess.

He sighs exasperatedly, and reluctantly takes them off. My eyes get big as saucers and Josh heaves in a large gasp of air. He snaps them back on before anyone else can catch a glimpse.

He presses a finger to his lips, signaling us to not reveal who he really is. I nod, quietly. Josh just stares.

He must be a fan, I guess I am but the only real reason I know him is because Danny watches those crappy music shows all the time and I recognize him from a magazine cover. His band took home a bunch awards a few months back on one of those shows. I thought that was pretty cool, I had never really paid much attention to newer music before, but every time a Stray Tape song came on the radio after that, I actually listened.

So even though I've spent it being held up in a music store, another day starts to pass by. I wonder if we'll make it out. I hope the other two do, one of them, influences millions with his words. The other, well he seems like he has a family who love him. I just keep counting down:

2 years 6 months 3 days