Don't Get Into The Car

[ 16 ]

Feigning productivity is like staring into a void, especially when your hands are idle, unburdened by actual tasks. It's a peculiar thought you never imagined would cross your mind, but you find yourself yearning for the hustle and bustle of your mundane job. Even if it means enduring a long shift at your less than ideal workplace, getting berated by your seemingly insufferable boss.

Initially, you try to escape the boredom by immersing yourself in a book, rather than tearing pages from it in a mindless fashion. However, the book fails to hold your interest. As you read, the words on the page blur together, forming an incomprehensible jumble of letters, and your attention wanes.

A short nap, you think, could make the time pass faster, providing a temporary relief from the boredom that's been stalking you. But even after pulling the heavy curtains across the window, trying to cage the daylight out, the room is still flooded with an uncomfortable amount of light. The brightness, like an uninvited guest, finds its way in, piercing through the minute gaps in the curtains and drenching the room in a harsh glow, making it impossible for you to drift into the slumber.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you decide to resort to snooping around. You scan the bedroom, curiosity guiding you as you peek into the drawers, rummage through the closet, and examine the table. The room is sparsely populated with belongings, nothing that could pique your interest. Simon's wardrobe is an abyss of black, each piece of clothing mirroring the other like clones. It's as if he has a proclivity for buying everything in bulk, in the same monotonous shade, a sight as drab as a cloudy sky.

You venture into the bathroom. As you pry open the medicine cabinet, your heart sinks. It's barren save for the bare necessities. There isn't as much as a razor that you could pocket and potentially use. You doubt if the blade of such a common household item would be sharp enough to cut anything substantial, let alone provide any real protection. Yet, the mere thought of possessing something, anything, to use as a tool for self-defense blooms in your mind like a desperate flower in the desert, offering a frayed thread of comfort even in its potential ineffectiveness.

In a state of utter desperation, you collapse to the hard floor, your eyes directed up towards the ceiling. You can't hear Johnny's or Simon's voice. Despite your deep-seated curiosity that still lingers within you, you know that there's no point in straining your ears to catch elusive snippets of their conversation. They're too far away, and you're too exhausted to spend hours with your ear pressed to the door.

Your head, like a compass needle drawn by a magnetic force, absentmindedly swivels to the side. An object shyly peeking out from under the mattress flickers in your peripheral vision, catching your eye. Intrigued, you roll onto your stomach and drag yourself closer to the bed, your fingers reaching for the unknown item. The object resists at first, but with a bit more force, you manage to pry it free from its hiding spot. As it slips from your grasp and tumbles onto the floor, a cold realization washes over you. It's a pistol. A real, live firearm. You've never seen one up close before, never felt the cold steel in your hand. But you know, deep down in your gut, with a certainty as cold as the steel itself, this is not some child's toy.

Your gaze darts towards the door. It's still firmly shut, and there's no hint of approaching footsteps. The echoing silence of the room is broken only by the sound of your own heartbeat. Suddenly gripped by a sense of urgency, you push against the floor to sit up. You extend a trembling hand to reclaim the pistol that lay forgotten at your side. As your fingers curl around the metal, you handle it with the utmost care, as though it were a precious artifact rather than a weapon.

Your ignorance about firearms looms over you like a dark cloud - you don't have the faintest idea if it's loaded, let alone how to check it. The thought of attempting to figure it out yourself frightens you; the fear of accidentally pulling the trigger and discharging a round is too great. This daunting possibility sends a shiver down your spine, like a stiff finger tracing your vertebrae, causing your grip on the weapon to tighten.