Switchblade

A Short Story by: Aneva Walker

SCREAMS, ALL I HEARD WERE screams emanating from the South Carolina hotel room. My hands shook as I lifted it to knock. No, knocking wouldn’t help. Should I phone the police? I fumbled through my pockets and soon realized that I had left my cell lying on the bed. I sighed, but then perked up when I felt my switchblade resting against my hip. This could come in handy. The sound came again, and a thump. I felt my heart stall in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I knocked. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, the door swung open, and a tall, brutish-looking man peered down his nose at me.

“What?” he growled.

“I was just looking for my friend, room 305.”

“This ain't 305. Can't you read?”

He pointed to the brass letters with one large finger. My eyes drifted to the gap between him and the door. That’s when I saw her. A small, frail woman curled up on the floor—and blood.

“Maybe it was 205. She mentioned her boyfriend—said he was a really cool guy.”

I wanted to shiver. The way his eyes assessed me felt like cold hands against my skin. Fear coiled in my belly like a snake ready to strike. Run! Run! Everything inside me screamed at my sensibility.

“Room 205,” he said, raising one brow.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it now. I just thought she’d be in here.”

“She’s not, now beat it,” he growled, gripping the door tightly, ready to slam it in my face.

When his body shifted, I saw the woman more clearly. Her face was swollen and distorted. Black and blue bruises covered her skin like unsettling tattoos. I was determined. I couldn’t leave her alone with him. She would die.

My mind raced. This was a possessive man, a coward, and a bully. I smiled.

“Oh, there she is. Oh my God!” I stepped forward, my mouth parted in horror. The man whipped his head around to check if his victim was moving. I used his distraction. I rammed him, knocking him off his feet, and ran to the woman. She was still conscious, whimpering softly.

“I’m here to help you. Can you walk?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and tears ran down her cheeks as she looked at me. I knew what she saw: a skinny kid with freckles and wild hair. I knew she wished I were a man, strong and capable, but you couldn’t pick your rescuer. I was old enough, strong enough, and most importantly, smart enough. I stooped down, placing my hands under her arms to lift her to her feet. Then she screamed.

I turned in time to see tall, dark, and gruesome charging toward me.

“You sneaky whore, I’ll kill you!”

My hand instinctively went for my pocket. I felt the metal beneath my fingers, and I moved with precision. The switchblade gleamed in the yellow light. The man laughed.

“How about you hand that over to a man who knows how to use it?”

My heart pounded, but my hands were steady and dry. I studied him and my options. I could fake left and slice his thigh, deep enough to wound and slow him down. Or I could go for his oversized belly. I quickly discarded that idea—too messy. Then he came for me, and all thought vanished. My body moved on autopilot. I saw my blade flash, then red. I felt the spray of it over me, smelled it. The man clutched his arm, cursing me. I went for his leg, plunging my blade just above the kneecap. He screamed and collapsed. His eyes were wide now—frightened, angry, confused.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

I smiled grimly, “They call me Switchblade.”

Then I knelt and plunged the blade into his chest. The sounds were sickening: the jerking of his body, the gurgling. I stood and looked back. The woman was still there, holding tightly onto the dresser. She looked at me—shocked.

“Let’s go. This might be a rough neighborhood, but someone must have heard the screams.” I walked toward her and saw fear flash in her gaze. Damn it!

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay? But we have to go. My room is just a little ways away.”

She let go of the dresser, and I quickly placed her arm around my shoulder. I wiped the blade clean on my jeans and slipped it back into my pocket. We left the room. The woman looked back, then shut her eyes and turned away.

“Shut the door.”

She did without asking why, and we moved down the walkway to my room. Trouble always seemed to find me. I must be cursed. All I had wanted was a bag of ice, and now I had murder on my hands. Welcome back, Switchblade. I could swear I heard my gang whisper that, but they were gone—all of them. I swore to do some good. I survived for a reason. I looked over at the woman, then glanced out at the starlit sky.

“Good to be back,” I whispered.

Copyright 2015, Aneva Walker, All rights reserved