Present Distress by Sarah Ashwood (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) “Will you stop watching that clock? You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” She turned to look at him, her gaze a disconcerting mix of fear and sympathy. Why did she keep staring at him like that? An hour ago, he’d burst in on her, waving his gun, screaming at her to get over on the couch, shut up, and not move. Though terrified, she’d meekly obeyed. Ever since, she’d sat there silent and pale: no stupid questions, no threatening to call the cops. “Anybody else live here?” he’d demanded twenty minutes into it. He felt jumpy; the silence grated on his overwrought nerves. “My parents and sister.” Her voice was low, soft. Judging from the photos and religious paraphernalia scattered about, he guessed her daddy was a preacher. “They’re off doing nursing home visits. I—I had college homework due, so I stayed home.” “Nursing home visits,” he’d sneered. “What kind of idiots visit geezers in the nursing home? Who cares?” She shrugged. “It never hurts to care about other people, even strangers.” He’d stared incredulously. Where did people like her come from? She was like nobody from his section of town—the whores, gangs members, drug addicts, drunkards. She wasn’t like him: an ex-con on the lam, using her home as a temporary hideout ‘til Marlene could get here and pick him up. She glanced at the clock. “Hey,” he snapped, “thought I told you to quit doing that.” “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a cake in the oven. It needs to come out. Would you mind?” He was holding her at gunpoint, and she wanted to take a cake out the oven? Despite his incredulity, he could see no reason to refuse her. “Fine. But remember, I can see you through the doorway. Don’t try anything stupid.” “No,” she replied simply and got up. He watched her the entire time. She snapped on the radio and sang along with Carrie Underwood’s, Jesus Take the Wheel. Irritated, he ground his teeth. She had a nice voice; he bet she sang in the church choir. She came back bearing a piece of cake, a fork, and a mug of coffee. He was holding her at gunpoint and she was hungry? “Here,” she said, placing all items on the coffee table. “I hope you like chocolate.” He gaped, dumbfounded, as she re-seated herself on the couch. Was she trying to make an idiot of him? Soften him up? It made him angry. Angry because it was working. Angry because she was treating him nicer than anybody ever had. Angry because he didn't deserve it, but couldn’t help craving it. Angry because he ought to be in control, but she was stronger. “What,” he said sharply, rising, stalking towards her, “do you think you’re doing? You think I want your cake and coffee? You think you can soften me up? You think you can make me do what you want?” She shrank into the couch, those silvery-blue eyes widening. “I—I didn’t mean…” “Like crap you didn’t,” he growled. He grabbed her, pushing her down. The song on the radio had changed. It was fast, sexy, exciting. “Idiot. Is this what you want? Is this what you’re trying to make me do?” She gasped, but he smothered her cry with his mouth. He ran his hands over her, tugging at her clothing. She felt good, she tasted good. He deepened the kiss, reveling in her obvious inexperience. Reveling…until he realized she was crying, scared to death. She broke away, her head rolling against the couch cushion. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please…” He was breathing hard. He wanted her; he didn’t want to stop. But suddenly…he felt ill. What was he, some kind of sick freak? An Animal? Swearing, he rolled off her. Forgetting his gun along with everything else, he fled, desperate to escape a preacher’s house and the innocent inhabitant knotting him up inside.
They told him he had a visitor. Unexpected, but with nothing better to do, he went. He ambled into the visiting room, cocky, but at the sight of the figure awaiting him, stopped cold. What was she doing here? Warily, he shuffled over. When she picked up the phone, he did, too. As before, her eyes held no judgment, no censure. “Hello,” she began in the voice that had haunted his dreams. “How are you?” He shrugged, brushing off the inquiry. “How’d you find me?” “It—it was in the paper. Sorry I couldn’t come before now.” “I didn’t expect you to come at all.” “No?” “No. Why did you? People like you don’t care about trash like me.” She smiled sadly; somehow, it made her beautiful. “People like me care about lots of things, especially the things others overlook.” His eyes flickered to the cross gleaming in the hollow of her smooth throat. He swallowed hard, hating the tears that leapt to his eyes. “Hey, it’s alright,” she whispered. She pressed a hand flat against the glass separating them. He hesitated, then did the same: the closest he could come to touching her. “I forgive you,” she said. He shook his head. “You’re an idiot. You don’t know me, or what I've done.” “I don’t need to.” “Hey, Norris, time’s up,” interrupted the guard who appeared at his elbow. “Hang up now. Miss, it’s time for you to go.” “Will you come again?” he faltered into the speaker. “Do you want me to?” How could he say that losing her would be like dying? That his entire soul hung balanced upon her response? He couldn’t, so he nodded, hoping she’d understand. She did. Her silvery eyes shone brilliantly. “I’ll come,” she promised. His heart turned over. Dare he trust the heartbreaking tenderness in her face, eyes, smile? Slowly he withdrew his hand, leaving his fingertips against the glass as long as possible. At the doorway, he turned back. She was still sitting there. Her eyes were very soft. The cross glimmered peacefully at her throat.
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