A study in description.
The presence of the object against my throat was cold, hard, and unwelcoming. The same demeanor as the person holding it, which led me to believe that the persons mind was just sharp, pointy things, all jumbling around, and sometimes producing coherent thoughts. Logical thoughts? No. Merely coherent.
"Move and I'll fucking cut your throat."
Same thing emenating from the voice -- cold, hard, unwelcoming, and with an edge as sharp as the day is long. And, really, like I was going to just start walking off to brew a pot of tea or watch the telly. Get a mind and get back to me later. If only it was that simple. He's the one with the power in this situation. I'm just the lowly victim, whimpering under the hand placed across my mouth, and shivering with fear.
"Lead me to the money."
He breathes it into my ear, and I can feel goosebumps start to roll from the tips of my ears, and down to my toes. Wait -- what money?
I try to voice my thoughts on this 'money' business, but just as the word 'pardon' leaves my lips in a screechy, nervous, stuttery voice, his hand clamps down harder and I can feel my gums rubbing against my teeth.
"Just show me where the fucking money is, you prick!"
I take a wild guess, scared of the harm that might befall me if we just stand here in the hallway, as if waiting for a bus to arrive. I walk towards my study. I can hear his footsteps falling behind me.
Right, left Right, left Right, left Pause
I cautiously bring my right arm up, my hand shaking as it grasps the cool metal of the doorknob. My antagonistic friend doesn't make true on his promise that he'll cut my throat if I move, as I am moving right now as I'm turning the doorknob and leading the man into my quaint study. But I decided to keep that to myself.
"...Now what? Where's the fucking money?"
My mind races wildly, what money is he talking about? I have no job, how can I have money! Does mum have money? Why wouldn't she tell me? Supposing she did, anyway. My eyes dart around the room, my desk, a small bowl half filled with chips, a notebook with the word 'Bullock' printed on it, my bookshelves, my books, a lamp... Why can't any of these things be money?
The pressure increases against my neck, the coldness more prominent now, and out of the corner of my eye I can read
Cuisinart Stainless Steel
Printed along the edge.
"Just give me the godamn money, and I won't kill you."
He prods, and I lift up a finger, shutting my eyes closed tight so I didn't have to see where it was that I pointed.
Okay, well, now I have to open my eyes. It turns out I ended up pointing at a small file cabinet that lie behind my desk. Shit. There's no money in there. Nevertheless, I walk over as I start to feel his breath become more quick and agitated against my ear.
A small creak as it opens, and I wince, seeing only a single folder, filled with pictures from year ten.
A low growl, and a sharp pain. A pain like I've never felt before. It's sudden, and as sharp as the kitchen knife that's causing it. It's hard to describe, And I have no time to describe it. My vision grows black.
Blood on the carpet.
How did that...