Last Fall

All Rights Reserved ©


I glance back at the door and my eyes come to an abrupt stop when they land on the kitchen window beside the door. I squint to confirm that it isn’t my imagination that is causing me to hallucinate the silhouette of a person’s upper body – shoulders and up – in the window.

I keep my eyes on the figure in the window, and for a few minutes we stay like this. The unknown silhouette staring at me as I struggle to maintain a grip on the tools in my hand.

My eyes dart to the clock above the fireplace, which reads 10:20 pm. It’s only been four minutes? When I look lack at the window, the figure is gone. Fuck. Frantic, I whip my head from window to window to no avail. Maybe I really was hallucinating.

All of a sudden, I hear the sound of metal grinding on metal, similar to the sound of gears turning.

The garage.

I forgot to check the fucking garage door.

Crowbar in hand, I grab hold of my crutches and run over to the door that connects the garage to the living room. With every step, my body grows seemingly more tired. Sweat and hotness envelope me and my vision begins to cloud around the edges. With one last step, I extend my free arm towards the lock on the door, but before I can flip it into lock position, the door opens toward me with full force and I fall onto the hardwood floor.

Towering over me stands a tall, heavy-built figure in an all black tracksuit. The person is wearing a plain black baseball cap and a blue bandana that covers his nose and mouth, but a beard can be seen lining the person’s jaw. He looms over me and lets out a snicker.

“What?” he growls, “You’re not going to scream?”

No. I’m not going to scream because no one can here me out here. Oliver was right after all. Just my luck.

“The police are on their way,” I spit out and try to scramble backwards to get away from under his towering shadow.

The man smirks and pulls me towards him by my feet in one fell swoop. I kick around in an attempt to distract him long enough for me to swing the crowbar into the side of his face. He lets out a piercing scream as the metal of the crowbar meets the flesh of his left cheek. Blood sprays out in all directions at the impact and I find myself splattered with some of it. He crouches in pain, grunting and shouting slurs my way.

I swing again only this time he sees it coming and dodges it before the crowbar can do any more damage. He launches himself onto me, pinning my upper arms with his knees. He stomps onto my hand, which is holding the crowbar. I cry out in agony as the sharp grips on his shoes dig into my wrist, and I let go of the crowbar. He kicks it away to ensure I don’t grab it again.

The man leans in until he is mere inches away from my face. I turn my face to the side to avoid meeting his gaze. This proves to be pointless because he grabs my face in his hands and forces me to face him. As much as I try and fight it, I am unable to do anything. All those years of kickboxing flushed down the toilet.

“I should kill you right know, Haddie,” the growl of his voice and his hot, cinnamon-scented breath sends a pulsing vibration through my body. The blood from the mutilated flesh of his cheek seeps through his bandana and falls onto my chin. I scrunch my face in response.

“Fuck you,” I spit in his face aiming especially for the eyes. In retaliation, he digs his knees deeper into my arms. I let out a slight yelp, not giving him the scream he so aches for.

“C’mon you can do better than that,” he says running a wet, blood-drenched finger along the side of my face. He leans down closer and stops just before my ear.

“Scream for me,” he whispers, his voice raspy. I squirm away in response to his musty, hot breath only to have him grab my hair and pull me back to face him.

“Scream goddammit!” he yells directly into my face, which allows more blood to splatter onto me. This time, it lands on worse spots than just my chin.

Loud knocks rattle the wooden front door, catching the man off guard and his weight on my arms lessens. I hear my name being called from the other side of the door. Good, the help has arrived.

“In here,” I scream as loudly as my dry throat can manage. Just as I allow all the air to leave my body on the last syllable, the man lets out a deep chuckle.

“See, that wasn’t hard,” he says standing up and then stepping onto my abdomen to ensure I stay down. “You’ve got to be more careful, girlie. There are crazy people out there.” With that final remark, he walks back out the door he arrived from.

Meanwhile, the pounding on the door increases as Mel and a few others try to break the door down. I wipe the blood off of my face with the front of my t-shirt and try sitting up. After a few painful tries, I give up and curl up on my side examining my damaged wrist with my better hand. It is covered in small cuts from where the sharp cleats of his shoes dug into the soft flesh. My chest begins to heat up as I recall the last time a man took advantage of my weakness. He didn’t live to tell the tale, and neither will this man.

That asshole is not getting away with this.

Continue Reading

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered publisher, providing a platform to discover hidden talents and turn them into globally successful authors. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books our readers love most on our sister app, GALATEA and other formats.