He’s tall with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes and a mouth twisted into a sneer. But most of all, I notice the sharp blade.
A knife.
The man has a knife, and he’s pulled it on me as he blocks my passage forward.
“You,” he grunts. “Scream and I will gut you like a fish.”
8.Monroe
I’ve beena teacher at Suyeong Academy for well over two years and not once have I ever felt unsafe.
So it’s a huge shock when I come face-to-face with some random guy clutching a knife, telling me not to scream or he’ll gut me. His bloodshot eyes and twitchy mannerisms seem to suggest he’s not in a mental state to be reasoned with.
But… what other option do I have except to try?
I squash down the instinctual fear churning inside me and force my voice to stay calm and even. The last thing I need to do right now is panic.
“You don’t have to hurt me,” I say, slowly raising my hands up. “You don’t have to do anything bad. You can walk away right now and I won’t tell anyone. We can pretend this never happened.”
The man grunts out a harsh laugh. “Take off your jewelry. Put it on the ground.”
“Please, if you just?—”
“Do it!”
He’s not playing around. He’s obviously serious.
My hands tremble as I reach for my earrings—smalldiamond studs that were a gift from Mom a couple years back. I unpin them one at a time and set them on the dirty pebbled floor at my feet. Next comes the tennis bracelet. Jin gave it to me for my birthday, a delicate chain of diamonds that sparkle and shine in any light and that I’ve worn almost every day since. I unclasp it and add it to the small pile, my heart aching as I watch it touch the grime.
“The ring too,” the man says, jerking his chin toward my left hand. “That big, fat rock.”
My engagement ring.
One of my most prized and sentimental possessions.
Jin had been so endearingly nervous (for once) when he’d asked me to marry him and slipped the ring onto my finger. We were seated on the hood of his car on Hwangnyeongsan Mountain, overlooking all of Busan.
It was beautiful and romantic, and a moment I’ll never forget.
“Please,” I plead. “Not this one. It’s my engagement ring. It means everything to me.”
“I don’t give a shit what it means. Take it off.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing. The ring is snug on my finger—my hands and feet have slightly been swelling, one of the many joys of pregnancy—so I decide to use that to my advantage.
“I’m trying,” I say, tugging at it with exaggerated effort. “My fingers are swollen. I’m pregnant. My fiancé and I are expecting.”
He gives no reaction either way, clearly not giving a damn. But I go on anyway, desperate to stall in any way I can.
“My fiancé is a very important man,” I continue. “A very dangerous man. If anything happens to me?—”
“Five seconds,” the mugger cuts in, his patience spent. “Get the fucking ring off, or I run you through.”
My stomach drops. He seriously means it. I can see it in his bloodshot eyes.
I start working the ring off my finger, twisting and pulling, when a sharp cramp seizes my abdomen.
…or at least, that’s what I want him to think.
