Confiscated, Chapter 2 **WARNING: OFFENSIVE**


Chapter 2


            The piercing sound of a woman’s terrified scream rescues me from my reverie.  I begin to grasp for breath as if on the verge of drowning. As my breath repetitions reach a normal level, I then begin to take in my surroundings.  I am in a car, shoddy and torn feux leather. Rain was roughly beating down on the hood my car, and the white noise helps me concentrate and collect my thoughts.  There is still some light outside, but it seems to be fading fast.  I’m parked in an open parking lot outside of a convenience store.  There are bars surrounding the windows and the “M” in “C-MART” was flickering chaotically.  “C-ART” could be taken several ways, ‘see art’ or a southern man stuttering on the first letter in every word.  I smile at the fictitious man’s struggle to say ‘cart.’  I wonder if I am near Evelyn’s place.  Now that you think of it, where is she?  I feel cold steel at my fingertips.  Uncomfortably heavy cold steel.  I didn’t even need to look, it was a loaded pistol.  It would have provided some heat if it had been recently fired, now where was the woman screaming from?  I check the magazine inside.  I must have forgotten to load several bullets in the clip.  Another scream.

            Across the parking lot and into the convenience store, I see a woman being pulled by her hair by an average Indian man.  That’s Eve, I recognize that hair anywhere.  She is struggling to get away from the furious man, but he is much stronger than her.  I get out of the car, and start running across the parking lot.  The gun loosely held in my right hand, I almost forgot it was there.  He must not have noticed me running across the parking lot, he was a little occupied at the moment. As I pull open the door, the man punched Evelyn across the face and she fell limply to the ground at his feet. He looked at my face, then down to my gun.  He ran quickly behind the counter for cover, before my arm was even raised to take aim.  I pursue and almost lose my balance attempting to turn around the counter corner, I slid a couple feet but managed to stay up.  I could see the man’s fist coming down to my face and there was nothing I could do about it. The gun gets thrown aside and towards the unconscious Evelyn. With my back turned to the rambunctious Indian man, he pushes me down to the ground with a forceful foot of his.  I land on my stomach, but roll to my back as quickly as possible to take the first kick in the ribs.  The pain is sharp, I hope the rib broke and is not bruised.  For those of you who do not know, a bruised rib hurts way worse than a broken one at least in the immediate adrenaline of a fight. 

I catch his second kick and lock the foot and ankle between my ribs and arm. The man loses balance and he catches a corner of the counter on his way down.  He let out a wail of pain, he must be out of adrenaline and his senses are telling him that his injury could be serious.  Apparently it wasn’t as damaged as he made it seem because his other foot connected to my face.  The grip is broken and he struggles up to his feet well before I could.

My breath is gone, and my ribs are in agonizing pain. I can’t focus on the pain right now.  The fast fuck must have found his metal bat from behind his counter, I didn’t even see him grab it before I felt it strike across my face.  That knocked a few screws loose and I’m heavily disorientated but still conscious.  The bat broke the skin and blood dripped from my forehead and into my left eye. This is not looking well.

A gunshot.  I then hear the metal bat clink onto the ground next to me and the man falls over me.  He’s dead.  The woman woke up, found my gun and probably saved my life.  I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself in this state.

            She grabs his wallet and the baseball bat that had my blood on it, then helps me on my feet.  Relieved that its over I muster out a, “Thanks, Bunny.”

            “Bunny? Is that some sort of name you use to hit on women?  My name is Carla.  Listen, we need to go right now.”

            After taking a closer look at Carla, I notice vast differences in her appearance from Evelyn.  Her face is more war-torn and has fairly dark blue eyes.  The hair almost looks the same and I suppose it was the rain and distance that had me confused.  Her voice grew harsh with impatience as I stood there examining her physical features, “Look, I’m leaving with or without you.  Now come on.”

            “I have a car parked outside.  I can take us to a place we can hide.”  This seemed to cheer up the amazon street fighter.  She followed me to my car and we quickly drove off.  No sounds of sirens yet.  The rain more than likely muffled the sound of the gunshot, at least a little bit.  It might have been enough.  There wasn’t a soul on the road at all, no one to call the police.  The rain may have just saved me.  I don’t know exactly where I am, but I believe somewhere on the west side of town.  Once I find a noticeable landmark, I’ll be able to find my way home.  We are safe on the road for now.  Carla starts to shiver.  It could be from shock or the cold rain.  I reach to the back of the car and there are some extra clothes back there.  I put a couple of heavy sweatshirts on top of her to keep her warm and she thanks me with a smile.  She bundles up with my clothes.  She doesn’t seem to be in shock for killing a man.  Must not have been her first.  After a few more minutes of driving, I am finally able to see the Ivory Tower.  It was hiding behind some office buildings. 

            The rest of the car ride was ridden in silence.  The overhanging burden of taking a life must be put off for a while longer.  I won’t feel remorse for it, but I do not know this woman.  We walk up to my house.  The door was still smashed from when the police rammed it down, no need for the key.  She may think I’m squatting here judging by the look on her face but I reassure her, “No, its fine, we’ll be safe here.”

            It probably sounded creepy as fuck, but after she overcame her hesitation she meandered into the living room.  I suppose attempting to come to her aide scored some points in her book, even if I thought she was someone else.  I was never good at talking with people, “So um.  Make yourself at home.  There are food and drinks in the fridge, let me get you some dry clothes.”

            She seems appreciative, but unable to smile.  Her voice sounds a lot quieter than at the convenient store and could she even be shy?  She asks, “Can I take a shower? I think the warm water will help.”

            “Sure, make yourself at home.” I just noticed she’s at least a foot smaller than me as she walked past.  She had to be about 4’ 8” or 4’ 10” at the most.  Tiny, and cute.  She slips away into the bathroom and the water turns on.  The walls are paper thin and I hear her wet clothes plopping in a heap on the bathroom tile.  I should take my mind off her.

            I pick up the bat and gun that was discarded in the living room and go to clean the baseball bat in the sink.  I have to get my evidence off of the other man’s weapon.  After several long minutes of scrubbing, I get most of the blood-stains off the bat.  Not quite all of it, so I bleach the stain to get rid of all blood-testing abilities from dried blood.  I saw it in a movie once.  I hide both the gun and the bat in the removable floor-board of my kitchen counter.  It’s a very secure place where I hide the drugs.  First, you need to move the detachable counter out of the way, it doesn’t move very easily either. Then there is a removable tile which leads to a storage box, large enough to fit the tallest NBA player in.  I haven’t actually fit a person into the storage box, but it’s big enough to hide a fugitive if I were harboring any.

            Carla walks in to see what I was doing.  She was only wearing one of my white towels that was barely covering her breasts.  Her cleavage was inviting the world for every man to stare at. I held up the weapons to show her and then I tossed them into the storage box, then covered it with the tile and removable counter.  “I’m sorry, I promised you clothes.”

            She giggled for a second, “Take your time.”

            I must have been noticeably blushing because she giggled again as I walked past her and into my bedroom.  As I’m digging in the drawers for some sweat pants and a t-shirt, she gives me a hug from behind.  I pause, my stare continuing at the mess in the drawer and I tense up.  She whispered, “I never said thank you for earlier.  So thank you.  I never caught your name.”

            “My name is Dean.” I find some warm clothes suitable for her and hand them to her.  “I’ll be in the living room.  I head over to the living room, but a sharp pain reminds me that I got my ass kicked earlier.  I need to treat this cut on my forehead.  She must think I’m crazy because I look lost in my own home.  Embarrassed, I walk back to the bathroom and grab some Neosporin to pour over the cut. It sizzles and burns once the chemical makes contact with my skin, but the pain reminds me that I am mortal.  I think we humans lose sight of that fact.

            I grab the biggest Band-Aid I can find that still doesn’t quite cover up the wound.  The skin around already starting to turn purple.  It wasn’t a terrible wound, should take a week or two to heal.  I walk back to the living room and see Carla stretched out on the entire couch.  She moves her feet so that I can sit down under them.  How nice, she made herself at home.  Guess I told her to, I didn’t think she would actually do it. 

            She had the tele on, I didn’t notice because the volume was muted.  It was that same doctor show that was on at Evelyn’s house.  Must be reruns.  It should be re-titled: The Show That Has The Same Plot For Every Episode And Never Ends.  She looks awfully comfy though, I wish there were room for two to lay down but the couch isn’t that big.  After a couple of episodes, her head gets heavy, but she is still fighting to stay awake.  Why fight the sleep? It always wins.

            Sharp continuous pain interrupts my thoughts.  It feels as though someone won’t stop stabbing me with a knife.  I fall off the couch, grabbing my head in agony.  I forced Carla to wake as she looks perpetually worried about me.  Hands squeezing tighter around my head, if I squeeze hard enough maybe the pain will stop.

            A voice bellows in my head at a high pitch scream, “HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT HER YOU INCONSIDERATE SWINE. I’LL CUT OFF YOUR BALLS IF YOU LOOK AT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN.” 

A screaming voice at that pitch is impossible to determine whose voice it is.  Everything around me starts spinning, I feel as though I’m losing control again.  Carla’s voice is so faint, veiled behind the chaos.  This could be a way out of the storm, however.  I just need to follow the voice.  I’m sure Carla was screaming at this point, but I heard her voice like as a beckoning call, not louder than a whisper.  If I can just reach out, maybe she could help me.  That may make me vulnerable , but I’d do anything to be kill this pain. 

            I regain vision of the real world around me. Carla had a worried look on her face, unsure if I were stable yet or not.  My hands are no longer needed on my head, so they fall to my side.  I can feel the sweat dripping down my entire face.  “I’m sorry Carla, I don’t know what came over me.  My head just started radiating with pain.”  She looked slightly more relieved, but I could tell that she no longer trusted me.  “I’m fine now, I swear. I just need some sleep.  You can sleep in my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

            She gets up to leave me in the living room, her stare lingered for a moment then she was gone.  I should see Evelyn about this, but I don’t remember how to get to her place.  I’ll give her a call.

            The first ring, I’m anxious.  The second ring, I think I know how I’ll say it.  Third ring, I’m annoyed.  Voice mail, beep.  “Hey Bunny, its Dean.  I need to talk to you whenever you get the chance.  Thanks.”  Maybe voice mails are awkward for everyone because you are literally talking to yourself in a tiny box for the recipient to listen to.  No one likes leaving voice mail, its hella awkward.

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