by Stella Noir
My heart beat is out of control and I force myself to keep my breathing as calm as possible when I pass the bathroom door behind which I can hear him showering.
He is waiting for me to hop in and join him. Who knows what else he had planned for the night? Maybe he was just being extra nice and extra fun tonight, because he was planning to kill me?
Was he trying to get me liquored up so the job would be easier?
The water stops running.
I inhale audibly and decide that I should be spending less time on thinking and more time running.
I dart forward and reach for the door, which luckily he kept unlocked. Just as I flee outside into the hallway, I can hear his voice behind me.
“Nike?”
I don’t bother closing the door behind me and start running. I have outrun him and his bullets before, I am sure I can do it again. All I have to do is to find the next police station—or anyone outside on the street who could lead me to one.
I don’t risk waiting for the elevator and make my way down the stairs instead. It’s the first time that I have taken the stairs in this building and I have to realize that running barefoot in pantyhose on sparkling new tiles is a dangerous thing to do. I am in danger of slipping and falling down the stairs many times, as my foot loses grip on the floor and am hanging on to the staircase for dear life.
I am almost downstairs, just reaching the second floor, when I can hear his voice upstairs. He yells my name again. Just once.
Then, I can hear him running down the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nike
Hearing his steps behind me gives me another push, and I almost fall down the remaining stairs as I speed up and lose my grip on the floor once again.
A strong sense of relief takes a hold of me when I finally reach the door on the ground floor. I fall on to the handle and yank on it as hard as possible to open it.
The door doesn’t move.
“Fuck!”
I throw myself against the door, expecting it to open to the outside.
But it still doesn’t move.
I panic.
Why does this fucking door not open?
I try the handle again, using so much strength that I am starting to sweat while I alternate between pulling on the door and throwing my body against it. However, neither shows any effect. The door stays put, not moving an inch or even giving me a clue as to what might be the right way to open it.
My pulse is running wild and tears join the sweat on my face. I take a step back and lift my arms to push the unkempt hair back that has started to stick to my face.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hiss helplessly.
I turn around to see if there’s any other way out. Meanwhile, his chasing steps are coming dangerously close.
I could cry out for help, I probably should. Some of his neighbors might hear me and open their doors. But a lump in my throat prevents me from making even the slightest noise with my voice.
I try to calm myself and close my eyes for a few seconds to breathe. In and out, quick but deep and deliberate.
Calm down. Calm down.
When I open my eyes, I quickly realize that this is exactly what I needed. There is a little hook at the side of the door, slightly above the doorknob, that I haven’t noticed before. I was too busy with panicking to see that there is this little extra lock at the side. I lift it up with my index finger and try the door again, pulling first, pushing next.
The door swings open to the outside and I jump out on the street just as his steps reach the ground floor behind me. If I had my running shoes on, I wouldn’t have the slightest doubt that I could get away from him, but seeing as it is and I am only in my pantyhose, I find myself praying for my life as I dart out on the street, escaping his grip by just a few inches.
“Nike!” I hear him behind me. It’s the first time that I hear his voice since he started chasing after me.
I don’t waste time on looking back at him but start running as fast as I possibly can without my shoes on. He is close, very close, I know it.
I can hear him panting behind me. This is all so fucking hopeless. Once again, there are no people on the streets who could help me. I don’t encounter a single soul and am losing hope with every single step I take. I may be a fast runner, but he is still a man, a fit man who—I am sure—does quite a lot of running himself. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t gotten a hold of me yet.
All my panicking and stressing has messed up my breathing, so that I cannot help but start to hyperventilate. It slows down my running tremendously and I am beginning to lose energy a lot sooner than I usually would.
I felt as if I was gaining some distance on him for a few moments there, but now his panting and his wide and strong steps are getting closer. The sound his feet produce on the sidewalk suggests that he is barefoot as well. That shouldn’t surprise me, because he just stepped out of the shower.
I cannot help but wonder whether he is wearing any clothes. A part of me wants to turn around, to check if he is following me naked. The thought would make me laugh, if the situation was any different, if I wasn’t running for my life right now. I scold myself for even occupying my mind with these silly thoughts. Who cares if he kills me naked or with clothes on?
I shriek in surprise when I can feel the tips of his fingers on my back, scratching my side as he tries to grab me. He is not yet close enough to catch me and his unsuccessful attempt costs him valuable speed, which I use to accelerate my own pace.
But I am so exhausted, so terribly exhausted. I gasp for air, desperate to fill my lungs, but my efforts are futile. Once again, it’s not my legs but my lungs that betray me. My legs appear to move on their own will, still moving in wide and fast leaps that could be called effortless if it wasn’t for my missing breath and energy.
Needless to say, his second attempt at grabbing me is successful. He gets a hold of my left arm, his hand fastening around my wrist as he pulls me to stop.
“No! No! Nooo!” I cry out.
The desperation is apparent in my shrill voice and tears blur my vision as I realize that this might be it. This might be my death sentence.
There is no one around, not a single person who could help me, no one who could hear me scream, not a single car driving by. He could just silence me here and now, breaking my neck with a quick twist before I even get to—
“Nike!” he yells at me, tightening his grip around my arm and pulling me close.
I struggle in his tight grip, but the more I do, the firmer his grasp gets. I am suffocated with fear, unable to yell for help. He pulls me close, twisting my arm on my back, thus immobilizing me before he puts his other hand above my mouth from behind.
Of course, now I find the will to scream, but the sound is muffled by his hand.
“Nike, calm down!” he urges, tightening his grip so much it hurts. I whine and whimper, trying to get out of his grasp, but it’s hopeless. I am completely at his mercy, and this time I don’t enjoy it one bit.
“Calm down,” he repeats, his mouth close to my ear. “Calm down and promise me not to scream and I will let you speak. Understand?”
His voice is harsh and deep, threatening. He could kill me right now. I know he could. That’s what they do in the movies, just a quick grab around the head, a sudden and rapid movement and the neck is broken.
Or maybe he took a knife with him. He could stab me, too. Any moment now.
I close my eyes, waiting for either of the two happening, but nothing of the sort follows. Instead, I find myself inhaling his delicious scent and enjoying the touch of his bare skin on me. It is so familiar, so comforting. This murderer’s presence is still soothing me, even now. I wouldn’t want anyone else to hold me the way he does right now.
Fuck. How messed up is this?
“Nike?” He asks again. “Nod if you hear me.”
I do. I nod within his scary embrace.
“Promise me you’ll be good,” he repeats. “And I will le
t go of your mouth, understand?”
I don’t react. He gives me a few more seconds to give him an answer, but I remain quiet and motionless.
“I need to know what is going on,” he says. “What the fuck is this about? Why the hell did you run away from me like this? Why are you scared of me?”
Is he fucking kidding me? He knows damn well. He should know. Is he playing dumb with me right now?
“I know,” I try to say, but it comes out all suppressed and incomprehensible.
Finally, he removes his hand from my mouth, and instead of screaming for help, I repeat my words.
“I know.”
My voice is faint, nothing more than a whisper.
He stiffens behind me, but his grasp around me loosens.
I could try to get away, I should. But instead I freeze, waiting for a reaction from him.
He doesn’t do or say anything, just keeps standing there behind me, still breathing heavily from our chase. His upper body is naked, I can feel his buff chest pressing against my skin, because my dress has a deep back neckline.
I love his body, his skin, his scent, his eyes, the way he looks at me, the way he claims and challenges me. But his deep interest in me wasn’t sincere, I know that now. He just wanted to interrogate me, make sure that I am under his control, and he might decide to silence me at any time now.
Tears are streaming down my face. Tears of sorrow, disappointment and utter fear.
“I know,” I repeat. “I know.”
“Know what?” he asks, but the tone of his voice reveals that he knows the answer to his question.
“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper.
“You have to say it,” he urges, still whispering. “Otherwise I cannot know what you’re talking about, Nike.”
The way he says my name is so gentle and sweet. It tears me apart. How can he do this to me?
“On the rooftop,” I whisper. “It was you.”
Silence.
We freeze and stand motionless like a joint statue. A statue of lovers, one might think. There must be something comical about us to anyone who’d walk past us right now, considering that he is half naked and I am in an evening dress without shoes.
“You are going to kill me,” I say, suppressing the urge to cry. It’s not a question, but a statement.
“Nike,” he breathes.
Everything that follows happens too fast for comprehension. Mars is about to let go of me and turn me around, but just as he distances himself from me, I hear him yell something that I don’t understand and I am pushed to the floor, accompanied by a loud bang.
The sound of a shot being fired.
I let out a shriek, more of surprise than pain, when I hit the ground.
A shot. He brought a gun and shot me.
Why does it not hurt?
There is no pain anywhere but on my knees and hands as I try to cushion the blow of me falling down on the sidewalk. Mars is still behind me. I hear him growl and stumble behind my back. Just as I want to turn around to look at him, he runs right past me, darting across the empty street into the darkness.
Just as I suspected, he is wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that he must have fetched before coming after me.
And he is leaving a trail of blood behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mars
That bastard. I know he was aiming for me, but with his lack of experience and his terrible aim he could have shot anybody.
He could have shot her.
If I hadn’t seen him moments before he fired his pathetic shot, thus giving me a chance to push Nike out of his way, who knows what could have happened.
How could he be so stupid?
I curse myself for leaving the house without a weapon, something I haven’t done in years. It’s insane to go after an armed guy without having a gun on myself, let alone proper clothing. But I am furious with rage, fueled by anger and the fear of loss.
I could have lost her. For weeks, I was unable to make up my mind about what to do with her, how to deal with my only living witness. I thought I was indecisive and scared, but in reality I was waiting and hoping. Waiting for her to realize, and hoping for her to let it go. It’s almost a relief that she knows now, even though I have no idea how she found out, and her reaction doesn’t really make me believe that she could let it go just like that.
And now, on top of all things, he has to show up—with the intent to kill me. What a fucking loser.
I told Christian to stay out of this. I told him to live his life and leave me alone, which apparently he took to understand as an invitation to show up at my new home to kill me.
His shot was as bad as one would expect from a man like him. It’s nothing but a graze shot that hit my left side, hurting like a motherfucker but nothing that would take me down. I can still run, and the horror on Christian’s face as I make my way over to him speaks volumes. For whatever reason, he did not expect this. He actually thought he’d just shoot me down with that one pathetic attempt and that was that.
Well, think again, buddy.
He is paralyzed for a few moments, but instead of taking another shot at me, he goes for the most stupid option and turns around in an attempt to run away from me. I have no idea why he chooses to do that, but it puts me in a better position.
Even with the injury I manage to catch up with him surprisingly fast. It’s the second time this night that I have to catch someone who is fleeing from me, but unlike Nike, I don’t grab this idiot by the arm. He needs to be taken down and disarmed as soon as possible. If I were to pull him back at his upper arm like I did with Nike, he could just turn around and shoot me right in the face.
Instead, I tackle him by leaping forward, throwing my entire body weight on him and wrapping both arms around his neck. He chokes in surprise and falls down instantly. Even during that split second while we both fall down, I can smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk, probably more than I am. The sex, the—albeit short—shower and the chase have sobered me up quite a bit.
“You piece of shit,” I hiss as I pin him down, retrieving the gun from his hand with one quick move. It’s easier than expected, because he seems to surrender the moment I lay my hands on him.
I pull his arms back, crossing them over his back and keeping him in place with my legs and one hand while I point the gun at his temple with the other.
I groan in pain, but he hardly struggles. What a fucking loser. When I point the gun at his head, he squints his eyes shut, waiting for me to pull the trigger.
But I have no intention to kill this motherfucker. Not if I don’t absolutely have to.
No more killing. No more dead bodies haunting me. And especially not like this, close up, messy.
“What did I tell you?” I hiss in his ear, hovering over the poor bastard’s head. “What the fuck were you thinking, you useless piece of shit?”
“I’m scared,” he whines. “I’m scared, man. Everybody’s dead. You killed them, man! You were coming after me next, I just knew you would—”
“I told you I wouldn’t!” I interrupt him. “You fucking loser, I told you! You have to get your shit together and leave me the fuck alone!”
I nudge the gun against his forehead, enjoying the view of him flinching in fear.
“I should shoot you right now, you loser,” I whisper. “You know that right?”
He whimpers and starts sobbing.
So pathetic.
I love it. I cannot deny that I love this feeling of power over him. He is completely at my mercy, another idiot who was dumb enough to catch me on the wrong foot. I love the feeling of overpowering another man like this.
But I don’t love killing. It came easy to me, at least in the beginning, but I longer want this deed to be part of my life.
I hate Christian for putting me in this position. I hate the bastard so much.
“I should shoot you,” I repeat. “I should, and I could. But you know what, you little fuck?”
&nbs
p; He doesn’t give me any kind of reply.
I let a few painful second pass before I continue to speak.
“I won’t,” I finally say.
He lets out a whimper of relief.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I continue. “I don’t fucking want to. Do you understand?”
He nods, as much as he can in his current situation.
“I’m done with that shit, Christian,” I say. “And I’m really fucking angry at you for not listening to me, not trusting my words. You should know better. If I wanted to kill you, you’d long be dead by now. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” he says, and finally dares to open his eyes.
“Don’t kill me,” he begs. “Please. I’m sorry. I should have listened!”
“Yes, you should have,” I agree. “And you’re lucky that I’m not a guy who holds grudges, because you know what makes me even angrier?”
He shakes his head no.
“That you aimed at me and my girl,” I say. “My girl! If you had killed her or even put the slightest scratch on her, I swear to God, you’d be dead by now!”
Christian looks at me, his eyes still watery and full of fear.
“Since when do you care for anybody,” he hisses.
I increase the pressure on his arms, causing him to groan in pain.
“That’s none of your business,” I say. “Just know this: If you ever bring her in a situation like this again, you’re dead. Instantly. No second chances then. If there’s even the slightest scratch on her, you’re gone. Understand?”
I bend his arms even further, and he whines.
“Okay, okay! Yes! I’m sorry,” he repeats in agony. “Please let me go.”
I stare at him for a few more moments, pondering whether this is a smart idea or not. He looks terrified and weak, like a beaten dog, even though I am the one with the injury. He probably has nothing more than a few faint scratches on his pale skin.
I loosen my grip, waiting for his reaction. He relaxes instantly and lets out a sigh of relief when I finally get back up on my feet. It is now that I am suddenly aware of the pain at my side. It fucking hurts and blood is running down my torso and my left leg.