From Filter: The Von Strassenberg Saga
My hand shoots up, palm flat and smacks Kevin’s flushed and sagging face square in the nose. Stunned, he releases me and reels back, profanities hurling from him with his blood and mucus. Not bothering to wipe the gore away, he spins on me, trying to catch me as I dart passed the immobile rhino and head for my room. My room with its flimsy door and busted window. For a jacked up drunk man Kevin is fast, too fast. He’s at my back grabbing my hair as I try to leap the last few feet into my room, slamming the door behind me. White lightening slices into my brain and a scream rips its way out of me as those wide-awake five senses tell me everything I already know. My hair is caught in the door. The other end is still in Kevin’s all too strong carpenter’s hands. Strong, unforgiving hands. He yanks and yanks again, expletives flying without pause for breath. With back pressed tightly to the door, out of necessity, he has me painfully pinned, I turn the lock. My tiny room is sparsely furnished. The twin bed will only fit against the wall with the busted window. And my desk, my beautiful, white knight desk, is here beside me, crammed into the small space between bedroom and closet doors. Two nights ago I had started working on that stupid project for history. A battle scene, complete with corn syrup blood and cardboard trees. And there beside the last fallen soldier, still waiting silently for his place on the battlefield, are my scissors. New and sharp.
Copyright Gwenn Wright 2010
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