knocking

The terror was profound. There was no time for her heart to even race. She was just in shock. He held a gun to her face. She had knocked on the door, expecting to see his smiling face like she did every morning. The tousled hair. The dimples. The lopsided smile. The eyes, smiling with benevolence and wisdom. The wrinkles all about his face. His hands, which she had always admired. So delicate, even in age. Decades of drawing. Of painting. Of writing. Of inspiring and changing lives through his chosen medium/media. He was soft spoken. Would always greet her with a smile that felt like it was reserved for her. Warm. Affectionate. Fatherly. Followed by asking about her. And not that fake kind either, the one that people do. No, not that. He would genuinely want to know l. And now, there was this. The gun was held squarely in her face. It was not shaking. She had held a gun once, it had been cold, impersonal, and heavy. His gun looked odd in his hands. This was not the weapon she expected to see there. A pen instead of a sword. A brush instead of a mace. Not this.

She winced. Fell back. Into a wall. There was someone behind her. His arms creeping around her. Mind you, all of this happened in a matter of mere seconds. Arms creeping around her. Hands coming to rest on top of her growing breasts. She shuddered as the cold hands went down, and under and up her shirt. Coming back to her breasts. Beginning to squeeze. In front of her was the cold, hard gun. Behind her was the owner of those cold, soft hands.

It began to squeeze. The gun pointed straight at her. Holding her still. Frozen. Motionless. She winced. It hurt. She was terrified. It did not quiver. Or shake. She expected the hand to get tired. Now, it had been some time. The hand would not tire. It was as if it were held up, as if this were not air it was floating motionless in, but as if it were resting on a table. She looked into the barrel of the gun, her eyes hurting. Wondering how it would feel. Would she even know? The shock was replaced not by confusion, but by an acceptance. A removed acceptance. She wasn’t disoriented. She was fully present. Somehow this was what she had needed. She looked into the barrel, she looked into his eyes. Not pleading. Not begging. Accepting. They had been friends once. Of a sort. The hands behind her continued to fondle her. The body behind her moved closer. It was now touching her. She could feel a bulge poking at her. Two layers of clothes in between, hers and his. But it was there. Chills crept up her spine. Anger. She would die, but she wondered if she could scratch the dick off the man behind her. Click. Bang. She opened her eyes. There was some smoke rising from the gun. Thud. The man behind her fell to the ground.