you never know who you'll see at the gas station.

I don't have many, but there are days where I open my eyes, and want to call in sick to the world. And right now, sitting here on a dingy 7-11 floor at 10pm after an already long day, I'm really wishing I had.

Because right now, my whole world feels reduced to the gun in my face and the icy blue eyes staring into my soul. I think there's shouting happening up front, but it's muffled, making my whispered pleas sound louder than it really is.

"Please..." The masked man doesn't say anything; he merely motions at me with the gun to stand up. But I'm a deer in headlights, trapped in place even though I know staying means dying.

Impatiently, he rushes at me, and finally I move. "No! Please! No!" This is it. This is how I die, stumbling to get up, waiting for the gun to go off.

But it doesn't. Instead, an iron grip around my arm forces me up and to the front, where I see another masked stranger and the older cashier on the floor holding a rag to his head. It doesn't seem to be doing much, because I can see his blood soaking through, and it's starting to hit the floor like raindrops.

The man holding my arm deposits me next to the cashier and stands by the door, watching his friend loudly raiding the registers. It then registers that Mr. Icy hasn't said anything, and those eyes. Maybe that's how he works, talking with his eyes rather than words.

Kind of feels familiar.

I rub at my arm, which will definitely be bruised tomorrow, but I rather that than not making it to tomorrow. Looking over by the door again, I notice those eyes staring at me, or more my arm. For the first time since him and his friends busted in here, he looks like he feels guilty, at least until he catches me looking at him. Then his eyes harden, chilling me to the bone.

I turn my attention towards the trembling man next to me, who reminds me of my grandpa in more ways than one. Similar haircuts and glasses, plus neither one is looking great, though for different reasons.

God, how hard did they hit this guy?

"Reggie, right?" I think that's what his name tag said, but it's not hooked on his shirt anymore.

At first, I don't think he heard me, but he glances at me, giving me a small nod. "I'm Natasha or Tasha, whatever works for you." Reggie doesn't said anything, but again gives an even smaller nod of acknowledgement.

Yeah, he's about to pass on me. I start to shrug of my jacket, desperate to do something to stop or slow down the bleeding.

The man who was behind the counter is quickly next to me with a bag of cash and his shotgun inches away from my head. "Keep still!"

"What are you doing?"

No, no, no, no, no. I recognize that voice, which means those blue eyes belong to who I really hoped it wasn't.

"Destin?" It comes out all squeaky, much like it did when I was trying to say my older brother's name when I was younger.

Both him and his friend mumble out a cuss as Destin gets close, shoving the shotgun away before stooping beside me. "We need the money, Tasha."

He's not wrong, it's been hard since Grandpa got sick. Mom's working three jobs and it's not enough.

Still.

The tears start. "Not this way."

Destin rips off his mask, and he's crying too. "Tasha, you were supposed to go straight home after seeing Grandpa at the hospital."

"I know." The words come out as a sob.

"She going to tell and I'm sure the other guy will too if he wakes back up." I forgot all about Destin's friend, until now, especially when he points that shotgun back to me.

"They won't." Destin still stares at me, begging for my silence as much as he's trying to convince his friend.

His friend's not convinced. "Move, Destin."

And he does, rushing towards his friend as the room echoes with the sound of the gunshot.

Then, sirens. When did the police get called?

Blue and red, so much red.

My vision blurs.

Time slows, and again my world is reduced to those icy blue eyes.