Page 59 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Let me show you,” he says, and steps closer.

I let out a small squeal of panic and turn my back fully so I can find the damn handle.

But there’s nothing there—just smooth wood.

I’m locked inside with a psycho.

My stomach plummets to hell.

“Where’s the handle?” I yell, turning back to him. He’s closer now, but not like the first time I saw him here. He’s taking his time, edging forward as if he knows there’s no rush.

“I can show you,” he says calmly. “But only if you promise to calm down.”

“Sure. I’m calm. See?” I sweep out my arms and then hug them to my chest. I step back as far as I can, practically disappearing into the corner of the small room as he reaches me.

“Why are you so scared of me?”

Because you’re psychotic!

“I’m not. It’s Miriam. I don’t want to be here when she gets back.”

“You’ll get in trouble if you run away.”

“I don’t care!” I hastily lower my voice. “I mean, she knows where to find me. And I really have to pee. I’ll get her outside.”

“You haven’t prayed yet.”

Fuck.Fuck!

He’s just standing there.

Liar. He won’t open the door for me. It was just an excuse to get closer without me bolting. I glance to the side. I can make it over the chairs. Scramble to the front of the room. We’ll chase each other around in circles until Miriam comes back.

But what if he catches me before she returns?

What will he do to me?

Fear of the unknown drives icy panic through me. I shiver once, hard, and then I can’t seem to stop.

“Are you cold?”

“Please just open the door.”

He shrugs. Then he pushes his hand against the wood, close to where the handle would be on the outside. The door sinks inward a little, and then bounces open a crack. There’s a little rift where he slides in his fingers, and then he pulls it open.

I race for the opening, knowing I won’t make it, but not willing to stand there and accept my fate.

Reuben presses the door closed in my face. I freeze, standing an inch away from the wood, too frightened to move.

His palm slides down the wood as he lets out a long breath through his nose. He moves closer until his clothes brush against mine.

Blood roars in my ears. It drives heat into my cheeks and constricts my lungs.

“You should pray.”

“Okay,” I manage breathlessly. “I’ll pray.”

“Ask God for forgiveness.”

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