Run

by Kathryn Parker 9 months ago in fiction

Can't Escape

Run

You flee as fast as you can go.

I call your name, your real name.

"Lucy!" I call sinister in my intentions and wishing to make you my trophy. "Lucy!"

You trip and in vain, you get up and keep running.

It feels like forever we've been running and I want to give up, but the hunt is too exciting.

You scream, a whisper in the echo of a cool night.

I feel the high and laugh as you pick a secluded spot in the middle of the woods.

I slow, thanking someone higher than me, someone divine for the gift they have bestowed upon me.

I bound to the cabin and tsk in disbelief.

Oh, darling.

You cower, a greasy blonde bobblehead with dark water eyes, crying in an attempt to appeal to my humanity. A side of me that was cut out viciously and replaced with cold and calculating poetry of the kill.

You are almost too pathetic as my boots hit the hardwood floor. They're mahogany and the smallest detail sticks in my head.

Your lips tremble and I smell fear, thicker and sexier than any perfume you ever wore.

You know in this isolated cabin that you have nowhere to run or hide. There are so many rooms in the warm wooden prison.

Your feet find some strength and run to the bedroom. You lock the door.

I love it when my prey fights back, when they think they have any chance of beating me. That they have any chance of survival other than turning back time.

You ask yourself what you did to deserve this, torn between blaming me and finding your own faults. Aloud and loud you scream. Questioning everything you’ve ever done.

Were you a bitch to me? Was I one to you? Did I want to be your friend? Did I reject you based on appearance and timidness? The same thing that would inevitably cause your untimely demise?

I chuckle inside and out, causing you to whimper. Poor baby, I say, you’ve done nothing wrong.

You’re not a bitch. Well, you are in a way, but if that was criteria for death, we would be a population smaller than the smallest U.S. town.

No, you’re not directly the source of your own death, merely a victim of circumstance. Merely a person who has down the concept of wrong time and place.

You beg and plead, screaming as I take an ax to the door. The wood makes a sickening crack and I feel exhilarated, thinking of the look on your face. Of the tears burning your face, of the screams you’re trying to silence. As if you have any control over what is about to happen.

I laugh, loud and take another whack at the door. Your answering echo of fear and pain tell me I’m almost there.

I can feel it, close. The door finally gives and you’re nowhere to be found.

“Lucy,” I tease you as I turn over everything in the room.

I keep an eye on the hole where the door used to be in case you decide to try to escape again.

“Lucy,” I repeat. Frustrated now.

Why can’t you accept your defeat and surrender your sweet corpse to me?

I hear the shuffle in the closet.

The closet, Lucy, really? I don’t wear a white mask modeled after someone’s face and I’m definitely smart enough to check the closet. I’ve not been in a loony bin for ages and my saga doesn’t have to be reset.

No, Lucy, it’s perfect, and you are my perfect. Smart, charismatic Lucy. Lucy, friend to all and yet to none. The girl in the back of the classroom, listening intently to the teacher. Helping out with fundraisers and just trying to make the world better one smile at a time.

The world is a shithole, but you, Lucy, unnoticed and yet present, refuse to give up. To accept the truth.

That is your cause of death: hope.

You hope people will be better, you hope you will survive, you hope to be stuck with a husband and three children, a dead end job filling your days and making you feel a modicum of importance. You’ll contribute to society, don’t you worry.

Your death will serve as a lesson to other girls. They’ll take self-defense classes and arm themselves with useless pepper spray and guns they’ll never master.

I run to the closet, blindly following a hunch and you use that to your advantage as you’ve picked the other cliche hiding spot: under the bed.

You’ve armed yourself and I feel the knife slice through my flesh. It makes such a satisfactory noise that I don’t notice the searing pain at first. My body burns and I try to attack you.

You’re too fast for me, Lucy, and now I must surrender to you.

I laugh, my final one, and applaud weakly. It’s all I can muster with such a soft body. It’s feminine and lithe. I almost look like you. Blonde, pretty, but plain, easy to forget. And you stare at my face with utter astonishment. \

Yes, my dear, you do know me. I’m the girl no one dates. I stay at home on Saturdays like you, studying and reading like the good girl I am.

I’m your competition for valedictorian, your rival, and yet your friend when it suits you. The one you rely on to help you organize.

You think me the same nerd as you, but you look close, Lucy, and realize. You are like me, Lucy, just not the nerd or hopeful romantic dying to save a dying world.

No, we’re the same soft coin dipped into an ocean of greed and filth.

You enjoyed the blood on your knife and hands. You revel in it and as the dark takes me, I see the smile on your plain pretty face.

fiction
Kathryn Parker
Kathryn Parker
Read next: Run Necromancer
Kathryn Parker

Life is amazing. Life is horrible. It just depends on your day and attitude.



See all posts by Kathryn Parker