Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

            Due to the light behind him, I can't make out much of his features aside from his wide, round eyes bulging at me as I fly through the air.

            "Aaack," he screams (Not sure if it was at me or just yelled in general.  Good chance he wasn't sure, either.) as I watch him attempt to swing the door shut again, but there is no way I am letting that happen.  Not after all the work I went through to finally see the inside of this place.  Plus his startled reaction time isn't nearly on par with my heightened reflexes.  By the time his brain has figured out what's happening and sent the message to his arms to close the door, I'm already smashing against it like a runaway motorcycle (I'd love to compare myself to a runaway train or even a truck, but I simply don't have enough mass or power right now to measure up to either of those forces.  I doubt I'm even up to "car" level right now.  Settling for "motorcycle" seems like a good compromise, as even I would be embarrassed to have to say, "I hit the door like a hurtling moped".).

            I may not weigh much, but it's enough to knock the door backwards and into Reluctant Guy.  His grip on the old, brass doorknob tightens as the heavy, reinforced wooden door swings into his face.  His startled look at my sudden aggression is quickly replaced by a contortion of pain as the edge of the wooden door connects with his cheek and eye bone.  Luckily there is no blood (I'm not sure what my body would do right now if it smelled the delicious tang of the red liquid that has had a hold over me these last two weeks.) as he slowly slumps to the floor in the hall either unconscious or quickly on his way to that destination.

            Landing next to him on the pockmarked beige tiles of the hall, I watch as his eyes roll back in his head and his body goes limp.  Well most of his body goes limp, at least.  Oddly enough, his right hand still has a death grip (I hope that term is not completely accurate here.  I had no intention of killing the boy.) on the door handle and he hangs awkwardly from it.

            Lowering myself into a crouching position, I focus on the sounds around me.  The heartbeat and breathing of the guy on the floor next to me both even out enough to let me know he is no longer conscious and in no danger of dying in the next few moments.  If he were still awake and faking, then his heartbeat would be going wild after what just happened.  Getting cold-cocked with a door by a girl you just assumed was crying and incapacitated would have to have an amped effect on the ol' ticker. 

            And if he was hit hard enough to be close to death, then the heartbeat would be weak and stuttery.  It's not.  It's steady and strong and a dead giveaway of his current condition.

            Turning towards the direction of what I can only assume might be the kitchen, I can hear the other man, Down the Hall Guy, entering the early stages of a complete freak out.

            "Paul!"  He shouts at us from down the bend in the hallway.  "Wha' happen'd man?  Wha' was dat noise?  You ok?"  There's a short pause, and I can hear him breathing loudly.  "Why ain't you talkin'?"

            Aside from him making noise down the hall, I'm not picking up any other sounds in the house.  There's a good chance he's the last one I'm going to have to deal with for the night.

            With a deep inhalation, though, I realize he won't be the last thing I have to deal with tonight.  The pungent reek of whatever drugs they're storing or making here permeate the house.  The air is thick with it.  It's thick enough that I realize I can’t waste any time finishing this, because if I stay in the house too long then it might overwhelm me.