Don't Get Into The Car

[ 23 ]

Your hands are nested in your lap, your fingers entwined with one another in an attempt to cease their uncontrollable trembling. You keep your eyes glued to the floor, looking at the carpet under the coffee table but not really seeing it. The air in the living room is suffocating, heavy and unbearably hot. You don't know if it is because of the sunrays that are seeping through the window panes, or if it's a physical manifestation of the overwhelming anxiety that has taken hold of you, making it impossible for you to sit still.

Each second that passes feels like an hour, every minute like an eternity. The anxiety bubbles inside you, churning and roiling like a cauldron, conjuring in your mind all kinds of terrible, unthinkable scenarios of how this day might end. The uncertainty gnaws at you, and you find yourself wishing desperately, pleading silently for someone, anyone, to just tell you what is going on—your mind is swirling with questions that remain unanswered because no one seems to bother giving you an explanation. All the men, their faces stern and unreadable like weathered statues, are staring at Simon.

When you dare to summon the courage to look up, your eyes first settle on Johnny. He's pacing back and forth, his movements restless and erratic. But when he doesn't look at you, doesn't acknowledge your presence, you allow your gaze to slide toward a man who sits on the couch, facing Simon. His face is a blank canvas that reveals nothing of his thoughts. Yet he's the one who dominates the conversation, his voice a commanding presence that forces everyone to listen. His hunched and rigid shoulders resemble the taut strings of a violin. His hands, clasped together with such force that the knuckles have turned a ghostly white, rest on his thighs. His posture is filled with a quiet tension. You don't know his name, yet Simon had referred to him as Captain once or twice—it's a title that seems to fit him perfectly.

There's one more guy—Gaz. However, he seems to be conspicuously absent from the living room, not partaking in the silent standoff that is unfolding. You catch fleeting glimpses of him moving through the house, as he walks from room to room in a seemingly aimless manner, his heavy footsteps echoing through the otherwise quiet house. It's as if he's on a mission, trying to locate something, or perhaps someone, that is currently eluding him. At one point, you are almost certain that you hear the distinct sound of his boots against the tile floor of the kitchen, followed by the creaking sound of the basement door opening.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind. You wonder if anyone would notice if you stood up and left. Would they stop you? Probably, yes. But you don't know how much longer you can stay glued to the chair, your body growing numb, your mind a whirl of thoughts and your heart aching with an unknown fear, a sense of foreboding that you can't put your finger on.

The sensation of a hand gently wrapping around your arm interrupts your thoughts. The sudden contact jolts you back to reality. You had been so lost in your own world that you hadn't even realised that you had zoned out, your gaze fixed blankly on the coffee table in front of you.

Your eyes, startled into awareness, first land on a pair of black boots. The boots, polished to a mirror-like sheen, stand in stark contrast to the lighter texture of the carpet beneath. As you slowly raise your head, your gaze travels upwards until it finally collides with the piercing stare of 'Captain'.

"We should go talk. Alone," he says, his voice carrying an air of authority that makes your insides churn.

You have every intention of staying put, with no desire whatsoever to go anywhere, especially not with this stranger. When you glance at Simon, he pointedly refuses to meet your gaze. His seemingly calculated refusal to acknowledge your desperation sends a wave of dread through you, causing your heart to sink with a heavy thud in your chest. You're left confused and hurt, unable to fathom why he is choosing to ignore you. It's as if he's pretending to be oblivious to your frantic, pleading eyes that are now practically drilling holes into the side of his head.