You Owe
It’s raining in the alley and she’s running. The broken heel on her left pump is making her gait all lopsided and she’s getting more and more off balance with each panicked long-legged step. The cobblestones are leaping up and kicking the bottom of her shoes unevenly and her shoes don’t have any grip. They’re the shoes she wears in the restaurant. Her feet skitter and tangle and she’s down hard, slamming into the wet night-time stone with a shallow splash. She hurts her wrist. Her purse spills. Her wet hair splays down to kiss the ground like a whip and slaps the concrete. She’s sobbing. There’s a keening coming from her that she can’t control. She knows the end is near but like most people, she begs anyway. Under her breath, to herself, a litany of pleases. She’s never been this scared. She is a hunted animal. The human in her is fading. Her language is reduced to repeated syllables. She can feel herself becoming Prey.
She can see a night time street not ten feet away. A person walks past the opening in front of the theater lights from across the street. She can’t scream. She knows she’ll feel something grab her ankle and pull her backwards at any moment. She can only beg the night behind her for mercy.
It’s fresh out.
There’s a scrape on the pavement.
With strength she didn’t know she had she flips over onto her back and looks back into the gloom of the dead end.
There’s a horsebeat footstep clump and a snort. There’s also a jangle of chains. Two points of light like reflections off of cutlery dance in unison in the darkness. The dead end of the alley might as well be miles underground. There’s a blackness there that is total. Like an ashcloud. Like the end of a movie’s credits. Like the bottom of a well. This is a darkness a blind person could sense.
Tendrils of it creep forward, amplifying the shadows and then making them bleed together, pushing obscenely into this reality.
She made a deal. She has not held up her part of the deal.
More time. All that she needs is a little more time.
She’s not going to get it.
This is an Agent sent to this plane to collect the debt in case of forfeit. She turns white and freezes in horror. Slowly, horribly slowly, a tendril of the darkness caresses her ankle, getting a good grip. It tenses.
Her scream is still a whisper as she’s dragged into the dark. The sounds of her half hearted struggles mix in with the rain around her.
All that’s left in the alley is a soggy purse that will make some lucky soul thirty six dollars richer.
The blackness retreats, coalesces, and closes with a small pop.
The streetlight in the alley stutters and comes back on.
toe
She can see a night time street not ten feet away. A person walks past the opening in front of the theater lights from across the street. She can’t scream. She knows she’ll feel something grab her ankle and pull her backwards at any moment. She can only beg the night behind her for mercy.
It’s fresh out.
There’s a scrape on the pavement.
With strength she didn’t know she had she flips over onto her back and looks back into the gloom of the dead end.
There’s a horsebeat footstep clump and a snort. There’s also a jangle of chains. Two points of light like reflections off of cutlery dance in unison in the darkness. The dead end of the alley might as well be miles underground. There’s a blackness there that is total. Like an ashcloud. Like the end of a movie’s credits. Like the bottom of a well. This is a darkness a blind person could sense.
Tendrils of it creep forward, amplifying the shadows and then making them bleed together, pushing obscenely into this reality.
She made a deal. She has not held up her part of the deal.
More time. All that she needs is a little more time.
She’s not going to get it.
This is an Agent sent to this plane to collect the debt in case of forfeit. She turns white and freezes in horror. Slowly, horribly slowly, a tendril of the darkness caresses her ankle, getting a good grip. It tenses.
Her scream is still a whisper as she’s dragged into the dark. The sounds of her half hearted struggles mix in with the rain around her.
All that’s left in the alley is a soggy purse that will make some lucky soul thirty six dollars richer.
The blackness retreats, coalesces, and closes with a small pop.
The streetlight in the alley stutters and comes back on.
toe