And then I ran. Now, here I was, squatting in a sparsely occupied parking garage with nothing but the clothes on my back and the panic settling in my gut. The boots echoed up the stairwell, looming over me and only worsening my anxiety. Then, the single pair of boots turned into ten pairs.
A soft susurrus of voices escaped from the doorway, still distant. Then, for a moment, all went silent. I had never been so afraid. What do I do now? I scanned the garage for a place to run, but I was utterly cornered. The stairway was the only exit.
My body felt fever-ridden. I was sweating, and my legs were far too weak to hold me up. If I weren't filled with an intense fear of getting caught, I would've hit the ground by now. I forced my weakened body towards a green Ford truck and tugged at the passenger side door. When I discovered it was locked, my stomach dropped.
New desperation began pooling through me, and I yanked the handle with growing vigor. I couldn't go to jail. I couldn't explain what had happened and I COULDN'T go to jail. Anger presented itself in the form of tears in my eyes. I never cried, and yet here I was.
My life was a shit show. It always had been, and I knew it always would be. No matter how optimistic I tried to be. Usually, I could cope just fine, but at that moment, all my pent-up frustration was too much to bear.
The next car I found was a white Honda, and in a laughable turn of fate, the door was unlocked. I chuckled bitterly to myself and dove into the back seat. I locked the doors and leaned over the passenger seat to reach the glove compartment. In there, I found a half-opened pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a bunch of documents.
Before I got to search any further, the door to the stairwell burst open. My heart exploded in my chest, and I immediately ducked down in the back seat. The thunderous sounds of boots emerged all around me as flashlights glinted off every surface. I held my breath and clasped a hand over my mouth, too afraid to do anything but sit there and wait.
The voices grew louder as the police grew nearer. They shouted to one another, and then the sound of shattering glass drew my attention away from them. The green Ford's windshield was utterly destroyed as four men in dark green uniforms began searching it.
These people aren't police.
My heart thundered with a fresh, unencumbered wave of dread. I realized each guard was armed to the teeth, muscular, and far too tall. I couldn't fool myself into thinking I could take them. And so I began searching for another way out.
The stairway was unblocked, and only ten yards away. Perhaps I could make a run for it. What, and get shot? I cursed under my breath. What other option did I have? I owed it to myself not to just wait here like a sitting duck, resigned to the will of the soldiers around me.
And so I took a deep breath and readied myself.
When one of the men began stalking toward the car, the reality of my situation began turning my blood to ice. I almost didn't move from my spot when he reached the car. Almost. At just the right moment, I flung the car door open as hard as I could. The man let out a satisfying groan as he stumbled back, disoriented. I reached for his belt and grabbed the gun holstered on his left side.
The gun was surprisingly heavy in my hand. I could have stood there longer, utterly fixated on the small yet ponderous pistol in my hand, but instead, I made a mad dash for the stairwell. I heard yelling behind me, and then chaos ensued. All the flashlights in the room pointed in my direction, and yet I didn't stop.
When I reached the stairwell, I almost screamed in relief. As my shoes slapped against the concrete stairs, I endeavored to cock the pistol. I'd never held a gun before, let alone shot one. I felt entirely out of sorts with the hefty firearm in my hands.
Just as I reached the bottom floor of the garage, I felt a sharp sting in my neck. My panic reached new depths as I jerked away from whatever it was that had penetrated my skin. When I tried to keep running, my knees gave way. I gasped in surprise as I fell to the floor.
A pair of black shoes invaded my field of vision. They were polished to perfection, without a blemish or a scuff mark, a stark contrast to the soldiers' boots I could hear descending the staircase evermore.
When my vision began swirling, I realized what had happened. The motherfucker had drugged me. The man staring down at me was not like the others. He looked older; maybe in his 60s with neat white hair, not a single strand out of place. He was clean, polished, and perhaps more terrifying than the others. Not because he was outwardly frightening, but because he was smiling at me.
"It's alright, child," His eyes were brimming with sympathy as if he hadn't just stuck me with a fucking needle. "It will be easier this way."
Every impulse in my head told me to scream, bite, kick, and struggle my way away from him. but I discovered that my tongue was too heavy, and my body was flooded with a tiring warmth that I had no way of fighting.
Everything suddenly felt slow and syrupy, and my eyes began closing. Panic filled me all the more.
And then I felt nothing at all as I fell into cushiony darkness.
HI GUYS. JUST TO BE CLEAR, THIS STORY IS NOT STOLEN, ITS MINE I JUST MADE A WATTPAD ACCOUNT LMAO.
PETER SHOWS UP CHAPTER 3!
you could skip if you want to, but you will miss some info about the main character and shes pretty cool so
OKAY, ENJOY MY STORY OR ELSE.
YOU ARE READING
Nonconformity | Henry Creel
Fanfiction"You're dreaming, I should think," His breath caressed my skin. It was there and then gone, far too fleeting. "So why am I here, Sixteen?" I didn't have an answer. "I don't know," I muttered. My heart thumped noisily in my chest. I could not think...
Nonconformity
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