Abandonment issues
Her hands shake and she can feel that drop of sweat rolling down from her temple to her neck, taking its time, taking in the ambiance.
It's a lot messier than she ever thought it would be, she probably doesn't look half as fierce holding a gun as she imagined herself, or even as when she practiced, curtains drawn, against the mirror. She had tried a smirk, she had tried a subtle pout, but now she settles for paranoia and panic.
She keeps correcting her stance. Testing more aggressive tones as she shouts out orders. If only people weren't so distracted with staying alive, they'd sense her fear, counter attack.
But they don't. They just want it to end, as bad as she does. Soon, they're handing her the bag. She could say something witty, but doesn't. She just walks backwards, changing targets nervously as she goes, trying to predict who wants to hurt her the most.
The next couple of seconds last a lifetime.
Outside, the world is peaceful - it kept running while all this was happening, before coming to a halt, now and just now. The trees sway gently to a summery breeze that you could enjoy just as long as you didn't have any sort of mask concealing your identity.
Closeby there's a park. If time wasn't standing still, or close, and light and sound with it, you'd hear the joy and laughter of children, and the indifference of youths. The patience and near-silent desperation of adults, the fatigue of young adults (or is it the other way around?).
But right in front of her, there is nothing. And it's not as if in those two seconds she can see her future, and into her past, pinpointing the series of bad decisions that have led her hear and will certainly take her through worse paths after they're done in this particular scenario. She is not just now realizing that maybe she ought to have been more alert on Career Day, as to not end up right here, right now.
In front of her, there is literally nothing.
She rewinds to the last night as she reviewed the plan and hasty sketches in all sorts of mixed media. Practicing with house furniture, having it timed until the optimal amount of seconds was achieved. He watched her, he listened, he didn't say much but she didn't take notice because his part was rather small. Hers would be the biggest wrongdoings. She just gave him the map and traced the route onto freedom that would soon follow. A place where the sum of their mistakes wouldn't matter anymore.
It was a plan, her plan for both of them, which in turn made it their plan.
But now, in front of her, there is nothing. No incognito blue, chromed, on a set of nonchalant four wheels.
Her partner in crime is nowhere to be found.
And she just stands there, motionless, caught entirely by surprise, denying that the one thing she didn't think would go wrong, has indeed gone wrong.
She drops the bag on the ground and kneels. This is not how it goes. It had always been for the two of them.
And eventually, as the sound of sirens grow near, shouting blue and red and disapproval, all she can think about is how long it has been since she the last time she was kissed, or even held. If she had held hostages, they would have had it better than she had.
When they point their own guns at her and force her head onto the concrete, she can picture him, apologizing, just apologizing, unable to say anything other than "sorry" or "I'm sorry". And she starts crying.
So maybe it wasn't the perfect second date.
It's a lot messier than she ever thought it would be, she probably doesn't look half as fierce holding a gun as she imagined herself, or even as when she practiced, curtains drawn, against the mirror. She had tried a smirk, she had tried a subtle pout, but now she settles for paranoia and panic.
She keeps correcting her stance. Testing more aggressive tones as she shouts out orders. If only people weren't so distracted with staying alive, they'd sense her fear, counter attack.
But they don't. They just want it to end, as bad as she does. Soon, they're handing her the bag. She could say something witty, but doesn't. She just walks backwards, changing targets nervously as she goes, trying to predict who wants to hurt her the most.
The next couple of seconds last a lifetime.
Outside, the world is peaceful - it kept running while all this was happening, before coming to a halt, now and just now. The trees sway gently to a summery breeze that you could enjoy just as long as you didn't have any sort of mask concealing your identity.
Closeby there's a park. If time wasn't standing still, or close, and light and sound with it, you'd hear the joy and laughter of children, and the indifference of youths. The patience and near-silent desperation of adults, the fatigue of young adults (or is it the other way around?).
But right in front of her, there is nothing. And it's not as if in those two seconds she can see her future, and into her past, pinpointing the series of bad decisions that have led her hear and will certainly take her through worse paths after they're done in this particular scenario. She is not just now realizing that maybe she ought to have been more alert on Career Day, as to not end up right here, right now.
In front of her, there is literally nothing.
She rewinds to the last night as she reviewed the plan and hasty sketches in all sorts of mixed media. Practicing with house furniture, having it timed until the optimal amount of seconds was achieved. He watched her, he listened, he didn't say much but she didn't take notice because his part was rather small. Hers would be the biggest wrongdoings. She just gave him the map and traced the route onto freedom that would soon follow. A place where the sum of their mistakes wouldn't matter anymore.
It was a plan, her plan for both of them, which in turn made it their plan.
But now, in front of her, there is nothing. No incognito blue, chromed, on a set of nonchalant four wheels.
Her partner in crime is nowhere to be found.
And she just stands there, motionless, caught entirely by surprise, denying that the one thing she didn't think would go wrong, has indeed gone wrong.
She drops the bag on the ground and kneels. This is not how it goes. It had always been for the two of them.
And eventually, as the sound of sirens grow near, shouting blue and red and disapproval, all she can think about is how long it has been since she the last time she was kissed, or even held. If she had held hostages, they would have had it better than she had.
When they point their own guns at her and force her head onto the concrete, she can picture him, apologizing, just apologizing, unable to say anything other than "sorry" or "I'm sorry". And she starts crying.
So maybe it wasn't the perfect second date.