If You Fall

Eleven

I was writing a new book and it consumed my time so that helped. I had written nine complete books since getting away from foster care, probably publishable if I ever had a publishing company banging on the door for them. I wrote because the stories wanted telling, the same reason I painted. If there was an idea in my brain for a story or picture and I tried to ignore it, I ended up suffering until I began the project.

My current story followed a group of friends on their interplanetary adventures. I didn't usually delve into sci fi but I was enjoying this one. I never knew what would want to be written. Writing was like reading for me; in order to find out what happened next, I had to write it.

And so I sat on a rainy afternoon at my computer with music playing, immersed in my story. Reed had been gone for nine days with no word as usual. My music was loud but I still heard the pounding on the door, and knew it was Remy.

My heart began racing but I got up and picked up my gun from the table, then turned down the music. The gun was a Ruger LC9s, and I was incredibly familiar with it, to the point it no longer made me nervous to hold it. When I'd first learned to shoot, I'd shaken so hard I couldn't touch it the first time. I was so afraid I would accidentally shoot and kill one of us, it was as though I felt the gun had a mind of its own and nothing I did would control it. Now I knew better, and was comfortable with it, and liked to think I wouldn't hesitate to use it.

Hopefully I wouldn't be forced to test that theory today. I went to the door and looked. Just the sight of the top of her head, and the clean white part there, set the acid bubbling in my stomach. She raised her arm to bang again and I said loudly, "Knock that shit off." Be aggressive but don't piss her off, I told myself. Fine line.

"Open it or I'll burn your fucking house down, little piggie," she called, obviously enjoying herself. She flicked a Bic lighter for emphasis.

"I said shut up," I forced myself to say, trying to sound tough. "Reed left money for you in the laundry room. I'm gonna toss it out to you. You are going to stay the fuck back until I am safely in my house, or I will shoot you with my pretty Ruger. Capiche?"

She had her head tilted, listening to me, and when I was done she looked up into the camera and smiled so creepily I shuddered. "Sure, meltface," she said, and it was like she was looking right into my eyes. "Whateeever you say."

I took a deep breath to try to calm my hands, which had begun to tremble. Adrenaline pumped through me. I moved to the alarm pad at the laundry room door, and with misgivings, disarmed it. Then I unlocked it and went into the small room. I took the money down and set it on the floor, then jumped when she slammed her palms against the glass in the door.

I raised the gun and held it pointed at her in both hands. 

She flipped me off and rolled her eyes. "Like you'd have the balls," she said clearly, laughing at me.

I wished for a second I did have the balls. But instead I said only "Get back." I realized I could put the money under the door but that would put me in such a vulnerable and subservient position I refused to do so. "If you want it, get fucking back. I've got shit to do."

She stayed there belligerently for another few moments and then deliberately stepped back seven times. I shook my head and motioned her with the gun. She took another seven steps back. I still motioned her. I didn't trust her as far as I could throw her. When she was far enough that I felt safe doing so, I unlocked the door, tossed out the baggie, and hastily slammed it so I could throw the bolt. I was back inside my house and resetting the alarm before God could get the news.