Don't Do it Lady

Women's shoes on damp, gritty concrete make a specific sound. Even thinking of it conjures a foreboding image. A gloomy space late at night, with a pool of chilly yellow from a nearby electric light. It flickers (of course) sparking worry that it'll fail. Our soon-to-be-met heroine will be plunged into darkness, rendered almost blind, and therefore more vulnerable. Delicious, yes?

Her footsteps are brisk. Nervous? They're heels; this adds to her vulnerability. They suggest sexy, because of course, a woman is barely worth caring about if she isn't attractive, and we do so want you to care about her. Else, the peril is wasted, no?

She's standing in front of a lift, feet placed just so (she's suitably elegant). Manicured hands push the button over and over. Don't do it, lady! Horrible things, lifts. So claustraphobic. In buildings like this, they smell bad, and give an air of poor maintenance. It'll get stuck. Your phone won't have any service. You could be in there for days.

Eyes rolling, tongue tutting. Arms folding, then unfolding to punish the button again. Sigh. She strides away, pushes a heavy, handle-less door, and leaves it to swing shut behind her.

Creeeak.

Those footsteps have sped up, and echo all the more now; we're in a stairwell. That's no better. Doesn't she know how many women are abducted in stairwells?

Sniff. Is that petrol? Or do you call it gasoline?

Listen to the rhythm of her flight, until she strides over to another door, and bulls her way through. Checks this way and that. Nobody there. She heads towards her own vehicle, steps checkered with nerves and purpose. One hand is bunched in her pocket. In the other, something shines metallic between her fingers in the grim light.

This is how a gazelle feels with the big cat stalking closer. She knows.

You'll enjoy this. Your heart pumps harder. You want her to get away. But you don't mind too much if she doesn't. I sprint to intercept her.

Blood looks like spilled oil on concrete. And there's so much of it, spilling between my fingers, and more down my chin.

It hurts.

Bitch.

The skittering of her heels fades.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Tuesday 29th October at 21:29

Quick Author's Note

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 303 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY SIXTY-THREE DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

The story behind the story: This is a story for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo, using the theme "Liminal Spaces". I'm very close to Witch's Broom!

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and I am extremely grateful for your ongoing support.

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments.

I am making excellent headway catching up on reads. Where I'm already up to date with all someone's stories, I read someone else's in lieu!

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Here are a couple more I have submitted to Marie's Bingo challenge:

Just a few days left on my dollar challenge! Please have a look. I'd love to see what you come up with!

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