Deadline Dared

Eleven: False Senses

Beep Beep Beep

I hear the unmistakeable sound of an alarm clock and i thrust my eyes open. It's dark, but i can just about make out my surroundings, i'm in a bedroom. My bedroom? I sit up slowly and notice my arms are no longer bound, nor am i gagged or naked. I look around as my eyes adjust to the light and realise I AM in my bedroom. Wearing my simple white satin pyjamas tucked carefully underneath the down feather duvet.

Memories about the past month come flooding back. The rape, the hospital, the confessions. Oh got the confession. I told him. Fuck.

I whip my head towards the source of the beeping and see the familiar dainty black clock with bright green numbers flashing on it. 8am. I'm late for work. But where is Mordecai? I look over to his side and see a not on the pillow my heart sinks. Then I am filled with relief as I read it.

I left for work at 7. I was going to wake you but you looked so cosy, so I let you sleep. I called your office and said you weren't feeling to well so you may be late. Love you lots, M.

10:00am

I waltz in through the sliding glass doors and warmly smile at my receptionist as I make my way to the office. As i'm about to open the door i hear a bang and screaming from behind. I sharply turn around and see a man, masked and fully dressed, head to toe, in black. Which contrasts violently against the snow white floors and baby blue walls of the  Boston Human Behavioural Studies Centre (BHBSC) where i work.

In his hand gripped tightly is a 9mm pistol, smoking barrel. I see the pool of crimson seeping in from behind the wall and i drop my brief case. With that he cocks his head towards me then slowly his body.

What the hell is happening??

I hear a click as my associates open their office doors to find put what the commotion is about, right as one door flings open, he pulls the trigger.

I duck, but it was useless as the bullet slammed into my office door, getting stuck. Thank god for reinforced doors.

I look at the bullet in the door then slowly back to him. But like a phantom in daylight, he was gone. Perhaps he thought he had shot me? No it was obvious he hadn't.

I kick of my shoes and hastily make my way back down the corridor as panic begins to take over the BHBSC, part of me hopes i catch him so that i can sock him right in the nuts, another part hopes he got away so that i don't have to deal with him.

I stop dead in my tracks as i am about to pass the front desk. Slumped on the floor, blood viciously pooling out of the hole in her skull, was my receptionist. I clasp my hands around my mouth and look up to see the paramedics rushing in and the police tackling the man in black.

A hand warm rests itself on my apparent cold shoulder. I turn around and see John, who works in the Neuroscience department. He swings his arm around and hugs me.

"The shot wasn't critical, they'll be able to save her. Don't worry." He whispers onto the top of my head.

"I hope so." I say between muffled tears that i had unknowingly shead.

"Mrs Doyle?" A deep voice from behind beckons.

I turn again and this time i am face to face with an officer. He has broad shoulders and dark stubble which compliments his caramel skin perfectly. His hair is thick and curly and he towers above me as he speaks.

"I'm Detective French. We need you to come into the station for your suspected involvement in the attempted murder of Ms Christy Gale." He says with a stern yet light voice. Showing no obvious signs of emotion, as though he has said this phrase so many times it's become a ritual.

I nod my head and slither out of John's grip. And follow as the officer guides me out the doors into the back of his black jeep.