Meant to be Yours (ChanSaw)

Chapter 18 (J.D.)

I have to act fast. Veronica, that bitch, sent the text out to her 'knight in shining armor,' Chandler, around 5 minutes ago. I pace my room, coming up with a plan to get out of this.

Veronica is in bad condition, I know that. I need to get her out of here to get help, but not at the hospital we've been to recently. I'll take her to Patient First; hopefully, they can give me some tips to keep her safe without me having to admit her anywhere. Running my hands through my hair, I stop pacing. A smirk creeps its way onto my face as I realize that Heather is now on her way over here— the perfect opportunity for me to eliminate her.

I call Martha, who thankfully was already nearby, and ask her to take Ronnie to patient first. She agrees, and I smile. I can always count on Martha. I make sure to tell her that her cover is blown, and that Chandler knows she is in cahoots with me before hanging up.

I go to the closet and crack open the door. Veronica, with her blindfold on and knees to weak to hold her body up, turns her head towards the door; her mouth is contorted with fear and her hands are shaking behind her back. I speak to her for a moment and she vomits. Repulsed, I step back; thankfully, none of it has made it onto my body. I drag her to the bathroom and lock her in while I go to clean up her mess.

I use the gross wood chip stuff that school janitors always use on vomit and let it sit for a moment. In the meantime, I write a note to Chandler that I plan on leaving behind to rub salt in her wound once she realized Veronica is out of her grasp and within mine again. Even while writing the note, I am planning ways to grab Heather once she arrives. The ends of my mouth curl into a grin once I have a plan and a completed note.

Going back to the closet, I scrape the wood chips off of the floor with a dustpan and small broom. The whole process of using the vomit cleaner took a total of about 2 or 3 minutes from start to finish.

My phone buzzes as a text from Martha comes through, telling me she's outside and ready to go. I open the door to the bathroom and am met with the sight if Veronica prying open the window.

I shout at her in frustration and anger. I must have surprised her; she slips and falls off of the toilet she was using as a step stool. I slide under her just in time to keep her from colliding with the floor.
She whispers to me, stuttering a request to go the the hospital.

I try to tell her that she'll be okay, and that she'll be on her way soon. Before I can finish, she has blacked out in my arms. I mutter a curse and pick her up, undoing the chains and handcuffs as I do; no way she can be seen in public all tied up. As gently as I can, I pry the tape from her hair as well. By the time I'm done, Veronica just looks like an average, yet very sick, teenager.

Carrying her upstairs, I open all the doors with my elbows until I've made it outside. Martha looks at me with worry and asks, "Do you think she's okay?"

I sigh. "I sure hope so," I reply. "You do have your gun with you, right? She may try running if you're in public."

"Yep," She smiles, lifting her jacket to reveal a Makarov pistol tucked into her belt. "And my knife, too. Just incase." She reached into her pocket and pulls out a glimmering switchblade.

"That's my girl," I smile at her, "Call me if things get hairy."

"Can do," she smirks before she drives off, Veronica buckled into the passenger seat.

After they are off my street, I crack my knuckles and check my watch. It has been 9 minutes since Heather got the text. Heading back inside, I get to work.

I rig up a gas mask connected to a small canister of anesthetic; if I hold the mask over someone's mouth and nose, the anesthetic with cleanly knock them out (similar to the misconception of how a chloroform-soaked rag works). Into my back pocket, I slip in a switchblade similar to Martha's. It doesn't quite fit all the way into my pocket— it sticks out about an inch, but I doubt that will hinder any use I can get out of it. Towards my front, I tuck my Granddad's old World War II revolver into my belt, fully loaded with 6 deadly bullets.

The screech of tires outside snapped my to my senses. I rush upstairs and out the backdoor, out of sight. I duck into the small patch of tall greenery far off of the side of my house, part of my neighbor's property, and maneuver my way toward the front of the house. Once I'm closer, I can see not one, but two cars. Chandler is in one, and I watch as McNamara steps out if the other. I snicker, amused that Chandler was so scared that she had to bring backup. The two meet together in the middle of the front lawn. After a quick chat, the two part ways and McNamara comes towards the side of the house I'm on, while Chandler goes to the other side.  McNamara makes her way around the side of the house, looking as the ground near it as if she is searching for something. She looks up and scratches her head nervously, turning away from the house.

Scared of being spotted, I crouch deeply to conceal myself. Unfortunately, the action causes the surrounding branches and leaves to sway unnaturally, drawing McNamara's attention. She slowly makes her way to where I am, and I hold my breath. My hand hovers near my back pocket, ready to free the knife and kill the girl if she gets to close.

From her hand, her phone begins to vibrate. She jumps in surprise before answering. After a quick conversation, she hurries over to the other side of the house, not even sparing a final glance in my direction. I breathe a sigh of relief as she walks off and I get back on my feet more securely.

I lie in wait for only a little bit longer— maybe 10 minutes. Soon enough, the two come around the corner. McNamara is in tears, and Chandler is dragging her feet as she walks behind her. They part ways, each getting into their own cars. McNamara wastes no time before driving off of the property. Chandler, however, sits in her car and doesn't move.

I grin. Time to strike.

Slowly, I approach the passenger side of the car. Chandler is crying, but it seems as though she has pulled herself together. I crack the door open with a pop and take a seat beside her. "Hello, Red."

Her head shoots towards me and her red, puffy eyes shoot wide open. "J.D." she says slowly. Her hand shoots for the door handle, but I'm faster. I lock the car with a switch on my door.

She takes a shuddering breath and asks, "What do you want?"

Wordlessly, I pull out the anesthetic contraption. I hear her breath hitch and her eyes water. Before she can get any ideas, I pull out my gun, lazily pointing it at her. "Put it on," I command. She doesn't move.

I sigh. I shove it into her torso forcefully, and tell her to put it in again, louder this time.

She slips the back strap of the mask over her head and pulls the mask itself over her mouth and nose, her hands shaking the whole time; whether it's fear or anger, I don't know. "Is this going to kill me?" She asks, her voice shaking as she inhales the gas.

I grin. "Of course not; that would be no fun."