CREEP

“Shut the fuck up!” he shouted, glancing in the rearview mirror as he swerved erratically down the interstate.

     The two-lane road was black, with no lights illuminating the path except for the minimal presence of the car’s headlights. It was desolate. The land on either side of the street was hidden under the cloak of night as if to protect us from what was to come. She was sobbing loudly in the backseat, her hands bound with duct tape.

     He tricked her into going with us. He forced me to duct tape her wrists. This was the first time I had been involved in helping him. She had tried to escape by pulling on the door handle of his jet-black Mercedes, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back toward him. She had bit his arm in protest. He punched her in the face to stop the chaos, and after he pulled the car over, he ordered me to bind her hands while he cleaned up his souvenir.

     Now sitting in the back seat, her honey-brown hair is sticking to her face by a combination of sweat and tears. My heart hurts for her. What she doesn’t realize is just how scared I am, too. My heart pounds in my chest, the thumping reverberating in my ears. He turns toward me, his kept hair and cleanly shaven face, a ruse for what is inside him. His mouth curls into a sly smile.

      He is proud of his trappings.

     The maroon button-up he wears innocently disguises the coldhearted murderer that it clothes. I have seen him murder before. Yet, so far, he’s let me live.

     He turns the car down a side road and drives into the dense trees. I didn’t think it could get any darker, but the trees hide what little moonlight exists, creating a blackness of impending fate. Despite the bumps on the gravel road, which make the girl jolt in the back seat, I can see her body tense.

     She knows.

     She begins to sob and thrash, trying to free herself from the tape binding her wrists.

     I glance toward the backseat to check on her and ensure the tape remains secure. Our eyes meet. I try to silently tell her that I am just like her—a victim, too. Softening my gaze and furrowing my brows, I hope she can see in my face how sorry I am for the terror she is experiencing. Her tear-filled brown eyes plead with me to help her.

     “Turn around!” he growls at me.

     I face forward again as fear rises in my throat and churns in my stomach. Deep in the woods now, he slams the brakes, and the car comes to a skidding stop on the gravel. He is impulsive and sudden yet calculated and in control.

     He shuts off the car’s engine and shoves the keys in his pocket. As he turns to look at me, my heartbeat thuds even more quickly in my chest. His black eyes send chills over my entire body despite the summer heat radiating around me.

     “You better not fucking move,” he says with an eerily calm tone, considering the intensity of the situation. He pulls the girl from the back seat with one hard jerk, and I watch her fall to the ground, and her knees penetrate the gravel. They disappear from my view as he drags her into the woods.  

     A minute passes, or has it been an hour? Time feels like it’s standing still. I could open the car door and run, but I have no idea where we are. Where would I go? This might be my chance to get away, but is it too risky? Before I can decide, I hear it.

 

     BANG! BANG!

 

     The young girl who looked into my eyes just moments before is dead. He comes back into view, purposefully striding toward the car. Staring forward, he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. On the inside, my body is trembling, but on the outside, I remain calm and confident. I can’t let him see my fear. As he turns the Mercedes around and leads us out of the woods, his nine-millimeter tucked in his pants, he places his sweaty hand on my thigh with a satisfied smile.