Page 2 of Saved from Obsession

Footsteps thump toward me, heavy thuds muffled by the worn carpet.

A large body—radiating heat, smelling like garlic and sweat—slams into me. Almost falling to my knees from the impact, thick arms jerk me back against a solid chest.

I open my mouth to scream and a large hand slams over it.

I’m dragged into the stairwell, one arm around my stomach like a vise. Fighting to breathe past the hand clamped over my mouth, I’m dragging in tiny gasps of air, gray dots swimming in my vision. My lungs are screaming in desperation and fear.

In the stairwell, I’m shoved against the wall, and something sharp pricks my neck.

“Don’t make a fucking sound.” The voice is hard, rough, coarse sandpaper rubbing. His hand moves from my mouth down to my breast, squeezing hard enough to bruise. The knife—the sharp thinghasto be a knife—presses against my throat, a whisper away from breaking the skin.

The fluorescent light casts strange shadows across my attacker’s face. A baseball cap angles down over his eyes, and a gaiter covers his mouth. All I can see of him is dark clothing, a crooked nose, and pitted acne scars scattered across his cheeks.

My pulse is racing at hummingbird speed, a heavy throbbing in my chest and neck. A fleeting thought—could I have a heart attack from this—comes and goes in a flash. It might not matter, not if this man slits my throat right here. Or if he…

No. I can’t think aboutthat.

“Please.“ The word comes out without thinking, and the man presses the knife deeper. Something wet trickles down my neck, and I realize he cut me.Shit.

He hisses at me, “What did I say about making noise?”

The tip of the blade digs in again, and another rivulet of blood trails down my skin. The logical part of my brain tells me it’s a minor cut, nothing life threatening. But my body can’t stop shaking.

He moves the knife to my cheek, tracing the cool metal from my cheekbone to my jaw. My legs feel liquid, like they could collapse at any second. But if I fall, he’ll cut me. If I’m on the ground, with this man looming over me, it will be ten times worse than looking him in the face.

I’ve never been this scared in my life. My base instincts are shrieking in my head to scream, to shove at him, to get away however possible. Maybe if he didn’t have the knife, I would. But with the sharp blade dragging along the skin of my cheek, wet blood still running down my throat, I can’t move. Can’t take the chance of him cutting me again.

There has to besomething. Maybe I can’t run, but I can’t juststandhere either. I’m not going to be a passive observer in my own destruction. But if I can’t make a sound, or fight back or move, whatcanI do?

For a moment, I force myself to shut everything out. Ignore the fingers digging into my breast, the icy edge on my face, the stinging pain at my neck. Ignore the man’s sour smell soaking into my skin, the coppery tang of the blood still leaking out of me.

I shove all of that into a little box and slam it shut to be dealt with later. Right now, I need to come up withsomething.

“I like you better when you aren’t talking.” The words are soft, contemplative, like he’s talking to himself instead of to me. “If onlyallwomen would just stop fucking talking.”

My spine crawls as I wonder how many women he’s done this to. How many women he’s stalked, trapped in a stairwell, hurt, possibly killed. Did he say the same thing to those women as well? What if I’m just one in a long line of women he’s come after?

Why can’t I think of anything?

At once, I’m furious with myself. Why didn’t I carry pepper spray with me? Why did I have to go out tonight, just to prove a stupid point? What if I hadn’t dropped my phone somewhere between my apartment and here, and could have called for help already?

Wait. How did I forget? My watch has an emergency call option, too.

Mind racing, the faintest of hopes fluttering in my chest, I try to remember how to make the call. Something about the side button…

“Sobeautiful.“ The man traces the sharp metal along the lines of my face, across my forehead, my chin, then back to my cheek. His tone changes, still low and rough, but now tinged with regret. “It’salmosttoo bad I have to do this.”

Do what? Oh God, is he going to kill me right here in the stairwell? He hasn’t pulled at my clothes yet, but he still could. Is he going to force me back into my apartment and—

NO.

My brain shuts it down before the words can form. Don’t think about that. Think about thewatch. I’m pretty sure... IthinkI remember... if I hold the side button down, eventually it’ll call 911. Can I get my other hand to my watch without him noticing?

Holding my breath, I stare straight at the man, trying not to give anything away in my expression. I’m shaking so hard already, I hope he thinks any movement is just from that, and not from me trying anything. Several terrifying seconds later, my fingers slip underneath my left sleeve and touch the side of my watch.

Please. I push down on the smooth button and hold it, praying to God that it works.

I count to ten, then ever-so-carefully slide my hand out of the sleeve, moving it back in front of me. It doesn’t seem like he noticed—he’s still staring at me, his eyes in shadow, his hand absently fondling my breast, almost as if he’s forgotten about it.

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