Page 19 of Kept in the Dark
But I’m not afraid of Kyle—he’s the whole box of tools, but I could take him. We’re honestly pretty evenly matched, physically speaking; I might even have an inch or two on him. Plus, based on the erratic way he’s acting, I think he might be on drugs of some kind. I’m used to dealing with unpredictable behavior.
It’s times like these that make me realize I’ve lived my life with a certain amount of tall-girl privilege. Female friends have pointed out to me before that I do things they routinely avoid, like walking home from the bar down a dark alley, traveling alone, and meeting up with strangers from the internet. I guess I’m not as worried about being physically overpowered or targeted for violence because of my looks. There’s a real irony in the proportionality of size and social invisibility for women.
But I suppose that means that sometimes I take that lack of attention for granted. Like now, for example—I never would have imagined myself in this situation. It’s not like I’m overly scared of the dark, but… this shit is spooky. I’m generally against spooky shit. That, and it kind of feels like the setup of some terrible prank from one of my high school nightmares, where the lights come on and I’m in my underwear or covered in a bucket of blood.
When I round a corner and nearly collide with a trio of women—one leading the way resolutely, and the other two complaining and giggling behind her—I nearly shriek. The girl in the lead gives me a weird look, and I wave my apology and keep going. I’m tempted to ask her if she saw Kyle, but I chicken out. It’s sort of embarrassing to admit I’m chasing someone, and asking someone for directions in a maze is like the definition of pointless.
“Kyle?” I ask the darkness as soon as the girls disappear around the hedge behind me.
The darkness doesn’t respond.
Hot tears of frustration prickle in my eyes. My high school nightmare comparison from earlier was apt. It’s been over a decade, but some scars never quite heal right, and bullying during our formative years happens to be one.
But I’m not that awkward, unsure-of-herself girl. I’m a grown woman. And I’m fucking pissed.
“Nicooooole,” Kyle sings again.
The wind carries his voice through the corridors of the maze, and wraps around me like a wet blanket, making me shiver. I spin, trying to figure out where the sound came from. He’s everywhere and nowhere.
“Fuck this. I’m leaving,” I grind out. “I’m going to report my purse as stolen and let the authorities deal with you.”
“Don’t be like that, Nicole.”
I gasp and whirl. How is he right behind me? How did he get so close without me hearing? I stumble back a step in surprise. “Kyle?! What the fuck?”
He doesn’t answer, just charges forward, invading my space with a crazy, intense look in his eye. I suddenly wish I were wearing my heels again for the height advantage.
He reaches for me, and I shift away from his grabby hands. “Stop! What are you doing? Don’t touch me!”
But I’m suddenly cornered, backed up against a wall of greenery that only bends slightly against my weight. I shove at his shoulders, bringing up my knee to wedge between our bodies. Sharp branches press into my back, snagging threads in my dress and pricking, poking, and scraping bare skin wherever they meet.
The press of his body against mine makes me go rigid in repulsion. He’s stronger than I expected, and he stinks of booze and… blood? Is that blood on his shirt?
“Stop! Leave me alone!” I yell and pull back my arm to take a swing.
I’m not a particularly violent person, but the thumping noise of my shoes hitting him in the forehead is very satisfying. I hit him again, trying to use one of the pointed heels as a sharp edge. I catch him in the corner of the eye with it, and he reels, clutching the area and swearing.
“Ah! Fuck! You bitch!” he growls, lunging at me again, and wrestling the only weapon I’ve got from my grip. I scream, and he scrambles, trying to get control over the situation again. “Shhh! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“Hel—” my cry for help is muffled as his hand comes up and shoves something inside my mouth.
As I react to the unexpected intrusion with panic and disgust—choking, then trying to spit it back out—Kyle presses his hand hard against my lips.
Then, there’s an unmistakable sound.
I shouldn’t know what that sound is—it’s not exactly common in my real life—but I’ve consumed enough action movies and media. It’s the click of a gun cocking. I feel cold metal pressed to my temple, and all the fight dies out of me at once, replaced with icy fear.
Fuck. Fuck!
“Swallow it, bitch,” he hisses into my face. Blood rolls down from the corner of his eye, but it just enhances the look of mania. “Swallow it or I’ll fucking shoot you.”
It’s hard, whatever it is in my mouth. I barely have time to feel it out with my tongue before he presses the gun harder against my skull. I whimper, feeling a hot tear scald down my cheek. Fighting the urge to bite down on something that’s on the verge of being too big to swallow, I tip my head back and feel it disappear down my throat. I gag. It doesn’t go down easy, and it hurts, and I have to swallow a few more times to clear it from where it feels stuck at the bottom of my esophagus.
What the fuck was that?
His laugh is gleeful and unhinged. “Good. Open up and show me you swallowed it. Open your fucking mouth, bitch. Okay, good… you got any final prayers, now’s the time—”
“Let her go!” roars a distinct voice—a deeper, darker one. One that sounds like a threat and my salvation.
