The Blank Page

by Krista Bean

Brooke barely had enough time to glimpse the last line before she heard the footsteps. They were muffled on the carpeted stairs, but they nevertheless assaulted her ears as badly as metal bars on concrete. She jerked upright, every muscle in her body tensed and ready to spring – but momentarily paralyzed in fear.

  The delay was costly. The man appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a dark-clad figure with a nylon stocking over his face. His features were pressed into a grotesque mass, which zeroed in on her with cold ruthlessness.

  Run!

  Brooke’s muscles came to, and she bolted towards the kitchen door. The metal bar on the floor took a moment to remove under normal circumstances, and these, of course, were not normal circumstances. She had barely dislodged it before the man was upon her, his arms clamping around her like a vise, his heavy weight pressing behind and on top of her. She screamed and flailed as he hauled her away from the door and slammed her against the kitchen counter. The cool granite jammed into her gut and sent the breath out of her in a rush.

  Everything was a blur except for that fighting instinct – the one that, in a much lower dosage, had compelled her to confront Zoe only half an hour ago. She squirmed in the man’s grip, trying desperately to ward off panic and think.

  And then, pressed against the counter, she saw it, only a foot away – the jar of change. It was a pint-sized jar, but the glass was thick and solid, and full of coins it probably weighed at least two or three pounds.

  The man wrenched her around, his deformed face now inches from her own. The top of the stocking bobbed about the crown of his head like a limp antennae, and he was grunting in his throat. Despite his strength and the size of his hands, however, he was clumsy, his vision probably at least partially obscured by the stocking. As he struggled with the front of her pants, Brooke realized that her leather belt just might be the only thing preventing him from ripping off her entire outfit from neck to knees like some tear-away stripper’s costume.

  And then it happened: he paused. It was only for a second, but it was just enough time for Brooke to reach for the jar of change. Her hand closed around it… and she slammed it into the side of his head.

  The man gave a sharp gasp as the glass hit his temple. Change flew across the room, smashing and clattering across the floor, over the stove, against the refrigerator. The man, his hand pressed against his head, fell to his knees. Brooke jerked away from him, thinking of nothing but getting to the front door.

  But she’d only taken a step before his hand clamped around her ankle. Her forward momentum brought her crashing to the ground, landing on her hands and one knee amongst a hundred scattered coins. She twisted around as the man pulled her back towards him. She was now on the floor, on her back – the absolute worst position to be in. The man was once again over top of her, grappling for her other leg.

  Fortunately he was still clumsy, and Brooke knew if she had one chance, this was it. Bracing her weight on the leg he held, she swung her other leg in front of her and slammed her foot full force into his groin.

  The man howled and fell over sideways. Brooke had never moved so fast in her life as she pulled her legs underneath her, leapt to her feet, and sprinted out the front door.

  The afternoon sunlight was blinding as she ran across the porch and into the yard. For half a second she thought of all the empty houses, and didn’t know which way to go. Then she spotted the old burgundy Buick.

  Mrs. Willoughby.

  Brooke tore down the street to her house.