The Key Killer

Chapter 8

This time, Zoe doesn't hesitate.

Autopilot setting in, she whips around and her long legs sprint through the kitchen towards her saving grace, the door. Despite their length, they still feel too short whilst Zoe evades random riffraff along her path. Least she'd have to slow down.

The bolting woman reaches the dark entryway within mere seconds. Already imagining the cold metal of the handle on her palm and the gust of freeing autumn air on her face,  she suddenly feels the fabric of her garment cutting tightly into her chest and breasts.

Despite the heartbeat pounding her ears, she registers the sound of something being torn before she can comprehend what is happening.

Weightless. 

That's how her weak body feels moments before her side impacts with the hard floorboards beneath. Her arms catch most of the fall, but still, the air is knocked out of her lungs and her head thrown against the nearby wall.

The foreign hand which has lodged onto the ruined crochet releases the ripped material, only to claw itself without hesitation around the back of her slender neck instead. She tries to get up, but can't. A heavy body pushes against her spine and pins her, face down, against the cold ground. She's bucking, to no avail. He's sitting on top of her, like a cowboy challenging a mustang. 

"Don't fight, Zoe."

The distorter booms right behind her head. Zoe's skin crawls at the sound of it. The proximity of his voice too close for comfort. He's here for blood. To mould her flesh the way he sees fit. And no matter how much strength she uses, she can't move. Can't escape. Primal fear, one she's forgotten existed, grips her tightly with vicious claws.

Her response, a single scream. Her throat's vibration so raw and powerful, an artwork of intuitive nature. Involuntarily, it dissolves into strangled chokes, resembling the nightly sounds the wind usually carries from the woods. Echos of dying animals, struggling till their last breath.

Cold leather gloves are pressing threateningly against the veins of her oesophagus, warning her to submit, whilst her scratching fingers are caught in an iron grip behind her back. How he has caught them with only one hand, a mystery to her. 

"The more you fight, the more it'll hurt."

The Key Killer's authoritative voice promises her no choice. She's shaking of strain and stress. He's here, and she can't fight him. Not like this. 'Soon' has been his last pledge, and he has kept it. Soon, she imagines, it'll be her mutilated body the FBI takes photographs of. Only to file it to another folder, with yet another case number. One which, most likely, will never be solved either. Agent Simmer will shake his head and say 'I told her so'.

Every cell inside her shudders of terror, of helplessness. She cannot keep her mind together anymore. She's got to get out of here before it's too late. There's too much to live for, too much still left to be experienced. Too many articles that still need to be written, and read. And if she doesn't write about it, honestly, who will? 

Suddenly, Zoe remembers the federal agents outside. How could she forget about them 'till now? They must have heard her. There is no way they haven't. If she just lays still, complies and waits, they will come and free her, right?

She wills herself to calm down and regains a small portion of her critical thinking which usually follows alongside the feelings of newfound hope. She imagines it impossible to fight off a man his size and strength on her own. Unless life decides to deal her a good card. Which it hasn't. At least, not yet.

The tips of his leathered gloves are still digging into the sides of her neck, threatening to cut off the oxygen supply to her brain, shall she not comply. If she continues to fight, her consciousness will slip away and there won't be any choices left to make. She will have to keep him from placing his key anywhere, for as long as humanly possible. Especially if he plans to stuff it up her-. Yeah, that's not going to happen.