49. FightFlight Of Stairs
fight or flight of stairs
Deirdre
A drenaline flows through my veins as I dash up the stairs. He grabs ahold of my leg to stop me, and I hold on to the banister as I kick, but he’s too strong.
I am not weak. I may not be a killer, but I am not against a good fight.
He tightens his grip around my leg and drags me down the steps, my kicks are wild and useless, but I don’t stop trying.
On the way down, my eyes scan everything in hopes of finding anything I can use to subdue him.
I need to get upstairs.
We’re about to pass an end table of small plants, some have concrete pots. I swipe my arms out to get one in my grasp. My hands are sweaty, but I manage to maintain my grip on one.
His attention stays forward as he drags me through the kitchen, seemingly taking me through the garage door.
I can do this , I tell myself. You are not dying today.
I chuck the concrete planter at him, and when it makes contact with his head, he screams in agony. His hands rush to assess the blow, and he releases his hold on my leg.
I don’t waste a minute charging back where I came, and he roars after me, his steps quick, but not as fast as before. I hike my knees up these long fucking stairs that I had to have for aesthetic purposes, and he unfortunately catches up, only a few steps behind me as I beeline for the top.
My bedroom door is in my line of sight when I feel his grip around my waist pulling me back down the stairs. His hold is awkward and provides enough room for me to shove my elbow into him, and I do. He groans, but it’s not enough.
I cannot let him pull me away from these stairs again. I rear a hook, and the punch lands against his temple. My knuckles crunch, but I keep flailing and punching until he finally drops me.
“Crazy fucking bitch,” he wails, rushing to cradle his head in his hands.
I dart up the stairs with no regard for him when I touch the doorknob handle, rip it open, and lock it behind me.
I stop in front of the safe and carefully remove the family photo covering it to lean it against the wall. My hands tremble as I punch in the code.
Three, nine, nine, one, zero, three, five, zero.
The hiss of the door releasing washes over me as my guns stare back at me, lined up and ready to be chosen. I take a deep breath, retrieve two handguns, and press the door shut, listening for the lock to click before I hide in my en suite.
I lost my phone amidst the fighting downstairs, but luckily my iPad is on the counter from watching a beauty tutorial earlier.
Being a girly girl might save my life.
I swipe to unlock and call César, but he doesn’t answer. I try
again, but I get nothing. So, I send a message to Regina, and
wait.
Someone broke into my house and I am locked in the bathroom.
I don’t need help, and you better not call my fucking dad or Darius.
I have a gun and I will be fine.
Then I send another to César this time, in case I don’t make it. I open our thread to find countless messages he sent earlier to warn me about this person.
My attacker is outside the bedroom door throwing himself into it to bust it down, and I need to be ready for him when that happens.
If I die tonight, I want you to know that you’re an idiot and I love you.
In case something happens to me, delete that fucking video I made so Regina doesn’t kill you.
I love you, César/Scar.
I hate that you lied.
I switch off the safety and wait for him.
My back is pressed against the cold bathtub, and the wood is weakening from his body repeatedly slamming into the door.
I train my breathing and will myself to focus.
Cici’s voice in my head rings once again.
“ Klarke’s don’t hide from danger, they incite it. ”
I stand and remember César’s shooting pointers, aiming directly in front of me just as he gets the door open. The wood slams to the ground, and he charges through my room. My sweaty finger trembles on the trigger, but I hold it there.
“Come out, princess. Come on, now. I’ve had enough of your games. Come on out,” he urges on the other side of the door.
Blood is rushing through my ears as he jiggles the doorknob. This door is far weaker than the bedroom door, and it won’t take long for him to knock it down.
I slow my breathing and listen for him as he stands at the door jiggling the knob. I may have a direct shot.
Take the shot. Now.
I fire, the shot echoing in the confined bathroom.
I hear the sloshing of the bullet piercing his chest, pained screams follow, but I can’t stop.
Moving closer, I fire again through the hole that now provides a view of him on the other side.
Still standing, so I go again until I hear the thud of his body dropping to the floor.
He’s still alive and moaning in pain, but I twist that knob to find him bloody and aim for the head.
That blow is instant, I see the exact moment he dies and it is nothing like I imagined it would be. I fire again into his skull and again in his chest for good measure. Opting to unload the clip because why not? It may be overkill, but I have anxiety.
I stand over his lifeless body with a lot of emotions, one being fear, because who even this and did Dax fucking send him here?
I don’t feel ashamed; I feel pride for a moment before my stomach churns. Nausea rises in my gut, but I need to handle the problem.
“Eradication is my ministry ,” I hear Regina say, and I grab my iPad to call her on speaker.
She picks up on the second ring.
“The fuck is going on? I read my kids a bedtime story, and now I’m seeing this fucking message from you. Babe? Dee?”
I don’t know what to say.
I stammer, “Gi, I—I need a clean-up crew. Now.”
A lighter flicks on the other end of the line, and she takes a drag.
Her and those goddamn cigarettes.
“And why would you need that? Tell me,” she says.
“Someone broke in my fucking house and attacked me,” I exclaim, eyeing the body as if it’s going wake up and charge me.
“Say it, Dee. I need to hear you say it,” she challenges, and I roll my eyes.
“I don’t have time for your games, Gi. I don’t know what you want me to say. I took care of it…Oh,” I sigh. “The debt is paid.”
“You check for a pulse?” she asks flatly and takes another drag.
“No, there’s no need for that, is there?”
“Check for a pulse, Dee,” she says, annoyance in her tone.
“I don’t want to touch him,” I grit, pacing the floor.
“Touch the fucking body and check for a pulse. Now,” she bites out firmly.
“Fine,” I resign, huffing as I wearily approach the body. Blood is pooled around him, and his eyes are still open.
Gross, and all over my favorite fucking rug.
How am I going to get brain matter out of it?
My hands tremble as I press two fingers into his bloodied wrist and wait for a sign of life.
Nothing.
“No pulse. Now will you fucking help me?” I ask, rushing to the bathroom to wash the blood from my hands, fighting the strong urge to gag. “Shit.”
“We have a crew in Austin, and I’m texting them now. They’re fifteen minutes away. Are you alone?”
“Yeah, well no. If you count this dead motherfucker at my feet.”
“Where’s César? Did you two make up, or is he…” she trails off.
“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t answer the phone so I don’t know where he is.”
“Fuck. I know that feeling. I’m gonna stay on the line with you. Okay?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, taking a seat on the other side of the room.
“I’m going to text you a contact. Name’s Renata or Renny. Call her in the morning. And I know you keep looking at that fucking body. Stop it,” she snaps in her mom voice. “You need to talk to someone. Like I was saying, Renny. Call her.”
I tilt my head in confusion. “Who’s she? And how do you know I’m staring at him?” I ask nervously.
“She’s my therapist. Believe it or not.”
I remain silent as I try to process what she said. Regina goes to therapy?
“Yes, I go to therapy,” she responds as if she can hear my thoughts. “And because I know my cousin. They, uh, shit and piss themselves after. Did you know that?”
“Oh my God, gross. He’s gonna shit on my fucking rug? Giii,” I whine. “How do you get brain matter out of a carpet? You know a guy for that?”
She bursts into laughter. “I do actually. He’s with the crew that’s coming down, but they’re thorough, so you won’t need to ask.”
“And what exactly do you tell her? You lie?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Everything. Shit, she’s in the mob too. Her pops is the Don of the Zippiati Family.”
A mob therapist that you can tell incriminating things to. Interesting.
We take on a comfortable silence as I attempt to hear myself think. I get up and pace again, even checking for a response from César, and there isn’t one.
What if he killed César before he came here for me?
My nausea fights its way up at the thought, but I swallow it down. I hear her taking drags and blowing smoke on the other end. She breaks the silence in a way only she can.
“So, you popped your cherry. Thirty-two years. Took you long enough to get your first blood. Did you throw up already?” she asks, amusement in her tone.
I take a deep breath to will the urge away. “No, but I want to. Did you?”
“Yeah, I did. My first shot was Cidro, and obviously I didn’t take him out. He turned out okay,” she reminisces with a sigh.
“César was my first shot,” I admit. “What is wrong with us?”
“We’re Klarkes, baby. It’s the generational trauma and the need to laugh instead of cry.”
“Woooow. You really do go to therapy,” I gasp dramatically. “If you don’t mind me asking, who was your first blood?” I inquire, hoping to keep my mind off the uncertainty about César.
She sighs. “Mine was a break in, too. Happened a few days after Ro didn’t come home. I hoped it was him, but I was wrong. I did what I had to do to protect my kids and I haven’t stopped because I will always choose my family.”
“I under?— ”
We’re interrupted when I hear three coquí whistles, and I freeze. I remain silent until I hear them again, closer this time.
“Doe? Where are you?”
It’s him. He came back for me.
“César? I’m upstairs. In my room,” I cry.
His heavy and familiar footsteps dash up the stairs, and he stands in the doorway assessing the scene before his eyes land on me.
Bloody, sweaty, disheveled, on the phone with Regina talking about murder from my fucking iPad. Not the reunion for the books, but I’m just thankful he’s safe. Thankful that we’re safe.