Ride Hard

Please just go to bed. Please don’t start shit.

And then I see the shadows of his feet move away, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, resting my head on the wall, closing my eyes for a second. But that relief is short-lived as my bedroom door swings open. I snap my eyes open and stare at him, his body blocking the exit, his form taking up the space between the doorframe. The light from the hallway illuminates him from behind, casting the front half of him in shadows.

I can practically smell the weed and booze coming from him, and I have no doubt he’s high as a kite from crack or heroin, probably both.

I say nothing, don’t even provoke or instigate him. Any little thing I say will be taken out of context.

“You going to bed?” Einstein asks softly, his voice slurred.

He stinks of body odor and cigarette smoke. He takes a step inside my room, and I press my back more firmly to the wall.

“You’re high. You should go sleep it off.” My voice is soft. I don’t want him to know I’m scared of what he may do.

But he says nothing, just comes into my room, shuts the door, plunging us in darkness. My heart is racing now, and I try to get off the bed, but before I know what’s going on, Einstein is on the mattress. He smells so bad, greasy and sweaty, intoxicating like a brewery. I feel like I’m getting drunk from his breath alone.

“Einstein, you need to go,” I say harder this time, knowing if I don’t stop this now it’ll only get worse until I have no power, no strength.

“Shut up, bitch,” he says harshly and tries to grab my hands, tries to pin me to the bed. I bring my knee up and successfully nail him in the balls.

He grunts, and I can see he’s about to hit me, but I roll off the bed, falling to the ground, my head smacking against the hardness. The pain is instant, but I don’t stop to take it in. I’m off the floor and sprinting toward the door, knowing I have to get out of here, let him sleep it off, let him forget about this.

And he will.

But before I can reach the door, Einstein grips a chunk of my hair, yanking my head back. My body is flung backward, my ass hitting the floor. He drags me over to the bed, lifts me off the ground with his hand tangled up in the strands, and tosses me on the mattress.

I instantly start kicking out, connecting with his body before he grabs my feet and spreads my legs.

No. No. No. This is not going to happen.

I am not going to be his victim anymore. I’m not going to let him fuck me over.

He starts mumbling incoherent things as he goes for the button of his dirty, torn jeans. I fling my arms back, reaching for anything I can use as a weapon. I don’t have end table or really anything as decor, but I do have a lamp, one that is on the floor, close enough to me that I can grab the shade and pull it toward me, the light tipping in my direction enough that I can bring it up.

I yank it out of the wall, the cord slamming against the side of the mattress. And then I curl my hand around the base without thinking anymore, swing it, and hit it upside Einstein’s temple.

He stills, stops his movement as he looks down at me, his eyes dazed. But I don’t know if it’s from the head injury or the fact that he’s high. I’m breathing hard, my heart racing. On instinct, I crack him on the side of the head again with the lamp.

I’m about to kick him away from me, to hit him with it once more, when he falls backward, the sound of his skull hitting the floor echoing in the room.

I’m frozen in place for long moments and then slowly sit up, the lamp still in my hand and ready to be used as a weapon again. The moonlight comes through the window, illuminating his body on the ground. He’s face-down, his head turned away from me, but the unmistakable sight of blood on the ground is visible. It looks dark, black, like ink has been spilled.

I hold my breath and move to the edge of the mattress, my feet now touching the floor. I force myself to stand, still holding onto that lamp, expecting any moment that he’ll rise up and attack me like I’m in some bad horror movie. But he doesn’t move. He’s not even breathing. I’m tempted to see if he’s got a pulse, but the truth is I don’t give a shit. I hope he’s dead.