Page 19 of The Chosen Two

What the hell did he put in here with me?

Why did I do the one thing that I, as a woman, have learned not to do from the time I could comprehend personal safety: trust a totally random guy I just met? Big mistake.

I look to the ceiling, hoping I can get my bearings and figure out where in this maze of boxes I am. Kind of near the center maybe? At least it looks that way to me. A path open to my left leads to a right turn about ten feet ahead. Behind me, I see a sharp right, followed by a left. That’s where the breathing is coming from, but I can’t see anything, aside from the boxes.

No way am I getting out of here until I face whatever that thing is, so I can either run until it finds me, or I can put on my big girl panties and go find it first. That’s not much of a choice; fight it exhausted from running away, or go looking for it (granted, also exhausted, because what the fuck is even happening right now). As I move quickly (for me) through the path to the right, I realize I may be heading toward the sound of breathing a little too enthusiastically.

I turn the corner and slam face first into a wall. But this wall isn’t made of boxes; it’s made of flesh and bone with a baseball-sized belly button right below my eye level. Up close, that ragged breathing sounds much more like snorting. I let my gaze drift upward. The musky smell of a farm on a hot summer day bombards me, as hot air puffs onto my face from the giant bull looking down at me. Well, not really a bull… A bull head on a human body. Why is that so familiar?

Holy. Shit. That’s a minotaur.

“Holy shit. You’re a minotaur!” (Hey, you try to keep your internal monologue internal when you’re face to navel with a motherfucking minotaur.) Immediately, I spin on my heel and run back along the path I just came from, toward the center of wherever the fuck I am.

Oh! It’s a labyrinth! I probably could have pieced together that I’d be fighting a minotaur, if only I’d thought about the fact that I’m clearly in a maze and George and I have been talking about how I have to learn to fight various mythological creatures. Total mom-brain moment. But, in all fairness, I never once considered the possibility that a minotaur could be real.

I reach the spot where I first uncovered my eyes in this strange maze of certain death and continue to follow the path to the right, right, left, left…right into a dead end. In a small space, about the size of a standard walk-in closet, I look up at the ceiling high above. It looks like I’m dead center in the room. Although, I definitely could have thought of a different way to describe it… Dead. Center.

Guess this is where I fight or die. Let’s see if this guy is right about me or full of shit. I turn to face the only entrance into the space, holding up my machete, as if I know how to use it.

The minotaur enters. Slowly. He’s not in a rush. He tilts his giant head, as if he’s confused to find me here. As if he didn’t just follow my scent or my breathing or whatever minotaurs use to track their prey, to this exact location, for this exact purpose. He licks his lips; grins the most sinister, gruesome looking grin I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing; and rubs his hands together like he’s sharpening a pair of kitchen knives. The snorting breath comes faster now, probably because he realizes what a tasty morsel I’ll be. Okay, a full course meal. Whatever.

“Fuck.” It’s more a breath than an utterance, but it has to be said.

The behemoth stumbles toward me, all brawn with no grace. Unfortunately, I possess neither of those myself. Also, I have no idea how to leverage to my advantage the knowledge that he’s not graceful. Instinctively, I crouch down and somersault between his legs.

What the fuck was that? I haven’t done a somersault in thirty years. What in God’s name made me think that was a good idea? Holy shit, I could have decapitated myself with this machete. Definitely not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But also, that was awesome. Go, girl! Eeek! Minotaur! Head in the game, Miranda!

As surprised as I am, I manage to jump effortlessly to my feet. At that same moment, he swings his fist into the side of my head. It isn’t really a punch so much as a push, but it still hurts like a sonofabitch and knocks me off of my feet and into a wall of boxes. They and I topple over. I’m literally stunned. I’ve never been hit before, much less by a minotaur. With my ear ringing from the impact, I can’t hear him approach. So, I’m unprepared when his face is suddenly right up in front of mine. I wish I had a pair of billiard balls because I could use them to stop up those nostrils that are only inches from my face when

SNOOOOOORRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTT.

Another swampy puff of air accosts what is left of my senses. My face is left damp, but I refuse to think about which of his bodily fluids it is. We freeze staring at each other, him at my face, me at his snout. Then he starts to grunt in a way that makes his abdomen shake up and down, and I realize he’s actually laughing at me.

My shoulders collapse. I’ve been laughed at like this before, though not by a minotaur. I am suddenly so much smaller. I hear his laughter echoing through my childhood bedroom, my childhood mind, my entire childhood really. I was always the butt of his jokes. I feel myself give up. My fingers loosen their grip on my only weapon. The edges of my vision turn black and the darkness encroaches inward.

George was wrong, and now I’m not going to get out of this. I’m going to die here. I knew I couldn’t do this Guardian thing. Oh my God, my kids… Will they ever know what happened to me? What do they say to family of the Chosen One when she’s killed in the line of duty? Do they stage a car accident or something? And who even arethey?

As I wallow in my self-doubt, the minotaur suddenly crouches to the ground, grabbing my ankles and yanking, flipping me to hang upside down. I hear the ocean as all the blood rushes to my head. The machete lies on the ground beneath me. My head is once again level with the creature’s abdomen, only this time my feet aren’t under me to carry me away.

Being upside down makes my body tingle and my senses wake back up. My first thought is, of course, my kids. Right now, they’re in school, being kids, their only concerns being their orchestra lessons, or algebra test, or whether that cute girl likes them back. And that is what it should be. There is enough bullshit in this world that they shouldn’t have to worry about a fucking minotaur killing their mom. I need to get home to them. I need to embarrass them with hugs when they walk out the doors of their schools. I need to feed them ice cream for dinner and let them finish a movie before tucking them in for bed tonight. I need to hear their laughter. Their laughter can heal anything broken in me.

The thought of my babies hones my determination to survive. My pulse is strong and steady. I look that beast right in the belly and inhale his smelly body odor deeply before I let out my own, “SNOOOOOOOOORRRRRTTTTTT.” Then I take the only chance I can think of and reach out toward him. I hold my breath and mentally cross my fingers as I channel my thirteen years of parenting experience into my finger tips and tickle that beast’s belly as if my life depends on it, because it literally does.

His abdomen shudders once. Then a single giggle creates a ripple effect that strengthens until the beast wriggles and twists to escape my assault, but I latch onto his fur with one hand while I tickle up and down his sides until he sinks to his knees, his body convulsing with laughter. He drops his arms to guard his stomach, leaving me in a heap on the floor but still free. The machete is in front of him and I am by his feet. I have to get around him to get it.

As I quietly approach he spins to face me, one knee still on the ground, and I launch myself at him with a fresh batch of tickles. He falls backwards and kicks at me, but I use his chest hair as hand holds to climb him and that sensation is starting to wear him down. Finally, a kick connects with my stomach and sends me right over to the machete.

I allow myself to feel the pain for one second then, scrambling, I grab the machete and spin back. He’s shuddering on his side in the aftershocks of his first tickle torture.

I have only one option in this situation, as far as I can tell. I’m clearly no expert. With every ounce of resolve I can muster I swing the machete above my head and come down with as much force as I can into the side of his neck.

The damn blade gets stuck.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” With one foot on his shoulder, I pull my blade out and try again. And again. And again. Either the tickling really incapacitated him, or the first stroke, though not fatal, sent him into some kind of shock, because he’s not fighting back. He just lies there with his head angled away from me, allowing me to try again and again, while he kind of looks at me. Each strike makes little progress cutting through his thick skin and the muscles of the creature’s neck.

“Didn’t.”

Swing.

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