Stranger Arms

12:07 AM

It took Sandy two minutes to come up with a plan, and now it was taking her an hour to muster up the courage to set it in motion.

Richie is besides her, his eyes closed, a little drool pooling below his mouth on the floor.

She sits and waits, not sure what for. The door handles are wrapped in the last of the duct tape, as if she and Richie could somehow work their way out of the bindings and escape. 

The gunman is acting lunatic. She isn't sure if he's talking to the negotiator on the other end of the phone or to himself. Either way, he sounds less human with every minute.

Sandy knows she should be scared, but far from it, she feels calm, as if this were nothing more than a long wait at the dry cleaners. 

Is this what Alan felt when he left me?

If it was, she couldn't blame him for wanting more of this feeling. It was the highest sense of clarity she had every felt in her life. It's as though, for once, there isn't any cultural expectations or common courtesy or anything else that came from the mind of man. 

This was instinctive, primal survival. Like sex, it was human nature in it purest form.

She knows it isn't safe to be relaxed, not when a loaded gun was in the hands of a maniac. And she and Richie both knew the gun wasn't a fake. She looks down that the ceiling debris that came from above when the first and only shot of the night was fired.

Sandy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, thinking of all the things she wants to do if she survives this. She wants to skydive, to paint a self-portrait, to learn karate. This is her midlife crisis now, not Alan's, and she'll be damned if she doesn't protect it.

She opens her eyes and remembers every step of her plan.

Using her tied legs in front of her, she scoots closer to the gunman, making an effort to lock eyes with him.

He isn't paying attention, instead grabbing his hair by the roots and scrunching his eyes tight like someone had just inserted a toothpick under his fingernail and pushed hard. "N-no, no, no, no, no. That wasn't part of the deal. I only have two. If I give you one, I lose half my leverage," he said into the phone.

Is he talking about us?

He hangs up the phone.

Sandy tries locking eyes with him again.

This time, he notices.

She freezes in place. Never before in her life has she felt so exposed. It's as if he was looking into her soul.

"What," he yells.

Sandy jumps. 

Even though he only spoke one word, he sounds hideously drunk.

Focus. Focus.

She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them and connects them to his gaze again.

For the first time since the takeover, she looks at him and sees a human. Who is this kid, she wonders. He could have been a high school track star. Or poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks who's just a little down on his luck. Or maybe just some bum.

She can physically feel that changes in her body. Her gaze softening, her shoulders relaxing even though the bindings hurt having been in them for four hours.

He takes a step towards her.

All her blood turns to ice water.

But she doesn't quit. She keeps their eyes locked, and reminds herself not to soil her pants.

Soft gaze, Sandy. Soft gaze.

She begs him with her eyes, but even she isn't sure what she's begging for. 

The gunman smiles a slimy grin. 

She shrugs, gesturing as best as she can towards her gagged mouth.

He crouches down in front of her. "What is it?"

Let me talk, you jackass, and I can tell you.

"Do you want food?"

She shakes her head.

"Hm."

He sniffs the air around him. "You didn't shit yourself, did you?"

A gagged laugh escapes her. She shakes her head again.

He laughs, too. A nervous, controlled laugh, but a laugh. Then, he sits down on the floor, leans in, and peels the silver tape around her mouth.

Sandy can't help but feel ecstasy erupt inside her. Holy crap, it worked!

She sighs. "I have to go to the bathroom."

He examines her eye color, as if the truth could be found there.

Sandy waits. She convinced herself that she had nothing to be nervous about because technically, she isn't lying. 

He gets up, then, with a drunk, gentle hand, grabs her bicep and helps her to her feet.

"Thank you," she says.

Like a viper, the same hand that helped her up grabs a handful of her hair and yanks her back.

She gasps in horror.

He points the gun at her temple. "No. Funny. Business."

Sandy closes her mouth to swallow. Her hands start shaking without her telling them to.

With a hand gripping her arm so hard he's leaving bruises, he drags her to the other side of the store, to the back room.

He turns the light on, turns Sandy around so her back is facing him, and unrolls the duct tape from her hands.

She knows they don't have any more left and he'll be forced to reapply this strip, which will be a lot less sticky when he puts it back.

Marveling as her own genius serves as a good distraction from what transpired a second ago, when she had a gun to her head and thought she might die.

He keeps the gun pointed as her direction as she drops her pants and sits on the toilet.

Never before had she had to use so much mental will to force herself to urinate, but she knows that if she doesn't produce anything, he'll get suspicious.

She sighs in relief, feeling a full cup leave her body.

She doesn't bother asking for privacy as she readjust herself. 

He looks up at the ceiling when she stands, looking a little shy for once.

After going through the usual motions, she willingly puts her hands behind her back. She feels that familiar stickiness from the tape on her wrists again.

Why was she willing doing this to herself?

He turns her over to face him. Without looking into her eyes, he pulls the tape over her mouth again, then grabs her by the back of the neck and pushes her back towards her spot.

"Next time you have to go, do it in your pants."

His tone isn't even that threatening, but the manner in which he says it sends shivers down Sandy's back.

The gunman grabs the phone again, dials a number, and looks out the window as he waits for the person on the other end of the phone to answer.

Sandy sits and looks down at Richie. His eyes are closed and his mouth slightly parted, like a giant baby having a nap, one with his hands tied behind his back.

And a box cutter tucked in the back of his waistband.

She feels a pang of emotion ready to burst like a firework inside her. This was the most valiant thing she's ever done, distracting a man with a gun while a boy risked his life and hers to grab a weapon from behind the register.

Richie opens his eyes, and winks at Sandy.

Atta boy, Richie. We did it.