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The optics of this situation aren’t great. Even though she was being beaten to death by the man I killed, I’m still the one who killed him. Now, she’s being held hostage in the back of my car, but there’s no time to reason with her.
All she does is continue to scream as I slide into the driver’s seat and pull the car away from the curb. She’s so much smaller than I am, and I’m sure she’d do everything in her power to shred me to pieces if she wasn’t restrained, but she still doesn’t understand that I’m the one with the control in this situation.
“Things are going to be a hell of a lot easier for you if you just calm down,” I say, refusing to look back at her to provoke her more. “You’re just going to make this harder on yourself.”
She goes silent, but I can feel her eyes burning holes into the back of my neck. The handcuffs scrape against the metal prongs of the headrest, and she’d sooner break her wrist to escape it than take my advice.
Her attempts at escape are feral and uncoordinated, but I can’t imagine she would have the logic to formulate a plan right now. She pulls at the cuffs so hard that I’m more worried about her injuring herself than escaping.
We don’t get far before she begins to relent, her tenacity and urge to fight diminishing the further we get from the apartment. I still won’t look back at her – I refuse to give her any indication that she can sway me with her appearance or femininity.
If I had to guess, it’s likely dawning on her now that I’m the only one who can decide what happens to her now. While I understand how horrifying it must feel to have your autonomy compromised like this, she’s in no position to be making decisions for herself. She needs to eat something and rest. Only after that will a negotiation get us anywhere
I hardly got a look at her back at the apartment complex, but what I can remember gives me the impression that she’s used to getting what she wants from men. She was wearing makeup that had been smeared, but her features wore the disheveled look of it quite well. Her eyes, reddened with tears and anger, still pierced through the smokey black veil of eyeliner she’d been wearing.
In a way, it almost appears that her makeup is applied in such a way that it looks better when she’s been crying. I have no idea if that’s a thing women do, but I wouldn’t put it past any of them these days.
I don’t know anything about this girl, but based on the company she keeps, I’m willing to bet that she’s the type of person that will bring more trouble into my life than I can manage.
Funny enough, she already has.
