Fiction: I'm Just Like You

By Mark McConville

She stood in the cold wishing that embers of heat would defrost the icy streets and her hands, and while she was a youthful girl, she smoked 40 a day, and her lungs felt it deeply. The city was in full bloom too, and the lights were shining on the crusted roads and pavements, illuminating but doing nothing for the girl who had become unsteady on her feet.  

She began to feel sick, her stomach swarming with a substance or substances, and at that moment, she felt faint, like the world was spinning out of time, out of sync. Crossing over to a thick, shimmering light, she fell onto the ice, smashing into it, and her eyes closed to the voice of a man, a gritty voice echoing in her mind.  

She had woken to reverberated sounds. The sounds were of a man and woman talking loudly with fierce undertones rippling through. As she came round fully, the man gazed at her. He then came close to her, looking straight into her eyes, like he was looking for directions into her soul.  

At first, she did not recognise the man, his thick beard a mainstay, his tattoos satanic. He was only a stranger, a maniac looking to derail her life completely, in a room that smelt of bleach and rust.  

“So how do you feel?’’  

She couldn’t speak yet, as she wasn’t fully recovered.  

“Do you know why you’re here?’’  

She could not reply just yet.  

The man started to become disoriented and frustrated by the lack of response. He then put a gun to her mouth, and she came round quickly, looking into eyes for a glint of goodness, but found only blackness.  

“I don’t know’’  

“Well should I tell you’’  

The place she was being held in was an old warehouse, stripped of goods, and turned into a hub of brutality.  

“Okay, let’s be straight’’  

She listened up, and stared again into his emotionless eyes.  

“You stole something from us a while back. A package that was worth a lot of money’’  

The girl’s anxiety soared. She was feeling sick again.  

“So if you want one more chance, you come clean’’  

His face was of non-importance until she began thinking straight, thinking coherently with clarity.  

“You!’’  

It all came back to her. The hip bar, the kiss, the rough encounter. It all clicked in.  

“You!’’  

He smirked.  

“So did you like the feeling. The euphoria, the drama’’  

The man came into the frame, a picture in her memory. He was the culprit that must have laced her drink to bring her down.  

She can remember the ruby coloured chairs, the loud music, the clattering of glasses.  

“You will pay now for what you did’’  

“You drugged me’’  

“You stole from us’’ 

The man pointed the gun at her.  

“Such a pretty face too’’  

As he was about to pull the trigger, his face blew open. Blood splattered everywhere.  

She opened her eyes and there stood the other girl with a revolver in her hand.  

“Why did you save me?’’  

“I’m just like you’’

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction and poetry.