Tribulation [h.s]

14

"Might be a sinner, and I might be a saint
I'd like to be proud, but somehow I'm ashamed."

-

"Where are we going?" I ask when he pulls off an exit. I hear Harry exhale beside me, but I remain frozen, unbearably stiff in the passenger seat. We've been driving for well over an hour, and the grip of his gun hasn't eased in the slightest. One hand remains on the steering wheel while the other holds his gun that's currently resting on his thigh. "Where are you taking me?" I ask, sterner this time.

He doesn't look at me when he grunts out, "do you ever stop talking?"

I actually hate talking, but if my rambling will make him answer me, so be it. "I'll stop talking when you bring me back." Just as that sentence falls past my lips, Harry takes another right. Now we're heading up this long, wavey street.

While driving with Harry, I noticed the slow shift from city lights to gassy hills, but I lost track of where we were once he drove through Queens. I have no idea where we are. But then I see a neighborhood sign with honey-hued lights shining upon it. When we draw closer, I can finally read the sign—Oyster Bay. Not too long after we drive past that sign, I see grand estates dotting grassy hills with large glass windows, formal gardens, Lutron lighting, with three stories, maybe more.

Eventually, he turns into a dark driveway made of beautiful sandstone up to a grand bungalow house. I don't have much time to take the large building in because he wastes no time pulling into his garage. When the garage door closes behind us, my heart jumps to my throat.

No fucking way. Is this his house?

The garage lights turn on, and, holy shit, he has a lot of cars. There's a Porsche, a BMW series 7, an Audi R8, a Mercedes Benz s-class, and even an old Chevelle, black with two white stripes going down the middle.

Christ, how much money does this guy have?

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the confined space when he lights a cigarette with a zippo lighter engraved medusa on its side. It smells different from the Malbros I usually smoke. In fact, it smells similar to the ones my mother liked to smoke. Menthol. The smell of smoke and the minty aroma caught in my throat. I even stop breathing when I think of her.

The peculiar scent smells like home and hell all at once.

Now is most definitely not the time to start moping over the things my dead mother did to me. No fucking way.

"Get out of the car, Rosaline." Harry sighs, calm. Too calm. More smoke fills the air between us.

"Stop calling me that."

He takes another hit and lets the smoke out through his nose before looking at me. "Then get the fuck out of my car-"

Before he can even finish, I get out, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me. Fuck him. First, he goes ahead and kills two innocent people, then he holds a gun to my head with a deranged grin, kidnaps me, and now he has the audacity to light a cigarette and calmly speak to me?

What the actual fuck?!

"Take me home," I demand, turning around when I hear him get out of his car. "Take me home right fucking now."

"Sorry, princess, I can't do that."

"Why?!"

Harry takes one last drag before dropping his cigarette on the cement floor, squishing it beneath the heel of his shoe. "Tell me, Rosaline, what do you think you saw tonight?" He asks, voice gravely as he changes the subject. He takes two steps forward. I take three back.