The Night That Changed Everything

Chapter Thirty Two

Kayla: 32 weeks pregnant

Holy fuck. He's here, watching me with frightening eyes that don't even blink or twitch, his gaze simply fixated on me. Most of the blood drains from my face and I blink repeatedly at Derek as my mind goes into overdrive. How did he get in? Where's Damion? Holy shit! Where is Damion? My eyes flash to the gun in his hand and my limp body nearly falls to the floor as fear grips my heart. What if he's hurt him? I glance around, but the apartment is empty. What if he wants to harms me? Oh no the baby, please not the baby. I bring my hand to my stomach in protection and I start breathing rapidly as adrenaline and horror course through my body. Keep calm, keep calm - I repeat over and over in my head as if it learning a commandment.

He tilts his head to one side, observing me as if he has just laid eyes on a human being after living his whole life alone in the Amazon. Derek's expression remains blank and expressionless, and his appearance is unkempt and shabby. He's wearing his black leather jacket that I brought for him from New York for our second year anniversary, but now it's all grubby and dirty, and he looks desperately in need of a shower. His black hair is greasy and lifeless, plastered against his head as it cries out in desperation for a wash and a cut, just like his thorny dishevelled beard. His narrowed eyes are a dull brown, enraged and vaguely confused. It feels like a millennium has passed while I try to process all of this, though in reality it is only a split second.

I attempt to speak, trying to find moisture in my mouth as I swallow hard. "Derek," I finally say, my voice trembling on the second syllable of his name. With my eyes not leaving his, I slowly place my purse on the floor as I say, my tone softening as if talking to a child, "Why don't you just put that down?" indicating the gun, too scared to say its name out loud. He blinks at me in response which leads an ice-cold chill to line through my spine. He simply shakes his head and his grip tightens around the handgun. He then smiles, but it's a disturbing curl of his lip rather than a genuine, reassuring smile.

"What are you doing here?" I then ask and my voice is calm, despite the choking fear tearing at my throat.

"I wanted to pay you and your little pretty boy a visit," he states, his voice vacant, but at the same time, there's an eerie sound to it. Oh shit.

A million ideas spiral though my head as I consider what to do. Should I turn around and just run outside? Remembering that I locked the door with the key behind me, I exhale and close my eyes in defeat. Or maybe I should scream? Maybe someone will hear me, or he might panic and drop the gun and then run, but then again, he might shoot. He can't possible want to hurt me? He can't, he wouldn't... I look at his hand; it's more relaxed around his gun than I thought. He's not actually pointing the gun to me. Perhaps I can move. Yes, if he wanted me dead, then surely he would have shot me by now instead of spending the last minute simply staring at me. I take a deep lungful of air, treasuring it as if it's my last, in hope to calm my erratic breathing. With a shaking hand, I swipe a tendril of hair behind my ear as I move, slowly walking towards him, my eyes not leaving him with every cautious step.

He tilts his head from side to side as if stretching out a tense muscle after a rough night's sleep, but he makes no violent move against me as I come closer. He's standing in front of the television and I feel his eyes follow me as I cautiously sit at the edge of one of the couch to his right, roughly a meter and a half away from him. Oh, what the fuck am I doing?

"Do you want to sit down?" I ask, trying to ignore my racing heartbeat as I glance up at him. He looks down at me and burrows his brow, as if completely confused by my question.

Instead, he restlessly begins to slowly walk around the couch and he starts to inspect the shotgun in his hand. He transforms the gun from one hand to the other, coiling it between his fingers and tracing his touch along its black exterior as if fascinated by its design. My fingers curl onto the edge of the couch, his sudden movements and contact with the gun making me nervous. I don't think I've ever seen a gun in real life, let alone be so close to it. I'm sure Dad mentioned that he has one locked in the safe at home for the most unlikely of cases, but I made him swear never to take it out near me or even mention its name. They just frighten me. And what's even more frightening is knowing that there's one meters away from me and in the care of what appears to be an unstable, angry and confused man. I continue to watch him as he circles the couch, my eyes only leaving the handgun when he walks behind me and is out of sight. You know, maybe there aren't even any bullets inside, or maybe it's just some old kid's toy that shoot out small plastic balls. Derek's never owned a gun, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anyone who does. Maybe this is a joke to him; yes it's a joke, a sick and twisted joke.