An Urgent Need for Ruin (Full-length Novel Version)

I won't say I didn't think of throwing myself out the car door. I did. Again and again. It was the afterthought of my brains and guts smeared across the asphalt that froze my hand on the door handle. Or I could survive the drop and end up knocking myself out, only making this easier for him. Or I could survive the fall, not knock myself out, still be hurt though, and run... And he would be in a car.
Don't call me a coward. I was already afraid for my life. It was just a question of was I willing to end it myself or let him do it for me. And I caved. Was I brave enough to make him crash the truck and probably not stagger away from the crash? Was I willing to kill someone, no matter how evil they may be? No, I wasn't. I wasn't an action movie heroine; I wasn't jacked up enough on adrenaline to murder, even in self-defense; I wasn't the survivor: I was a little girl. Even for all my trumpeting earlier that I was a fighter, I was a little girl.

His laser focus was contagious. I stared straight ahead at the road, seeing but not seeing. I knew I should be memorizing our route so I could get back home when I – IF I ever – escaped, but I was running on autopilot. I had forfeited control of myself. And, if I was honest, I just didn't have the energy to wrestle it back. After my revelation, control had been sapped away from me. It was like my resolution was this big dam that kept it all in and I'd demolished it with one sure swing.
I slept on and off. Don't judge me. How can you say you would have acted any differently? We all like to think in some life-or-death situation we'd be the noble main character, but maybe we're all just the extras that are picked off one by one. Maybe we're all just cowards.

“Up. We're here.” It was a gruff voice, but familiar; I couldn't place it with the unfamiliar tone the person was using. Here? Where's “here?” Everything was murky from sleep, but I could feel the truck stop. Doors creaked open and slammed, rocking me. Eyes still refused to open. And then the world snapped abruptly into focus. There was suddenly gossip and laughing and footsteps. My eyes flew open.
School. Huh. I read the name in bold letters about a million times but it still didn't make sense. Frank...actually took me here? But there were my classmates running past and leaning on the side of the building, cliques gossiping between themselves, jocks pushing around a group of goth kids who pushed back just as hard. What even...?
My car door opened and a backpack was held out to me. I hesitated. He couldn't have possibly just taken me to school like he was supposed to. What was with all that kidnapping business then? “You have ta go ta school, Toni.” My name grabs my attention; but more so the gentle way he said it. Almost quiet-like. Like muttering. It didn't fit with the demanding words. I mentally shook myself. Since when had I thought of Frank as anything but dark and harsh?
Before I could elaborate on my thoughts, I found myself snatching the backpack from his hand and swinging it violently onto my shoulder, making sure to at least whack his truck in the process. This earned me a glare, which I shot right back. Southern boys and their trucks, man... I started to walk with purpose toward the school building when I could feel him keeping pace beside me. Puzzled, I quirked my eyebrow at him, which he answered with a scoff. “Obviously, I have school, too, Toni.” This only left me more confused as he veered ahead of me and turned to face me, walking backwards and studying my perturbed expression. It's then I noticed a backpack on his shoulder. My brain took a while to process all this information. Frank actually took me to school. Frank had been going to my school. How...? Apparently my gaze hardened because I was met with another scoff. “I, um, I try not to be that noticeable. It's actually surprisingly easy.”
And that was that. He was off through the school doors, blending with the sea of faces like he was obviously so good at.

I tried to munch on my saltine crackers with interest, but everything that touched my tongue soured on contact. Even the too-much-sugar-too-much-fizz soda seemed bitter. He just had to worm his way into everything. I couldn't even enjoy food anymore because of the likes of Francis Gauthier. I'd searched the cafeteria about a hundred times, but he sure hadn't been kidding about not being noticeable. You'd think by now I'd be attuned to his presence, but he was nowhere to be found. It made me feel like I needed a shower, knowing his eyes were on me but he was a shadow. I had spent the first half of the day super-aware of everyone around me, and knowing that none of them were the creep I wanted to keep an eye on. With the way lunch was going, the second half of the day wasn't shaping up to be much different. Aside from this, it had been the usual: idiots trying to rope me into talking like people trying to goad Buckingham Palace guards (and getting the same amount of success); suffering croaking out an answer or two during class; and, in a show of our most foundational instinct, just trying to survive high school.
By the end of the day, I was ready to make a quick escape before Stranger Danger could even think of trying to bring me home. Or wherever he wanted to bring me. Here's hoping he would give up looking for me and drive back home while I walked the scenic route. Of course, my bladder had other ideas.
And that's how I found myself hiding in a bathroom stall after school, hoping Stranger Danger wasn't waiting outside the thin bathroom door. Maybe if I waited here a while he'd give up looking. It was worth a try. I was just about to flush the toilet when the door creaked open and a pair of scuffed and worn-out sneakers entered. Crapcrapcrap...I was not going to come out of this stall now. She'd expect me to engage in gossip, like most girls did in the bathroom. There was no way in heck I was going out there. But then she stopped. And there she stayed, near the sinks, stomping the toe of one of her sneakers to a rhythm only know to her. I stayed as far back in the stall as possible, trying not to draw attention. Why was she waiting? There were at least four other open stalls! Why did I have to give up mine? If she would just pick another then I could wait for her to get done and leave and make my escape.
But no... Five freakin' minutes passed with that same pair of sneakers in that same freakin' place, tapping that same freakin' faulty rhythm. I was almost to hysterics by this point. It was a stalemate. Fine. I was going to have to give this stall up to her so I could get out of here and to home as quickly as possible. You win, mystery picky female. Thanks for pushing my buttons.
Before unlocking the stall door, I took a deep breath and mentally repeated a mantra. No eye contact. No eye contact. No eye contact. No eye contact and you'll be fine. Eyes to the ground, I slid the lock open and burst through the door, practically skittering to the sink. Now that I got a better look at those sneakers, they looked eerily familiar. Eh, it was probably a girl that walked by me in class all the time and I just hadn't remembered until I saw them again. Eyes still downcast, I approached the sink.
Feeling her presence still behind me, I turned the knobs on the faucet. Seriously? She wasn't even going to take the stall now?! I didn't have much time to get angry, though, because a low drawl boomed out, “Didn't know if ya were ever gonna come out.”
My hand had just happened to be under the soap bottle and I already had a small puddle in my palm. Both went arcing above my head as I jumped in absolute terror. Of course, one drop altered its flight to land smack-dab in my wide-with-fright eye. Trying to block out the stinging pain of soap in my eye, I whirled around with a one-eyed glare and practically squeaked, “What are you doing here?”
Standing in front of me, a bored expression on his face, was the devil himself: Frank freakin' Gauthier.
“Huh. So it does speak.” Without another word, he lifted himself from the wall, ran a hand through his hair, checking himself in the mirror, and clomped out the door. What the heck had just happened?
And so began the now-unavoidable ride home. I don't know why I followed him to the truck. I could have made my escape then. Maybe I was so much in shock I couldn't think of an escape plan. Whatever it was, it landed me right back into that truck. And let me guess, he was going to take me home like he could never ever be the serial killer I believed he was. Typical. He was just building up my trust so he could turn on me. But I wasn't being fooled.

Notes

Short chapter is short. Mostly because the next chapter is too jam-packed full of crap. Y'all will love it. Please let me know what you think of this one and if you have ever been in a similar situation. I know I have!
~xoxo Ash

If you want to know what a Cajun accent sounds like: https://www.facebook.com/Miltonpostweekly/videos/456020541243559/