Short Stories

1

So, this is a short story that I have written for the contest hosted by Contests-Rants

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She was a murderer.

Or an attempted murderer, considering that I didn't die. Oh good lord, I could've died. But I guess charges for murder can't be pressed when the world is about to end. And how often does that happen?

"And here I am on probably one of my last days stuck with you," she continued.

She was right. She was "stuck" with me. I'd been bitching at her for the last three hours. But there's only so much polite you can be to someone when you've been stabbed by the said someone.

The thought of being stabbed and left for dead bathing in my own blood brought shivers back to my spine. I handed her the bottle again hesitating as to not touch her. I didn't want anything to do with her.

She left me to die, for Christ's shake. Well, that is until she came back after and nursed me. I don't really remember what happened much after being stabbed. I remember seeing her name tag, being dragged somewhere and getting stitched. I'd fallen asleep after that and just woke up about three hours ago.

"How long have I been out?" I asked her, not offended by her remark.

"Twenty three hours and thirteen minutes," she replied brushing the hair from her cheek behind her ear with a perfect, cliché move.

"What? Twenty three- what the heck have you been doing?" I asked her.

"Closed off all the exists ad blocked every line of vision. They can't see us in here," she explained. Her face had a conflict of different emotions running through them. Pride was one of them.

I grunted as I sat up leaning against the counter just as her.

"So, Becca...ahem...tell me, how old are you?" I asked trying to strike up a conversation. If we were gonna be stuck like that with just each other for company, we might as well talk. Plus a small talk never hurt anyone.

"You can't just go around asking a girl's age, you know," she answered.

"See this is the thing about girls," I protested. "You can't ask their age but will bite your head off if you forget their birthday," I finished.

"I don't ask you to wish me my birthday and I'm not tempted to tell you my age. How's that?" She challenged. I stifled a laugh and tuned to another side silently munching on my granola bar.

She let out a sigh. "I'm seventeen."

"What? Aren't you too young to be going around stabbing people like that?" I mocked her seeing her face turning pale. She smacked my arm, which didn't hurt, by the way.

Yep, I was not letting her live this down.

"That was one time and I thought you were a zombie!" She looked hurt. Like the guilt was overwhelming her.

"Oh, yeah, because me crying "hello" was not enough to be considered human." I scowled at her.

She muttered something under her breathe, barely audible.

"What?" I called.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her face didn't say otherwise. She looked sad, the guilt of almost taking the life of another human being, which coincidentally was me, mind you, was too much for her to bear.