A Tale of Two Earths

Chapter 2: Darla (Final Draft)

Darla ran through the parking lot, sucking massive gulps. The short distance to her car felt like miles. Her mind consumed, not with recent events, but with the thought of how pathetic and awkward she looked in that moment. She hated the shape of her body, the way it moved, the way it felt.

Darla's frame stood an average height and carried an average weight. Cut to an average length and style, her average brunette hair was not out of the ordinary. Darla had asked her boyfriend whether or not she looked "pretty". His response, "Yeah, totally," left room for validation. Rephrasing the question to probe further, Darla asked, "Todd, I really want to know, how pretty am I?" Todd pulled his gaming headset aside and answered, "I dunno know, I guess you're average."

Dumping Todd did nothing to keep his words from rooting around in Darla's head. Being average was something she carried like a religion. It was a means of self identification. Even now, fearing for her life, Todd's description consumed her. Darla daydreamed about his phone. Had it rung, like the others? Did he answer it? Maybe someone nearby answered theirs? One could only hope.

"Who's average now," Darla wheezed, reaching the car in average time. Keys shaking in her hands, Darla braced against the rear passenger door. An overworked heart, forcing blood through constricted veins, turned the world a blur. Stars washed over and she waited. Out of the lightheaded rush, a shadow emerged.

It was a man in snug workout clothes, his massive muscles threatening the seams. He extended a bulging arm to her face.

Darla didn't notice the gun until he pulled the trigger. A booming discharge tore through her ears. She felt the keys slip. 

Missed, I'm still alive, Darla's mind raced. She raised her arms and begged for a ceasefire. Her mouth moved, air came out, but she heard nothing of what she said. Could he hear her, she questioned? Why did he attack? Was this not her car?

Pointing to the left of her head, his aim was off. Darla peered past the barrel. A trimmed, jet black beard wrapped around a granite jaw, gawked back. If it wasn't for the attempted murder, Darla would have been smitten. He was a perfect physical specimen. Everything about him was fit and strong, except his eyes. Large, black, unblinking pupils stared forth, not fixed on the sights of the weapon, but on some point millions of miles beyond.

Recognizing the gun as a Glock, Darla knew of its round capacity, a bit of information from her visits to the gun range. This meant he had nine more opportunities to kill her. Darla's father was proud of her shooting abilities, but they mattered little now. She had no gun.

The man's thick forearm started to constrict. Darla reacted. As if she were washing some great pane of glass, Darla rotated her left arm up and away. Her wrist connected with his, forcing the arm with the gun away. As she did, the Glock went off, this time not as loud. Cupping a stony elbow, Darla pushed the man's arm downward, against his body. Pleasantly surprised at how easy the big arm was to control, Darla stepped in and locked her hands around his waist, trapping the gun at his waist.

Pulling tight, she pressing her right ear to his stomach. Darla felt oddly safe against his rock hard abs. His damp shirt smelled sweet.

Eight rounds left, she noted, staring at the gun.

She could feel the man's deep breath as his free arm reared back. A heavy fist came down hard, atop Darla's head.

Stars returned and her grip loosened. The gun arm wriggled to get free.

His core seized again.

Repositioning her grip, Darla held tight through the second blow. Stingers of pain shot throughout her body as her spine compressed.

She couldn't let the gun free, yet she was no match for his strength. Planting her feet, Darla switched to defense. Burying a shoulder into his belly, Darla jumped forward, ramming him into her car. Two rounds discharged into the pavement.

No longer suffering the cranial barrage, Darla sucked wind and pondered her status. She had not been shot. Her neck was intact. Six shots in the Glock.

A mighty paw plopped on her shoulder. It snaked around her neck, knuckles dragging across her trachea. The choke hold sunk deep and his bulging muscles flexed. Like a light switch, Darla's windpipe shut off.

Gasping and sputtering, Darla tried to blink the wetness from her eyes. This is no good, her thoughts screamed. A trick from her dad came to mind. He said it would buy her time during her older brothers' tickle attacks.

Bent at the hip, parallel to the ground, Darla looked to her stomach, concentrating on touching chin to chest. She let go of his waist and stuck both arms out above her head. He said, the key to success is to press your shoulders, tight against the ears. And in an instant, her windpipe opened. Energized by the small stream of air, Darla lunged again, ramming him back into her car.

The gun fired.

Five, she counted.

His bicep slacked and Darla's head slipped through. Wobbling back, she fell to the concrete. It hurt like hell, but she could breath.

The barrel of the Glock stared down at Darla. Her oxygen deprived limbs refused to comply. Here it comes, she thought, looking to the blue sky above. She tried to think of something happy, her mom, dad, brothers; but nothing came.

Nothing but a blank screen. Wasn't life supposed to flash before her eyes? Which was worse; dying in the mall parking lot, or having such an average, unremarkable life? Her eyes inched back to the barrel and something came to her.

It was the face of a friend, soft, warm, and caring. Three feelings that had never before been associated with that face. With a smile, Darla was ready.

Suddenly, the man's rocky jawline cocked back as his head smashed through the rear passenger window.

He dropped the weapon, pushed himself out of the window, and crunched away from her car. All at once, multiple wounds opened up about his neck and face. Tiny points of blood oozed forth. The chiseled jaw lolled open and a flood of vomit poured out.

Darla turned away, letting warm specks of wet seep through her clothes.

The mountainous man fell with a damp smack.

"Did you see that?"

The voice Darla heard matched the warm, caring face she'd seen. She turned to see Nestor, holding a skateboard. Where he got it, she did not care. He had saved her.

"I just did that!" Nestor said. Swinging the skateboard like a bat, he reenacted the winning hit.

Normally, Nestor's violent streaks brought tension and anxiety, but this time Darla quite enjoyed it. The thought of Nestor harming others made her feel warm. A warmth that dissipated with the sound of incoming footsteps.