Author Topic: You Know The Type  (Read 1326 times)

You Know The Type
« on: May 08, 2013, 12:34:28 AM »

Offline CaughtByMoonlight

  • BadMoonRising
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(This story is, to me, somewhat unclassifiable... Let me know what you think!)

You know the type. Sort of mousy, sort of shy, pale, fragile. You know right away she's the one. You first spot her on the uptown bus one morning, clutching her purse tightly and watching the city streets as if afraid she will miss her stop. Right away you know she is new to the city. When she gets off the bus, you do too. Keeping track of her in the morning commuter-crowd is very easy for you. She heads into one of the steel monoliths, and you make a note to be strategically planted by 5:00pm.

You stay planted every day for a month, watching her day unfold. Her routine is unvarying. Work, out for lunch and back, and after work, a short walk to a used-book store. She has to pass by an alleyway on the way to the store; the alleyway is deep and unlit. This makes your job so much easier, even though there is usually a homeless guy slouching near the mouth of the alley most days. She drops some change into his cup. The guy's eyes follow her into the alley, but seem vacant. The crowd is thin at this hour, so there is no one else for the guy to look at.

Near the end of the month, you start feeling that little tingle. You know the feeling. The time is getting near, when you will have to do your job. You watch her leave the office and head toward the alley. You know that whatever will happen, will happen there. It's the only place.

She walks rather slowly, her purse held tight to her body until she rummages in it for change to drop. The guy mumbles something. You think for a moment that he has noticed you following her. But that isn't it. The homeless guy says something a bit louder. She freezes, fear making her still.

You are nearly ready to move in, when the guy grabs her and pulls her into the alley. She doesn't fight back, doesn't scream. But you know the type; they never do. Too scared to let anyone acknowledge their existence in this life, much less anything else. You walk slowly to the mouth of the alley.

She is whimpering now, as the guy starts tearing at her clothing. Her purse falls to the ground. She makes one ineffectual swipe at the guy's hands, but the damage is done. She is standing in simple bra and panties, the thinnish cotton summer dress like a drift of flower petals around her feet. You think about how she wears these highly-colored clothes, as if all her own color had seeped into her wardrobe.

You look at her. The guy is pawing at her breast, speaking incoherently at her. She seems immobile but for a violent trembling. Tears glisten in a glint of passing light. You want to make your move now. The guy will be no problem; he is neither big nor strong. She is simply a rabbit in hawk's claws.

Just as the guy starts to wrap his hands around her throat, you move. He can't do this. You've been watching her so closely. You are on top of the guy now; right there, tearing his hands away from her. She's fallen to the floor of the alley, skin so white against the dark dirt and the colorful tatters of dress.

You press your hand to the guy's forehead and keep pressing until he is backed against a wall. You press harder. The guy begins to fade, become translucent. One further push, and he is transparent, and disappearing into the brick.

She is looking at you, fear in her eyes.

Can she see you as you see the Messengers suddenly come to bear you away? See your golden light and theirs? Perhaps. These shy, afraid-of-living girls can because their eyes are never on the earth anyway. You know the type.