The rain was relentless, an angry downpour that rattled against the windows of the apartment building. The street number, 1B-B, was barely visible through the curtain of water. Swaaaaaa went the rain, a constant white noise that did little to soothe the tension inside. A stark warning filled the screen: "THIS EPISODE CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE THAT MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME VIEWERS. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED."
I sat at my desk, my back to the door, the gray light of the room making everything feel heavy. A computer monitor stared blankly back at me. On the desk, two items lay in sharp contrast: a "MILITARY CONSCRIPTION MEDICAL EXAMINATION NOTICE," a stark white document signifying an uncertain future, and a book of "Poems by Charles Pierre Baudelaire," a small comfort in a world of harsh reality. I picked up some papers, the edges worn from too much handling. I was thinking. Planning. I reached out and tapped the wooden surface of a drawer-thunk-a sound too loud in the quiet room.
Then, the confrontation began. A man stood before me, his eyes hard and demanding.
"So, where's the money?" he asked.
I looked at him, my expression unreadable. I had no illusions about this man; he was dangerous, and this was not a friendly visit.
He leaned in, his voice low and threatening. "Give it to me. In cash. This won't end well for you if it turns out that you were lying."
I took a breath, the moment of hesitation brief but necessary. "Oh... right, the money. I'll give it to you," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. I didn't have the money, not in the way he wanted. But I had something else.
I felt a sudden, sharp memory: the image of a younger me, my eyes wide with fear, hands covering my head, curled on the floor, while another hand, presumably the man's, was raised above me. A long-ago wound, never truly healed.
But my mind was already moving past the trauma and back to the present. I offered him a way out, or perhaps, a way in. I reached for the item I had. "It's the beanie the stalker was wearing," I explained, holding up the dark fabric. "I took it last night."
The man looked at me, suspicion warring with greed. I pushed the item, and a dark, worn backpack, toward him. He looked down at my feet.
"It's all yours..." I began, trailing off as I realized the full cost of what I was offering.
I was lying on a makeshift bed, pressed against the floor, a blanket covering my legs. The man loomed over me. His shadow covered my face. My hand, small and pale, reached out, gripping a handful of my clothes. The air was thick with the rain and the silence.
"...but..." I whispered, "...if you want it..." My other hand reached out and touched his, a gesture of submission, or perhaps, a final, desperate bargain.
The man's face contorted in a sneer. "I really want to slap this b*tch," he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowed at me. Then, louder, venom dripping from every word, he accused, "What are you playing at? Did you put rat poison on the hat or something?" He was trying to rattle me, to break my composure, but I held firm.
I held up the sports bag, my expression blank. "I got it just for you, Dad. Will you put it on for me?" My words were a provocation, a challenge to his authority, to the role he thought he held over me. I continued, "I'll give you the bag as soon as you put it on." My gaze was direct, unwavering.
His anger flared. "What the hell are you talking about...? Quit f**king around and give me the bag." His voice was rough, his patience clearly wearing thin.
I simply looked at him, my eyes wide and innocent, a slight smirk playing on my lips. My long dark hair framed my face, my composure a stark contrast to his rising fury.
He threw his hands up in frustration, messing up his own hair. "There. Are you happy now?" he demanded, sarcasm lacing his tone. "Now give me the damn bag while I ask nicely."
I still didn't budge. My eyes flickered, noticing the dark beanie lying on the floor, where he must have dropped it. Flop it went as it landed.
"Go on. Put it on. It's not that hard," I urged, my voice soft but firm. "It's raining hard outside. It's better than getting your hair all wet, right?" My reasoning was sound, logical, yet beneath it lay a layer of manipulation that he hadn't yet grasped.
He glared at me, his gaze fixed on my face, searching for a tell, a sign of weakness.
My eyes, however, showed only a calm resolve.
He finally bent down, a reluctant concession. Ha... he scoffed, picking up the dark beanie. He pulled it on, a black shadow covering his head.
Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he threw the bag onto the ground. Thud! it hit the floor, the sound echoing in the room. He knelt, fumbling with the zipper. Ziiip! The sound tore through the quiet, his hands rummaging inside. "You think you're the sh*t, don't you? You're just like your mother..." he snarled, his words laced with old bitterness, old wounds. He rummaged further, clearly searching for something specific, something that wasn't there.
I watched him, my expression unreadable. "Wake up, kid," I said, a slight tilt to my head. "You don't always get what you want in life. The world doesn't work like that, you know. No one can predict the future." My words were a chilling prophecy, a warning he was too consumed by his own rage to heed.
The air in the room was thick with unspoken rage and the drumming of the relentless rain outside-Swaaaaaa. My composure was a thin shield, but a necessary one.
The man, my father, had finally pulled the black beanie onto his head. It was a victory, small but significant, in the twisted negotiation for the bag. But his fury was a live wire. He threw the sports bag down-Thud!-then knelt and tore open the zipper-Ziiip!-his hands clawing through the contents.
"You think you're the sh*t, don't you? You're just like your mother..." he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
I watched him. "Wake up, kid," I said, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk touching my lips. "You don't always get what you want in life. The world doesn't work like that, you know. No one can predict the future." I knew exactly what was about to happen.
His rummaging stopped. He pulled his hands out, his eyes wide with a realization that was quickly turning to betrayal. The bag wasn't filled with cash, but with crumpled newspaper. Ha...! he gasped, a hollow, disbelieving sound. He stared at the pieces of newspaper, his eyes darting. "What's this...?"
His gaze snapped up to mine, his face a mask of shock and explosive anger. He was breathing hard.
"You think this is funny, you f**king btch? Am I a joke to you?!!" he screamed, his voice cracking with outrage.
I met his eyes, my own unwavering, but there was a flicker of something new-the barest hint of triumph.
"The thing is... giving you the money isn't that hard," I said, leaning in conspiratorially. "But I really need you to stick around for something special tonight, Dad. I bet you really want to kill me right now..." I trailed off, watching the veins pop on his neck.
Then, the explosion. He grabbed the bag and swung it violently. Slam! The bag struck my face, scattering the paper stuffing in a frantic, fluttering cascade.
"HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TRICK ME WITH THIS BULLSH*T!!!" he roared, his face a contorted blur of red and rage. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my cheek, which was already stinging. The impact hadn't broken my composure, only hardened it.
I looked at him, my voice calm despite the throbbing pain. "Did you really think I'd just hand you that kind of money... when I know you'd just take it and run?"
He didn't answer with words. His arm shot out, delivering a brutal, open-handed blow to my face-SLAP! The force sent my head snapping back.
"DIE!!!" he screamed, the sound raw and inhuman. "THAT'S RIGHT! DIE, B*TCH!!!"
As he continued his frenzied attack, the world seemed to slow. I had one clear thought: I reached down and discreetly pressed the phone in my hand, initiating a call. I glanced up at him, my eye already bruised, and the faintest smile returned.
Now I just have to hold out for at least 15 to 20 minutes.
The rain outside intensified, a violent chorus to the scene unfolding inside, but I didn't hear it. My focus was only on the seconds ticking by, waiting for the relief I knew was coming, while somewhere else, in a warmly lit room, a group of people were laughing and shouting over drinks: "Oh, come on! Yeah! If you made the toast, you gotta finish your drink! Go on, bottoms up!"
My countdown had begun.
In the dimly lit room, the man who had been my tormentor suddenly recoiled. A loud BEEP BEEP pierced the silence, coming from the black beanie now resting on his head. His eyes, wide with a mixture of confusion and fear, darted around, searching for the source of the noise.
Meanwhile, at the Nojung District Baseball Club Good Swings August Meeting, a man was sitting among friends, a glass of water in front of him. He was smiling, trying to decline another drink. "Oh, I drove here today so I can't drink... Can we make an exception to the rule just for today?" he pleaded, the festive atmosphere a stark contrast to the violence I was enduring. The sounds of chatter and music filled the background.
His phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up. "Hey, I."
Suddenly, the tone changed. My voice, recorded on the pre-dialed call, crackled urgently through his speaker. CRASH!! He shot up from his seat, his face contorting in panic. "HELLO? I?! GET OUT! I'LL CALL THE POLICE!!!" he shouted into the phone, clearly reacting to the sounds of struggle and my pre-recorded distress.
Back in my apartment, my father, momentarily distracted by the beeping alarm in the beanie, heard the man's frantic shouts over the phone. He smiled, a dark, menacing grin. "Oh, you wanna call the police? Go ahead. Call 'em. Just remember... you won't walk out of here alive if you do. I'M GOING TO DRAG YOU TO HELL WITH ME!!!" he screamed into the phone, a guttural AAAAHHHHH! tearing from his throat, his eyes wide with a terrifying, homicidal rage.
The Rushed Drive
The call ended abruptly, the other man's voice swallowed by the chaos.
The friend, fueled by fear and adrenaline, grabbed his things. His baseball bat, long and white, was the first thing his hands found. He slung a bag over his shoulder.
He ran out into the torrential rain, pulling up a cheap umbrella. DASH he sprinted towards his car, the white shoes disappearing beneath the downpour. The rain was a solid curtain, and he was running, running, running.
He PAUSED, his foot hovering over a deep puddle, his mind racing. He was close, but the image of my terrified voice on the phone spurred him onward.
He reached his white sports car. He threw the baseball bat onto the back seat. SQUEAAAK, the door handle protesting as he wrenched it open and dove inside. He slammed the gas pedal-VROOOOOOOM-the car peeling out onto the wet street. A DO NOT ENTER sign flashed past his window, the white lettering a grim warning on a ONE WAY street he was now driving the wrong way down.
The Desperate Act
His mind kept replaying my words from the call. "When I got here and tried to open the door, the stalker came at me with a knife and--"
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The memory of my panic was vivid. "He had a knife?? Did you call the police?!" he yelled to himself, his voice thick with fear and frustration.
He remembered a detail I had mentioned before: "She mentioned that the stalker had a knife before..." He knew the danger was real.
He stopped the car. He didn't have time to wait for the police. He grabbed a small, dark bottle he kept in the car-an oily, viscous liquid. Opening his umbrella with one hand, he raised the bottle with the other.
DAMN IT...! he cursed, looking up at the rain. He unscrewed the cap and deliberately poured the liquid onto his car's rear license plate, the stream hitting the metal with a CLUNK and quickly washing away in the rain. The entire process took only a moment. He was destroying evidence of his vehicle, sacrificing his anonymity to gain time and cover his tracks for the dangerous, perhaps illegal, confrontation he was rushing into. He then calmly walked away from the car, his eyes set on my apartment building, the umbrella shielding him from the cold, violent rain.
The violent outburst from my father had left me reeling, a fresh wave of stinging pain spreading across my bruised cheek. I was on the floor, my hands instinctively raised in defense as he loomed over me. Blood splattered faintly on the floor around my head.
He pressed the sole of his boot onto my arm, his weight digging in. "Well, there's a limit to how much I'm willing to overlook. You know that?" he sneered, grinding his heel into my flesh. SQUISH. A cry of pure, agonizing pain was ripped from my throat-AAAHHH!!!
He lifted his foot and then brought it down again, aiming for my hand. CRUSH.
"You like playing with people, huh?" he hissed, the sheer force making me gasp for air-URRGGHH... He drove his boot down one more time, making a terrible sound against my bones. POW.
He stepped back, surveying his work with a sickening smile. "You never listen to Daddy... so I have no choice but to teach you a lesson." His eyes, wide and crazed beneath the black beanie, gleamed with malicious satisfaction. "I bet you'll become a good little girl if I break your wrist and all your fingers. Right?"
I was curled on the floor, a miserable heap, the pain blinding and all-consuming. AARGGGHHH!!! The tears were hot trails through the grime and blood on my face, but even through the haze of agony, my eyes, though wide and desperate, held a terrifying secret.
He leaned in, his voice a mocking whisper. "Wow, look at you! You're so well-behaved already." He didn't see the tiny spark of defiance in my gaze. I looked past him, towards the door, whispering a vow he couldn't hear. You have no idea what's about to happen to you, you bastard...!!
The Disturbance
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the SWA-A-A-A of the rain-a faint, desperate SQUEAAAK as someone outside forced open the rusted apartment door.
My father froze, his head cocking to the side, his attention finally diverted from his brutal game.
Then, the sound of heavy footsteps on the threshold. My rescuer had arrived.
The man stood in the doorway, the rain dripping from the brim of his coat and the umbrella he'd just folded. DRIP. He was breathing heavily, his eyes immediately assessing the scene of violence. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at the black beanie on my father's head. Beanie... he thought, his face tightening with grim realization.
He gripped the white, weighted end of the baseball bat he carried. The bat, dripping rainwater onto the floor, was raised.
He didn't waste a single second on words or pleas.
"HEY... YOU FKING CREEP..."*
My father spun around, his face a mixture of surprise and instant fury at the interruption.
"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HER!!!" the man roared, swinging the bat in a wide, powerful arc.
WHOOOSH went the sound of the bat slicing through the air, the wind it created a silent promise of retribution. My time of holding out was finally over.