Through my author, I am undone

By

The sight of you tapping that pen against your teeth is enough for me to want to pry it from your hands and draw it along your neck. Nice and slow, careful and precise so that you could feel the true length of time, how much of your life can be wasted in a minute, in a few short lines. Not that you would ever let me do such a thing, my hands are far too dainty in your words for anything in them to ever resemble a weapon. I can hear the thoughts rattling around in your mind, I taste your pride on my tongue; I can feel it from all the way in here. 

She came to a stop at the half-way point, panting heavily, her chest heaving back and forth with every breath.’ – 

God, how I want to scream, how the inability to do so in your presence makes my stomach churn; my eyes water with rage, and yet you are proud. Your pen is hovering and I’m wringing my hands, what godforsaken thing will you force upon me next? Her boobs were so heavy, she couldn’t possibly manage the stairs all in one go, and when she stopped running, her boobs bounced boobily so that everyone knew she had boobs. There, did I get it right? Or has your imagination finally peaked your realization that women have other qualities as well. Maybe you’ll focus on my thighs next, or my ass; I’m sure you’ll do a full body run down before you get to the description of the murderer at my heels. If only I could get to that pen, the things I could do as author of my own fate. I could get myself up, tear down that hall and escape out the door before he even turned the corner. I’m fast, good in a crisis, I mean, have you ever met a woman that wasn’t? Except for the ones written by you of course. 

She clambered back up, her heels clicking against the laminate floors as she ran. ‘Oh no,’ she thought “I hope he can’t hear.” –

Heels? Are you fucking kidding me? The way you see the world is a truly laughable feet. I can take them off; I can use them as a weapon. Listen to me, if I hid here, behind this locker he wouldn’t be able to see me, I could leave the door wide open, so he thought I’d left – I could even leave a stray shoe on the ground like Cinderella if you like – I could get him right next to me, kick him behind the knee so he fell to the floor, shove that heel into his eye, his neck, anything. I could get out; I could win. 

She fell once more, so violently that her skirt rode up as she hit the ground. There he was, across the room. He had found her, there was little hope for her now.-

There is time. There’s a door to my left, I could go through it, barricade it to hold him off. Maybe there’s a window in there; you could give me one. I could make it into the street, find a phone and call for help – he can’t chase me forever. I could make it until the morning; I have it in me, I swear.

He walked towards her, and her blood curdled with every step he took. His boots rattled against the floor, and she could feel the impact from where she lay. There had to be a way out. She looked around, concerned only with finding an exit, and not the fact that her clothes had torn on the impact, leaving her bare and exposed. –

There’s a door. 

She could hear him; every step he took felt like the click of a clock counting down. Come on, come on…. –

I see the door. I could get to the door.

She found an air vent to her left, an escape! Maybe she could get out after all. She clambered to her feet and began prying at the grate. It came loose in her hands. Yes, yes! She could get out. She could do it. 

But I wouldn’t. This plan of yours would kill me, you planned it like that, didn’t you? I can taste it again, your pride. I will die with the reminisce of your bitter taste in my throat, oh, if only I could shove my disdain down yours. The attractive plot device meets her gruesome end, classic entertainment for casual readers and amateur writers…how abhorrently cliché; how perfect, and what little I could do to stop it.  In your hands, I am undone. 

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