He stumbles back, but with one hand covering his eye that has the toothbrush lodged in it, he grasps wildly for the dresser, trying to get the gun, I conclude. Using the chair to keep space between us, I reach for the gun myself.
I’ve never held a gun in my life. It’s heavier than I thought, so I brace it with both hands.
“Don’t come near me!” I yell, holding the gun out in front of me.
The most evil laugh I’ve ever heard topples from his lips.
“You won’t shoot me,” he says.
My gaze moves from him to the gun. From the television shows and movies, I gather that this is the type of gun that I have to pull the metal clicky thing backwards, so I do.
“Don’t!” I yell when the son of a bitch takes a daring step at me.
“Stupid bitch! You’re ruining everything!”
All I see is him coming at me. The baby in my belly starts moving, and I know I have to protect it.
“Stay away!” I yell at the same time I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
The loud explosion is closely followed by a ringing in my ears. Then there’s silence. Save for the pounding in my chest.
Slowly, I peel one eye open, followed by the second.
The man is laying in the middle of the floor, his chest rising and falling in a way that I doubt any human can sustain for long. A pool of blood begins to trickle from underneath him.
The gun falls from my hands as my entire body starts to tremble.
I fall to my knees as another wave of pain hits me, making me cry out. I force myself to breathe through it. I must call for help.
I search around for a cell phone. I think of approaching the man, lying in his own blood, but I can’t bear getting that close to him, seeing him like that.
He’s left his cell phone out right next to where he’d left the gun.
It takesme three tries to get the phone to turn on because my fingers shake so badly. I dial the number of the only person I want to talk to right now.
“Who is this?” Travis barks, answering the phone.
Tears flood my eyes.
“Tr-Travis,” I gasp out as another contraction rips through the lower half of my body.
“Alyssia? Baby? Is it you? Please, tell me it’s really you?”
I sniffle and wipe my tears away, glancing over at the now eerily still body at the center of the room.
I inhale and rise to my feet, supporting my weight on the dresser.
“It’s me. I, uh, I have to tell you something.”
“Where are you? We’re?—”
“I’m claustrophobic,” I blurt out.
“What?”
“The first time we met, when you asked on the elevator and I said no, I was just scared of tight, confined spaces. The truthreally is that I’m claustrophobic,” I say, not even understanding the words coming out of my own mouth.
But it feels perilous to omit this crucial detail about me.
