A spark of inspiration and we have something other than a poem. Grab a cup of whatever you’d like, curl up with your device of choice and enjoy this short story I concocted recently. It’s rough so leave any suggestions in the form of a comment in the designated fields. Enjoy!
“Katie…” Her name was sucked into the silence. She was too lost to hear John say her name.
John kept his eyes on her. Her head tilted down, her eyes were glassed over like the surface of an undisturbed lake, where the thoughts were lost in the shadowy world below. And below the words of her attacker swirled around and around, echoing with a subtle ferocity: “You’re not melting yet. I guess I need to touch you some more.”
John reached out his hand to hers. His finger tip grazed her knuckle. She jolted away, against the car door. “I’m,” he paused, “I’m sorry, Katie.”
Katie relaxed. The feeling of imminent danger faded. John appeared in the seat besides her with a wrung look on his face. Her bottom lip quivered a little. She dammed the tears. Without any words, Katie sunk back into her seat and resumed a pensive posture.
The silence was interrupted by the clack and crunch of a troop of shoes crossing the parking lot. They looked up and saw him bound and dragged by campus security. Kevin seemed to be tamed at the moment. He had been fierce and forceful in his protests earlier. Then he spotted them, safe in their car, and he lost control again.
“Kaite!” he shouted over and over. He began to fight the officers’ grip, trying to wretch himself free. “Kaite!”
John felt Katie’s arm slid in around his. She drew herself into him seeking protection. John stared at the wild capering prisoner, this rapist who plead for understanding from his prey. Kevin glared at the pair of them through the windshield as the officers struggled to keep him detained. They forced him farther down the parking lot aisle to a car that waited to take him to jail.
As John watched Kevin fight hopelessly to free himself, an idea sprang up in his head. John stuck a hand in the pocket of his coat. They were still there: tiny beakers from the lab. They were fragile and valuable. And he thought: why not? I don’t see any room for guilt here.
He looked up from his ponderings. The campus police officers were struggling to get Kevin into the back of the car. The trunk was open and they were wrestling Kevin into it. Then it seemed perfectly plausible. John took his arm away from Katie, who was lost in her own thoughts again. He calmly walked down the parking aisle. The cruiser filled up his field of vision as he took each step. One officer had Kevin partly into the trunk. Kevin’s limbs were flailing about. John dipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers locked in on one of five tiny beakers. He drew it out. He stopped three yards from the car. He was ignored by everyone, even Kevin, who continued to fight. John thought how useless it was.
John kept his eyes on Kevin. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the beaker went sailing toward the open trunk. It landed. It burst against Kevin’s forehead. John walked away to the sounds of Kevin’s cries. A clear liquid began to seep across his face and into Kevin’s eyes. John heard the police scramble away. He heard them radio for EMT’s.
There was one officer who had fallen into the trunk with Kevin. He moved to extract himself when it happened. The cop moved against the fuzzy lining of the trunk. The movement produced a single charge of static electricity. A spark leapt from his uniform, undetected. It connected with the clear liquid dripping from Kevin’s skin. It ignited. There was a woosh as the flamed sucked up oxygen. The flames danced about Kevin’s face before finding his clothes. The cops scurried away.
They were radioing for fire engines now. None of them had taken notice of John, who calmly started his car and drove away with Katie, who hadn’t noticed anything at all, except that the voice of her attacker grew more distant and more impotent.