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The ceiling has large, visible holes in it, acting as a passage for the bats who have taken up residence in the bones of the building.
“That seems like a hazard for your inventory if you ask me,” I say, pointing to the ceiling as another bat swoops in.
“Well, fortunately for you, that’s none of your concern,” he replies. “Now, take your wallet out of your pocket and hand it to me. Actually, give me everything in your pockets.”
At first, I’m stunned that he’d want to take anything from me at all. I’m probably the poorest person at my college, and I’m not good at covering it up by purchasing expensive clothes.
If he were looking to rob someone, why would he choosemeof all people?
I’m hoping that this incident is working wonders for my karma, because otherwise I’ll have to consider myself the unluckiest person in the world.
“Come on, neither of us wants to be here longer than we have to be,” he says in a somewhat patronizing manner.
“We don’thaveto be here at all,” I reply under my breath.
I know he heard me, but he’s too annoyed and exhausted to bicker again.
I place my hands as deep into my pockets as possible, hoping to avoid any misunderstandings if I happen to leave something behind by accident. By the look of his suit, he’s not trying to steal the forty dollars in my wallet.
But he does wantsomething.
I hand him my wallet, keys, school ID, and a tube of tinted lip gloss I forgot I’d grabbed on the way out the door. It’s a little embarrassing for some reason – handing him something I’d intended to use to make myself prettier for Eric.
God, what a waste of effort. At this point, it’s more humiliating that I’d ever give him the time of day. He’s a teenager in a college student’s body.
The man takes my wallet first, tossing everything else to the floor where it makes an unsatisfying thud. I can’t see the floor, but I can hear how dirty it is. Looks like I’m throwing all of this shit away if I ever make it home.
IfI ever make it home.
“Vera Davenport - that’s really your name, huh?” he asks, flipping through my wallet before reaching down to pick up my ID.
I nod sheepishly, hoping that the lack of evidence I’ve presented to him will be enough to make him give up on me. I still don’t know what he wants, but I’m hoping that I’ve proven to him how unremarkable I am.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” he asks, tossing everything back onto the floor and staring at me menacingly.
“What? No! Where would I even put a weapon? Wouldn’t I have defended myself at the fair if I had one?” I ask.
“It’s just something I need to ask. I’m going to pat you down just to make sure,” he replies.
Instead of the chill of terror that I’d expected from such a statement, I feel a brief flutter of warmth in my belly.
I’m thankful for the darkness as my cheeks flush. I haven’t been touched by anyone else in months – I’ve barely gotten a hug from anyone since I moved here. The idea of this man placing his hands on my waist is giving me a surprising but not unwelcome reaction.
I want to scold myself for being so inappropriate, but I figure that if he wanted to hurt me for the sake of it, he would have by now.
He puts his phone down on a nearby stack of boxes, sending the only beam of light up toward the unsuspecting bats again.
Even as I anticipate his touch, I jump as soon as his hands reach me. He begins at my shoulders, sweeping his hands down my arms and back under them as he continues along my body.
My breathing has picked up again, and I’m hoping that he’ll interpret my increased heart rate as fear rather than arousal. Allowing him to see how desperate I am for a human touch is a fate worse than death.
If he does plan to kill me, at least I’ll get to experience the joy of connection one last time. Ironically, I never got to feel that during the years that my parents assured me would be the best of my life.
“You’re shaking. Just try to calm down,” he says quietly, his voice missing the grating edge of annoyance it had before.
Maybe he does notice.
Maybe he likes it.
