A beginning
Instinct can be a bitch. All the characters in my books are constantly gibbering about how great it is, but the truth? It’s a real drag. Oh, sure, it’ll be happy to tell you something might be wrong. Especially when it’s dark outside and you’re walking home alone, or when you’re sitting in your stingy one bedroom apartment and the lights go out. All those highly developed glands will start pumping chemicals into you and suddenly you’re seeing a rapist down every alley and Casper around every corner. You might not BE in danger, but you sure as hell THINK you are.
Let’s go to the other side of things. Let’s say your instinct really is telling you something important. Your spidey senses are on red alert and the hairs on the back of your neck are hailing a taxi. Are these internal warnings telling you what the danger is? Where it is? Why, no! Of course not! Heaven forbid it might actually be useful! All you get is that vague sense of “I’m not safe here,” and from there on out, sweet cheeks, you’re on your own.
That’s where I am right now. I have no idea if my instincts are falling into paragraph one or two. I just know that I’m jittery and that every cell in my body is telling me I either need to get ready to kick ass or hit the road, fast.
The night is obscenely quiet. Even the wind isn’t blowing, which is freaky when you’re walking over flat land through a park. It’s spring and the bite hasn’t quite left yet. I’m bundled up more than is probably necessary because of it, and I’m hustling, telling myself it’s because I want to stay warm. I take this route daily after my last class. Tonight I’m wound tight and I have no idea why. Usually I’m still half-conscious from Mrs. Padlink’s lectures. It’s a miracle how boring that woman can make something like Ebola sound.
I move hastily over a crosswalk, coming out of the park and rounding the corner towards my apartment complex. For the first time I think I finally hear what my instinct has been hinting at: footsteps. Of course there are my own, but there’s another set, falling just after them. A dull thump thump on pavement.
I whirl. My heart is racing, my eyes are probably saucers, and I search around in my purse for the trusty pepper spray. I can’t actually see anyone, and the moment passes, but once it does I work myself into a steady jog and keep heading for the building.
The door is in my sights. The number 428, with the 8 dangling at an awkward angle, looms before me. Safety from my overactive imagination. I hold my hand out. Behind me, the porch light on the house across the street flicks on. My shadow climbs the wall.
And beside it, so does another one.
I panic. I’m not too proud to admit it. I grab the door handle and fly inside. The old thing usually squeaks shut behind me, but I don’t hear it. I don’t hear it shut at all, actually.
In fact, I’m pretty sure it swings back open.
At this point all logic fails. Somewhere in the back of my head something is telling me to actually bother to turn and look. I mean, it’s probably just some undergrad who happened to come in at the same time, some guy who got suckered into a 7 o’clock class. He’s probably thinking, ‘damn, what’s up with this crazy dame?’ He’ll tell his buddies about this at the bar later.
I fumble with my key. I can hear someone’s footsteps, but I still don’t turn my head. The carpet in the hallway doesn’t do much to muffle the sound of them coming closer.
The key slips on home. I jerk the knob and twist my way inside, slamming the door behind me.
Or at least I try to. Someone’s shoe, a fucking steel-toed boot, jams its way past before I can do it.
“Miss Alice Craymore?” A man’s voice. Deep.
Oh shit.
“We need to talk.”
My words comes out in a squeak. “…Who is it?”
There’s a pause. Then, “May I come inside?”
Dodging the answer? Double shit.
“No. No you may not. Please go away now. I’ll call the police.”
“That wouldn’t be advisable, Miss Craymore. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Isn’t that what the bad guy says to someone right before he offs them? I pull back from the door and ram against it with all of my strength, which, unfortunately to say, is not much. The steel in his toe must have taken most of it, though he grunts.
“Go away! Go away or I’ll scream!”
“Miss Craymore,” he replies, sounding exasperated. “You’re really being very uncooperative right now.”
I’d show him uncooperative. I reach into my purse and tug out the pepper spray. I’ve never used the stuff before, but it can’t be too difficult. Grabbing the can, I shove my hand out far enough to not wind up getting myself with it and estimate where his face might be, preparing to give him an eyeful of chemical pain.
He grabs my wrist and twists. Nothing breaks, but I’m something of a pansy, and to me it hurts like hell. I yelp, and the canister drops to the ground with a clunk.
He yanks and I fall back out into the hallway, my door swinging open behind me. I barely even take a second to get a look at him before I start thrashing like a crazy person, screaming bloody murder.
“HELP!”
A sigh. “Miss Cray…”
“SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
I hear rustling in one of the other apartment buildings and my heart swells with hope. But before it can get quite to bursting, the guy mutters, “I really am sorry about this, ma’am.”
Something smacks into the side of my head, and the lights blink out.