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My body was propped up with pillows behind my back and my head, so I was able to glance down, feeling a coolness on my stomach and chest. My shirt, I noticed, had been pulled up to my pecs to reveal the ugly wound beneath. Imagine my surprise when I saw the wound had been haphazardly stitched up and the skin around it cleaned.
It looked like it’d been stitched up by a third grader, but at least I wasn’t bleeding anymore.
That wasn’t to say I felt any better. Oh, no, I still felt like shit. With the way my body felt, I’d say I could sleep for a week straight and still need to rest more.
Goddamn it. It was just my shitty luck that I’d get hit by a car and taken to God knew where by God knew whoever when I had other shit to do.
I had no idea why I was here, why someone had brought me here, tied me up, and tried to fix me up to the best of their childlike abilities. Obviously not a normal person. A normal person would’ve ignored my protests and taken me to the hospital regardless, not dragged me into a smelly motel to play doctor.
Now that I was more awake, my ears heard the sounds of running water, and I turned my head to the wall that must separate the bathroom from the rest of the tiny room. Whoever it was must be in there. I’d get a good look at them soon enough, and then I’d make them untie me. I didn’t have time for these stupid games. I had a girl to kill.
The water shut off, and the minutes ticked by. The longer I was awake, the more alert I was, and the more menacing I hoped I looked. I usually wore smiles when dealing with people; it helped put them at ease, made them think I was just a normal guy. Very rarely did anyone ever see through it.
Right now, though, I couldn’t smile. I didn’t have the energy, so all I did was glare toward the wall as I waited for whoever it was to come out.
I didn’t know how long it took, but it felt like it took an eternity. Eventually, I heard someone’s footsteps, and the door to the bathroom opened. Someone stepped out and walked around the corner, revealing themselves to me, and who I saw made brief flashes of memories rise in my head.
A worried girl in fuzzy pink pajamas leaning over me, my body hunched on the road. Long brown hair that looked a few shades darker outside with eyes black as the night. She was going to leave me. Take my cash and leave, just like that, but I’d reached out for her, grabbed her, and told her to help me.
That very same girl currently stood a few feet away from the bed, staring at me with wide eyes.
The childlike stitching suddenly made sense. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, and she damn near looked like a kid. Short stature, thin shoulders, not very curvy. Nothing to write home about.
Since she wasn’t moving and we were just staring at each other, I decided to speak, “Untie me, and maybe I won’t kill you for hitting me with your fucking car.” I growled out the words, sounding menacing, even though I felt like shit.
The girl shook her head once. “No.”
“No?” I echoed, frowning slightly. “Do you know who I am?” I was about to elaborate, to tell her just what exactly I could do to her without so much as blinking, but the girl inched closer to the bed, stopping when she stood at the foot of it, and not once did she ever tear those dark eyes off me.
“I know who you are,” she whispered. “I saw your name on the TV. Brett Banks. You’re wanted for multiple murders.” She bit her bottom lip, a look of pensiveness on her face as she drifted off, thinking. “Did you kill four people?”
The four in question weren’t all mine, but still I muttered, “I’ve killed a lot more than four, so I think it’d be smart for you to let me go—”
She walked around the bed, coming closer to me. She stopped when she stood on the side of the bed, just a foot and a half away, and I tugged at my restraints. Sadly, I was still unable to free myself. If I could, I’d grab her, bring my hands around that tiny little neck, and squeeze until her eyes popped out.
This girl didn’t know who she was playing with. When you toyed with fire, you couldn’t be upset when you got burned.
“I can’t untie you right now,” she told me, her brown eyes studying the stitch work on my stomach. That gaze was slow to rise up along my chest and up to my face, where it stayed. She seemed remarkably calm, considering she’d hit me with a car, knew I was a killer, and had basically kidnapped me.
None of those things were on my bingo card for the day, but here we were.
“Why am I here then?” I asked. “If you know I’m wanted by the police, keeping me here is hindering an investigation. You can get arrested for that…” I stared at her, and it slowly came to me. “But you don’t care.”
She swallowed, and then she sat on the edge of the bed. “No, I don’t.” She fiddled with her hands over her shorts, tugging them down, as if she was worried I’d see too much of those thighs.
Please. She wasn’t my type.
“So then why the fuck am I here?” I questioned, again tugging at the restraints, and again failing. The girl was so close, and her death would be so easy. I could smell it.
Tug one wrist free, then the other. Be on top of her before she could get to the door to escape. With her tiny legs, she couldn’t outrun me. Take my hands to her neck and squeeze, bringing her down to the hideous carpet in the process. She’d try to pry my hands off her, but she’d fail, and she’d stare up at me with those brown eyes, the realization that she’d fucked up massively by bringing me here dawning on her moments before she passed out due to a lack of oxygen to the brain. But I’d keep squeezing, and I wouldn’t stop until she was dead, and then—
“I have a problem,” she finally said, still pulling on her shorts.
“I don’t see how any problem of yours would involve me. I don’t know you.”
“Charlie,” she said. “Well, Charlotte, actually, but I go by Charlie.”
“Congratulations.”
