Run Like Hell (3 page)

My purse slaps against my body. I stagger and sprint ahead. He could retreat to the car and run me down, but we’ve run too far. If he goes back for the car I’ll have time to disappear into the woods, hopefully escaping him for good. I can’t focus on his motives or why he’s targeted me. He’s still too close behind for me to consider myself safe.

I’m jerked back and slam against his body. He locks me against his chest with his powerful arms. His forearms press tightly against my sternum. I hadn’t realized he was so close behind. Exerting all my energy, I struggle, bite, and claw at his arm. I’m attacking him like a wild animal defending a fresh kill. My size is slight compared to him. He’s not heavy or too muscular but he’s taller and stronger. His mouth is next to my ear and he’s breathing heavily. I sense he’s tired. If I can escape from his clutches, I’ll have a chance to getaway.

I slam my foot onto his and he curses but doesn’t loosen his grip. With a backwards and upward kick, I nail him in the groin. He howls in pain and crouches over. His arms release me and I run but I know he’s not getting up. Crouched in the road, he’s barely breathing. I consider myself lucky for accurately nailing him. Speechless, he watches me disappear down the street. I don’t know how long or how far I’ve ran, but glancing behind I can barely see him. The moon dimly illuminates his shape. He’s hunched over, his hands resting on his knees. I continue running until he disappears, swallowed by the night.

About an hour later I come upon the gas station we passed earlier. I’ll call Jack or Traci and ask them to pick me up, but first I need water. I’m exhausted from running. Plus, the pain in my leg aches. My calf is sore from the bad road rash or gash I sustained earlier. What I’d do for an Advil or Excedrin right now. I remain in the shadows across the street from the gas station and survey the parking lot for any signs of my attacker. The lot is empty at this hour. Inside, I can spy a teenager working behind the counter. The coast looks clear so I proceed.

As I begin to cross the road, tires screech behind me and instinctively I run.

“Morgan! Wait!”

I stop and turn in the middle of the road. I’m relieved when I see Traci standing outside her VW Bug with its engine running. She slams the door and runs to my side. Panic and concern cloud her vibrant eyes as she takes in my appearance. I can’t imagine what I look like.

“Morgan, what happened to you?” she practically shrieks.

Her hands hover, as if she’s scared to touch me, but then her thin arms wrap around me and pull me into a hug. I must be shaking because she quickly pulls away and ushers me to her car.

“Come on,” she whispers.

I stumble along until she pulls the passenger door open and I collapse in the black leather seat. The familiar mix of vanilla air freshener and flowery perfume fills my nostrils. I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes. She starts the car and slowly drives but stops minutes later. Opening my eyes, I notice she’s parked at the gas station where I intended to call for help.

She sits behind the wheel, staring at me. I wait for her to speak but she doesn’t. In the interior car light, I notice my torn and bloody jeans, ripped hoodie, and bloodied hands. I flip the visor down and peek in the mirror. I’m frightening. No wonder she’s not talking. Blood is plastered across my face. It’s probably from when I fell and hit my head against the tree trunk. My long, brown hair is littered with leaves and grass. Mascara is smeared all over my face, mixing with the blood and creating a reddish-black stain on my cheeks.

“I’m calling the cops,” she says without knowing what happened to me.

She begins to dial on her cell phone but I place my hand on hers and gently take the phone away. I put the phone on her consol. Her greenish-yellow eyes are wide with alarm.

“Morgan, you’ve obviously been attacked. We need to call for help.”

Shaking my head, I try to speak. My throat is raw and a lump of emotions blocks my windpipe. If I talk I’ll cry. I’m too emotional and shaken. I grab a bottle of water from her drink holder and take a gulp. The water soothes my throat. After taking several deep breaths, I try speaking again.

“Please don’t call the cops because I don’t want anyone to know what happened.”

Her eyes widen again, as if I’m talking all kinds of crazy.

I can’t control it anymore, the tears begin to fall and I crumble in the seat. My thin legs fold up toward my chest and my arms wrap around them. I pull my hoodie over my face and hide within the fabric. The stress and bottled up emotions release as I cry in the comfort of Traci’s car. Her arms encircle me and her hand strokes my back.

“How did you find me?” I ask between sobs. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the party?”

“I got your text saying you ran out of gas. I found your mom’s car down the road but I’ve been driving around looking for you.”

She got my text? This alarms me. She was looking for me the whole time? I begin to cry harder, realizing I didn’t have to get in the car with that man. After a few minutes, I slowly lift my head and wipe my tears on my sleeves.

“How long have you been looking for me?” It’s been hours since I got stranded and sent her text.

Traci’s porcelain complexion blushes pink in embarrassment. “Hours actually. I’m sorry it took so long for me to show up. I took a different route going to the party and I recently thought to program the GPS using your address. Found the car right away afterward.” She brushes her long, glossy, jet-black hair over her ear.

The fact that she left the party to help me speaks volumes. “You’ve been driving around for hours?”

She shakes her head yes.

“I’d hug you but I don’t’ want to get you—.” My voice cuts off as I stare down at my ripped, bloody and filthy self.

She looks great in her new outfit – a deep purple v-neck sweater dress worn over black leggings. Her thin legs appear more toned in her high-heeled, knee-high leather boots. A delicate silver chain with a heart charm, a gift from her father, hangs from her slender neck. She’s the envy of many girls at school for her fashion and physique.

“Thank you, Traci,” I whisper, “Thank you so much.” The alarm softens on her face and is replaced with concern.

“Now are you going to tell me what happened?” she asks.

I nod my head in affirmation. “But I want to clean up first. Will you ask for the bathroom key?” I nod towards the teenager working inside the convenience store.

“Are you sure? If you’ve been attacked, you’ll wash off the evidence.”

She has a point but she’s not aware of what’s at stake. “Traci, no one can know, especially my parents. I’ll be grounded forever. I won’t risk ruining my whole summer. I’m fine, really.”

“You’re fine? You just looked in the mirror and you’re going to tell me you’re fine?”

I have a friend who sometimes shows up at school with a black eye. When I ask if she’s okay, she always tells me, “I’m fine”, even though I suspect her step-dad is the one causing her face to discolor and swell. Another friend recently had a miscarriage in her first trimester. When I asked her one day how she was doing, she too answered, “I’m fine” even though tears were glistening in her eyes.

By responding “I’m fine” to Traci, I’m actually admitting I want this whole nightmare to be over with. If I ignore my attack, it will disappear.

She takes my silence as an answer and shrugs. “Okay, you’re fine. I get it.”

I can sense her reluctance but she leaves the car and enters the convenience store. The boy behind the counter smiles widely at her – a typical reaction she gets from boys – and hands her the bathroom key. When she returns, she assists me to the restroom, located on the side of the building. She unlocks the door and turns the light on. The fluorescent light flickers and hums and several bugs fly around in its glow. At least there’s paper towels and soap in the dispenser.

I wash up and she leans against a nearby sink and inspects my wounds. The one on my head luckily doesn’t need stitches. I lather up my hands and wash my face, including my eyes, to clean off the runny mascara and blood. The soap stings but I don’t complain. When I rinse, I can’t help noticing the combination of blood and dirt vanishing down the drain. My skin looks red and irritated from the harsh soap but at least I’m clean. I’ll deal with my hair after I get home and take a shower. For now, I pull out some of the grass and twigs and gather the messy mass into a simple pony-tail.

“Are you ready to talk now?” she asks.

I perch on the side of the sink and splash water on my leg wound. It appears to be the worst of my injuries. The gash won’t require stitches either, but the road ripped apart my skin when I fell from the car. Gauze and antiseptic will be mandatory.

I begin relaying the events of the evening. Traci listens intently. I hold several paper towels against my leg to clot the blood and continue with the story. I can tell she has mixed emotions by the way her eyes light up and narrow. But when I tell her how I leapt from the car, she’s heard enough.

“I don’t care what you say, Morgan, but I’m calling the cops. This maniac will attack another girl. He’s sick. You don’t even understand the danger you were in.”

“Traci, stop. You can’t call them. I got in the car. It’s my fault everything happened.”

“He attacked you!”

“After I stabbed him with a lit cigarette,” I argue.

I’m not admitting that he wasn’t going to hurt me. I don’t want the police and my parents involved. I want the whole situation to go away.

Traci puts her phone away, looking defeated. “Fine. This is your business, Morgan. I don’t agree with what you’re doing, though. I think you’re putting others at risk by not reporting it.”

I’m too ashamed to meet her gaze. I finish washing my leg and ease off the edge of the sink. I’m tired and don’t want to argue with my best friend who’s been driving around for hours looking for me.

“Let’s go home,” I suggest.

“Fine,” she says and assists me out of the restroom.

After she returns the key, I remember the gas for my mom’s car. “Do you have a gas container in your trunk? I need to refill Mom’s car.” Traci pops the trunk open and I’m relieved to find a red gas can inside. I open my purse to retrieve my wallet when my heart stops.

“What’s wrong?” she asks when my mouth falls open.

“My wallet, it’s not here.” I rummage in my purse then dump its contents on the sidewalk, panic and fear consuming me. “My wallet’s not here!”

Traci kneels beside me and collects my stuff off the sidewalk. “Morgan, calm down. Maybe you left it at home. I have gas money.”

I stare at her. She doesn’t understand. What if he has my wallet? What if he knows my name and address? I take a deep breath in order to hold back the tears are once again building up.

She stuffs my belongings back in my purse and helps me up. “It’s going to be okay, Morgan.”

I settle back in her car while she fills the container with gas. I’m tired and emotional. Jack! Oh my God, he’s probably wondering where I am! And my parents, I have to text them. Does Traci have a charger in the car? I dig in the glove box and find one. I immediately begin charging my iPhone.

“Do you think you can manage driving tonight? Otherwise, we can come back and get her car in the morning.” Traci slides behind the wheel after storing the gas tank in the trunk.

“I should be fine. Will you follow me home?” Imagining him lurking around my house scares me.

“Absolutely. You can spend the night at my house. It’s probably better if you’re not alone tonight.”

I wasn’t supposed to be alone tonight. Jack planned on spending the night. Poor Jack. He’s probably worried about me. While my iPhone charges I check my messages and texts. There are many. Traci sent a bunch of texts and I have two texts from my parents. Jack sent a text when he got home from the party saying he hadn’t seen me and wanted me to call him ASAP. I send Jack and my parents a quick text stating my cell phone battery died and I hadn’t been able to get their messages until now. Hopefully my parents won’t wonder why I hadn’t charged my iPhone earlier.

Traci and I are soon on the road driving back to my mom’s car. We’re the only car on the road. Up ahead, Mom’s Honda is illuminated by Traci’s headlights. She keeps the engine running and her cell phone in her hand in case my attacker is hiding in the shadows. I fill the gas tank and then start the car. She follows close behind the entire way back to my house. I sigh with relief once I park Mom’s car in the garage. I’ve returned it in the same condition.

Traci waits in the car and I enter my house. I’m met by an overly anxious Tiger. He dances around excitedly, jumping up and licking my face. I kneel down, hugging him close. Quickly, I attach his leash and lead him outside. Traci gets out of her car walks over while Tiger sniffs around the front yard.

“You want me to come inside with you?” she asks.

“I’ll be okay. Give me a second to feed the dog and grab a change of clothes.” I enter the house and turn on the lights. Tiger follows me up the stairs to my room. Pulling an overnight bag from my closet, I stuff a change of clothes into it and then grab a few items from the bathroom and hurry downstairs.

“I’ll be back in the morning, Tiger. I promise.” It’s already past two in the morning. Tiger will be alone for another eight hours until I’m home. His sad expression makes it hard to leave, but I close and lock the door behind me, and then jog over to Traci’s car.