Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

           

"Hey girl (and I don’t like how he stresses the word this time), is that gold?"  He asks as he steps away from the car.

            Really?  After the night I've had (Or at least think I've had.), he's now going to try and rob me?  This took a turn I wasn't expecting.

            Ignoring his question (Press the offense, remember?), I continue with my own line of thinking.  "So you’ll help me?  That’s great.  If I can use your phone, then I can call someone to get a ride.  It'll only take a moment."

            His smile widens (Imagine that polar bear now spotting a fish-shaped pie.).  "How about you give me that necklace, and I'll let you use my phone?"  His left hand produces an older-model phone from his back jeans pocket.

            This isn't sounding good, but I'm not ready to concede my advantage yet (At least I thought I had an advantage.).  "Thanks for letting me use your phone, mister (disarm with politeness...if possible).  That's awful nice of you.  But you can't have the necklace.  It was my auntie’s."

            He continues to walk towards me grinning with the phone held loosely in his hand.   His stench crawls ahead of him across the pavement as he approaches.

            Looking down at my chest, I attempt to see the object of his obsession when I notice two things: one, it is virtually impossible to see one’s own necklace (kinda felt like an idiot on that point), and two, I still have the old guy's blood smeared all over my clothes.  The blood gives me an idea, and I decide to change my tactics.

            I look up and catch his eyes when he is still about ten feet away, and I change my tone from "friendly kid" to "not-so-friendly bear".

            "Stop," I growl at him, and to my amazement he does.  "Are you an idiot?  Look at me.  I'm smaller than you.  I'm lighter than you.  Except for the fact that I'm browner than you, you have me beat in virtually every "street fight" category they hold a legitimate contest in.  Despite all of that I’m not scared or running away.  Doesn’t that tell you something about me?  You coming at me is just plain stupid.  Plus," I continue, and I drop my voice an even deeper octave, "did you even notice I'm covered in blood?  Did that even register with you?"

            I wait for a response from him, but all he gives me in return is mild blinking to back up his disturbing grin.  This is what our instructor called "re-establishing the offensive". 

Just gotta keep pressing forward until he leaves, I tell myself.  Solid plan, the scared little girl deep inside me echoes

back.  I hope it works.

            He counters my plan by reaching his right hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out a dark black, shiny object.  I'm aware of his heartbeat speeding up (It's loud.), his breathing slowing down and his smell shifting more towards the soiled-summer-jock-strap spectrum of fetid odors.  A slight shift of his thumb and a four-inch blade pops out of the object in his hand.  Oh joy.  A knife.  I guess he just decided to make his own move for the offensive.

            "Puta," he hisses at me and waggles the knife tip back and forth in what I assume he believes is a menacing fashion (Are you kidding me?  I’m sure this is the only Spanish he knows, and it happens to be an insult to women?  Just my luck.), "why don't you just toss me the necklace and we'll call it a night?"