Dead Hostage, part 6. Before the screenplay.
[ *Dynastic note: We're "taking it to the bridge" today, friends. Ha.
So that new folks aren’t blindsided: There is profanity (not on purpose, that’s how the characters played out), adverbs, adjectives, exclamation points, cliches, and probably syntax problems (this is vintage Queen way back in the day, still learning her craft). I hope it doesn’t offend; I hope it does entertain. Thanks for giving me a read. ]
Click. Click. Click.
She wanted more. The trigger burned into her finger.
Click. Click. Click.
Yes.
The rage inside Ivy subsided and was replaced by a profound grief. The pressure squeezing her chest increased. She glanced down. A dark stain spread across the crotch of Brad's expensive pants. He had peed on himself.
"Shit, Ivy--!" He wrenched her wrist and brought her hand down, gun and all, and trapped it on the bed. Immobilized by pain, she didn't resist. There was no blood in his face. He was mad, scared, shaking. Then his expression changed. He snatched the gun away from her and brought it up to his bewlidered gaze. "You've been carrying an empty weapon? I don't believe it. Why the hell would you do something so--" He hurled the gun towards the bathroom, like a petulant child. "You never intended to shoot me at all!"
She thought he would strangle her.
"Congratulations, Einstein. Omph--" Ivy pushed from the bed to the floor, part of the ugly bedspread coming with her. She scooted past the nightstand and arm chair, and came to rest with her back against cheap paneling. An anvil sat on her chest, compressed her lungs, squeezed and squeezed.. "It wasn't supposed to go this far. But that new guy... pushed the damn alarm..."
"Where are the bullets? In your pockets?"
"Home. Closet shelf. Didn't want... to have an accident... really kill anybody--" She gasped.
"Christ. Jesus Christ." He gaped.
The pain wouldn't let up. All she could do was wheeze and try not to panic. Wonder if my face is blue this time...
"What's wrong?"
She couldn't answer. She concentrated instead on pulling the small yellow plastic inhaler out of her knee-high tube sock, and then popped the mouthpiece between her dry lips. Depress the cannister... deep, slow breaths... Two puffs, and then the torturous wait began.
Fifteen minutes passed across the face of the little black electric clock.
Heart beat still rapid. Chest still tight. Still sweating. Breath easier, but words still won't come. Two more puffs from the inhaler. Brad yelling something, tugging on the handcuff. "...going to be okay? Say something!"
She closed her eyes, let the back of her skull rest against the wall, and didn't fight it.
This could be it. The last time... when I stop breathing altogether. Funny how quick a body can just wink out of existence. Makes lots of things really clear. She had stepped in deep shit, the kind that couldn't be shaken off of the shoe. Brad was right. She knew what she had to do, damn it, for the kids and for herself, even if she didn't want to. God--had it really come to this?
For the second time in less than twelve hours, tears slid down Ivy's perspiring face.
______________
Thanks for hanging in here with me thus far, peeps. Next time, we'll bring it on home with the final installment. Tah.
So that new folks aren’t blindsided: There is profanity (not on purpose, that’s how the characters played out), adverbs, adjectives, exclamation points, cliches, and probably syntax problems (this is vintage Queen way back in the day, still learning her craft). I hope it doesn’t offend; I hope it does entertain. Thanks for giving me a read. ]
Click. Click. Click.
She wanted more. The trigger burned into her finger.
Click. Click. Click.
Yes.
The rage inside Ivy subsided and was replaced by a profound grief. The pressure squeezing her chest increased. She glanced down. A dark stain spread across the crotch of Brad's expensive pants. He had peed on himself.
"Shit, Ivy--!" He wrenched her wrist and brought her hand down, gun and all, and trapped it on the bed. Immobilized by pain, she didn't resist. There was no blood in his face. He was mad, scared, shaking. Then his expression changed. He snatched the gun away from her and brought it up to his bewlidered gaze. "You've been carrying an empty weapon? I don't believe it. Why the hell would you do something so--" He hurled the gun towards the bathroom, like a petulant child. "You never intended to shoot me at all!"
She thought he would strangle her.
"Congratulations, Einstein. Omph--" Ivy pushed from the bed to the floor, part of the ugly bedspread coming with her. She scooted past the nightstand and arm chair, and came to rest with her back against cheap paneling. An anvil sat on her chest, compressed her lungs, squeezed and squeezed.. "It wasn't supposed to go this far. But that new guy... pushed the damn alarm..."
"Where are the bullets? In your pockets?"
"Home. Closet shelf. Didn't want... to have an accident... really kill anybody--" She gasped.
"Christ. Jesus Christ." He gaped.
The pain wouldn't let up. All she could do was wheeze and try not to panic. Wonder if my face is blue this time...
"What's wrong?"
She couldn't answer. She concentrated instead on pulling the small yellow plastic inhaler out of her knee-high tube sock, and then popped the mouthpiece between her dry lips. Depress the cannister... deep, slow breaths... Two puffs, and then the torturous wait began.
Fifteen minutes passed across the face of the little black electric clock.
Heart beat still rapid. Chest still tight. Still sweating. Breath easier, but words still won't come. Two more puffs from the inhaler. Brad yelling something, tugging on the handcuff. "...going to be okay? Say something!"
She closed her eyes, let the back of her skull rest against the wall, and didn't fight it.
This could be it. The last time... when I stop breathing altogether. Funny how quick a body can just wink out of existence. Makes lots of things really clear. She had stepped in deep shit, the kind that couldn't be shaken off of the shoe. Brad was right. She knew what she had to do, damn it, for the kids and for herself, even if she didn't want to. God--had it really come to this?
For the second time in less than twelve hours, tears slid down Ivy's perspiring face.
______________
Thanks for hanging in here with me thus far, peeps. Next time, we'll bring it on home with the final installment. Tah.