Mum’s words rush in and I inhale deeply and start to get up. I’ll stop thinking about my less-than-glamorous elimination and will, instead, use the time I have left to snoop around.
After all, that’s the only reason I’m here.
One moment I’m standing in place, and the next, I’m wrenched back by a fistful of my hair.
No, my wig.
I yelp, following the motion just so he doesn’t rip it off and expose me. My back slams against a hard chest and then the club is at my throat.
Literally.
He’s placed the length of the golf club against my trachea. He’s not pushing, but the threat that he can do so and choke me to death is there.
His grip on my hair is also merciless so my back is glued to the hardness of his chest. I’m not really short, but he’s tall and wide and possesses the presence of a titan.
And he smells of leather and bergamot. Or maybe part of that smell is his gloves.
Through the mask, his breathing comes out raw and controlled but a little creepy, too, like in those older horror films.
My sensitive ears fill with the sound until I can no longer breathe.
“You’re nothing but a fragile little thing that I could and would smash with a snap of my fingers. You know that, I know that, and your few functioning brain cells should know that, too, if they don’t convince you to start telling me how the fuck you got here.”
My lips tremble and purse.
I expect the familiar wave to hit me out of nowhere. I wait for the paralyzing fear, the silent tears, and the general mess that happens in situations like these.
I wait and wait.
But the only thing that shoots through my bones is shaking and more shaking.
And the need to run.
No, not only to run.
There’s something a lot more nefarious beneath the surface.
Something like a craving for that fear from earlier.
A need for it.
An urge to satisfy it.
The length of his club presses harder against my neck, still letting me breathe but restricting it further. “Do you prefer to be crushed instead of answering my question?”
I shake my head, for the first time tilting it back so that I’m staring straight at his eyes.
That’s my second mistake for today—the first is being here.
Orange Mask’s eyes are a darker manifestation of his thirst for violence. They’re as dark gray as the clouds and just as cold.
You never know if there will be a downpour or a disastrous storm with these types of somber clouds.
Though one thing’s for certain. It’s going to be dangerous. Better take shelter and hide until they pass.
But how does one hide from eyes such as these? Eyes so dark they’re almost black.
Eyes so lifeless, one would think they’re dead.