𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫.
⚠⚠⚠
On the most ruthless night of the year, Madelyn Beckham must quickly learn to survive and save those who need her the most. When faced with death itself, she...
The air is thick, covered in tension, the smell of copper from our leaking wounds, and silence. James and I sit on the floor, every now and then us checking on one another by watching the other through our eyelashes. I play with the ripped pages of books, tearing pieces off and creating a pile on the floor. I've even read a few chapters from 'The Hobbit, and not the new version. This store is vintage, having hold of older copies of classics.
James sits beside me, leaning on his hands, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally, he reaches over and touches his stomach, feeling the stitches. I've had to berate him for it, telling him that he'll open up his stitches. He rolls his eyes, belittling the amount of pain he's in. I even had to push my finger on the wound, making him groan, and prove to him that he is in fact in critical condition. That eventually shut him up.
And that led us to now. Sitting on the floor of the bookstore, I crossed-legged and picked at the stray cotton on my shirt, ripped from my previous wounds. He sits next to me, watching the harsh wind from outside blowing under the crack of the door and blowing the papers on the windows slightly. We don't talk, instead masking in the comfort of silence.
The door knocks, hard. The wood bangs against the knuckles of the stranger standing outside and begging to be let in. A deep, groggy, voice comes through and into the room.
"Please, I beg! Just let me in!"
We both stand up, our postures are tall and tense. From the cashier's desk, I grab a hammer, found in a toolbox under a stack of dusty books. James hobbles to stand in front of me, pulling out a pocket knife from his pocket and holding It in front of him. We aim our weapons at the door, my hands beginning to tremble.
"Please, I'm hurt. I need help." The voice begs.
I begin walking closer to the door, the hammer in front of me. I watch the door and windows, trying to see through the cracks in between the papers. James grabs my arm, turning me around to face him. His face is stiff, the expression staring down at me scaring me.
"What are you doing?" He whispers.
"Opening the door. He needs our help."
"No."
"No?"
"I said, no."
His grip on my arm tightens, holding me back from the door. I try to get free, but with his fingers wrapped around my arm, bruising the skin, I fail. He stares down at me, borrowing his eyes into mine and silently pleading with me, a sudden soft look in them. I sigh, looking down at our feet.
