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“I’m just a student! Barely even an actress. He’s more famous than me!” I say in disbelief.
This seems to confuse him.Good.I take another step back. “What?”
“Douglas Jones, the man you just murdered,” I say before nodding toward the mantlepiece. “You see that gold thing on there? That’s a fucking Oscar.”
He only looks away a split second, but I take the opportunity to open the umbrella and thrust it at him.
I turn on my heel and run.
The window is cracked open as it always is, allowing Douglas to smoke his Marlboro Reds without setting off the detector.
How many times did we sit by this very window? Bonding over our pursuit of creativity and our struggles with our respective addictions? I will never feel the comfort of his mannerisms or the empathy of his kind words again.
Tears begin to pour in floods. All I need to do is reach the window and yank it up all the way. My hands reach for the warped wood, and I throw myself into pushing it. Up and up and—
Arms grab me from behind.
I start screaming, this time as long and as loud as I can, out the open window before the gloved hand presses into my face again.
No. Not like this.
I bite down on it. Hard.
“Goddamn it!” He flinches away.
I scream again.
Down below, I watch as a few people walking along the sidewalk look around, confused.
Yes. Look up. See me, I’m right here. Please look up.
I’m yanked backward again. Only this time, the glove is off. He shoves it forcefully into my mouth.
My eyes water as the leather stings the back of my throat. But the man’s tan hand holds it in place.
“Shut the hell up,” he hisses, pulling me further and further into the room. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The glove in my mouth makes me want to gag.
“I can see the disgust in your eyes, Roisin. You’re not much of an actress, are you?”
I donkey kick him. Hard. This time, I don’t aim for the kneecap.
He buckles in pain, clutching at his testicles as I rip the glove from my mouth.
I don’t look back as I beeline for the door again, only this time, I’m going to make it.
I can still hear the man groaning on the floor.
There is no way he’ll be able to catch up to me in time.
Then, all I need to do is run down several flights of stairs and try to call the cops. Someone will be downstairs. Someone will be able to help me.
I’ve already swung the door open when a strained voice sounds behind me.
“Connor Maguire.”
I freeze.
