HELP!!!! ...YOUR CLASSMATE NEEDS HELP CUTTING ABOUT 150 WORDS FROM THIS. Any suggestions??
Ink-Stained Hands It was 3:42 a.m. when it happened. I know because my watch broke. I threw the watch out last night. I could’ve gotten it fixed easily but I don’t think I’d ever see anything other than of the cracked glass and hands stuck at 3:42 a.m. All I ever saw of him were his hands. They were distinctive though; palest I’ve ever seen-chalky almost-the nails yellowed and old, long fingers splotched with ink. I think it was ink. His clothes were a bit unusual but I’d seen worse. He wore a light collared shirt covered by some kind of jacket with a hood up over his head and covering most of his face. His pants were dark, not quite casual enough to be jeans but not formal enough for an office job. He was dressed lightly for the weather but I figured he probably wasn’t from around here and didn’t know how cold it would get once the sun went down.
He wasn’t like the men who came to this bar. Normally they’d order beer after beer, getting a little louder and a little more obnoxious after each. He said four words in the five hours he sat there.
“Scotch on the rocks.” That was all he said. That was all he drank. He sat there the entire night nursing it. He never got up to go to the bathroom, he never looked one of the television screens; he sat there, occasionally sipping his drink, always looking down, hood firmly in place. It seemed almost like he was waiting for someone-I guess he was.
The bar closes as three a.m. I walked from behind the counter at 2:50 to get rid of the last drunken stragglers who had nothing worth going home to. They were put in cabs and sent wherever they were going. When I got back to the bar the man was gone, a $20 bill and glass filled with slightly melted ice-tinted with amber liquid, in his place. I should have noticed the ice hadn’t melted.
I was surprised he’d tipped me more than the cost of his drink; I hadn’t said more than three words to him. Usually the high tips came after I’d heard an entire life story and offered some generic advice. Maybe all he wanted was to be ignored. I charged his drink and put the change with the rest of the night’s tips. I cleaned the bar and a few tables before the owner came from the back room and told me to leave. I handed him the rag and went to the back for my things. I was leaving through a back door moments later, thick pea coat and scarf in place. Putting my head down and bracing the cold I walked into the alley behind the bar and started towards the road. I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything. I don’t know how but suddenly he was behind me, ink-stained hand covering my mouth and a long arm pulling me towards him. I wanted to kick, to scream, to bite but I couldn’t. He was strong and I was terrified.
He turned around, slamming me between himself and a brick wall, a dumpster on my right. He turned me to face him then grabbed my arm and pushed it against the wall. He was still wearing his hood, and the shadows obscured the rest of his face. He still held one hand over my mouth and I was breathing heavily, gasping through my nose. His other hand wandered to my scarf, gradually, slowly unwrapping it and pulling it off. I expected him to drop it. He pulled the knit to his face and I heard him inhale deeply.
I finally screamed. I don’t know what finally allowed the message to make it from my head to my mouth but it worked. It just brought his attention back to me. His hand pressed harder on my mouth; I tried to bite it. It was like trying to bite granite. He laughed. I was petrified.
I closed my eyes when I saw him reach towards me. He ran his free hand through my hair, down my face, along my neck, finally resting it on my shoulder. He bent down and ran his nose along my collarbone. I whimpered, he seemed to like it. He bent his neck and I felt a cool breeze on my neck, I realized it was his breath.
And then he was gone.
I waited a few moments and heard nothing, and then the dumpster screeched and cracked. I screamed and opened my eyes. The dumpster was destroyed. I saw someone, a man, a different man, climb out of it. He was tall but young, lean. He stood and raced toward the shadows. I couldn’t move with the sounds I heard next. It was almost like a car wreck, scraping, crashing. Then silence.
The next thing I saw was a fire, red-purple flames coming from a trash can, the younger man standing next to it. He looked at me, his face illuminated by the strange glow.
“Go.” His voice was melodic, mesmerizing. I stood where I was, staring. “GO!” he shouted, this time the trace broken. He sounded feral, animalistic, and my body was running before I had even realized what he’d said.
Ink-Stained Hands
It was 3:42 a.m. when it happened. I know because my watch broke. I threw the watch out last night. I could’ve gotten it fixed easily but I don’t think I’d ever see anything other than of the cracked glass and hands stuck at 3:42 a.m.
All I ever saw of him were his hands. They were distinctive though; palest I’ve ever seen-chalky almost-the nails yellowed and old, long fingers splotched with ink. I think it was ink.
His clothes were a bit unusual but I’d seen worse. He wore a light collared shirt covered by some kind of jacket with a hood up over his head and covering most of his face. His pants were dark, not quite casual enough to be jeans but not formal enough for an office job. He was dressed lightly for the weather but I figured he probably wasn’t from around here and didn’t know how cold it would get once the sun went down.
He wasn’t like the men who came to this bar. Normally they’d order beer after beer, getting a little louder and a little more obnoxious after each. He said four words in the five hours he sat there.
“Scotch on the rocks.” That was all he said. That was all he drank. He sat there the entire night nursing it. He never got up to go to the bathroom, he never looked one of the television screens; he sat there, occasionally sipping his drink, always looking down, hood firmly in place. It seemed almost like he was waiting for someone-I guess he was.
The bar closes as three a.m. I walked from behind the counter at 2:50 to get rid of the last drunken stragglers who had nothing worth going home to. They were put in cabs and sent wherever they were going. When I got back to the bar the man was gone, a $20 bill and glass filled with slightly melted ice-tinted with amber liquid, in his place. I should have noticed the ice hadn’t melted.
I was surprised he’d tipped me more than the cost of his drink; I hadn’t said more than three words to him. Usually the high tips came after I’d heard an entire life story and offered some generic advice. Maybe all he wanted was to be ignored. I charged his drink and put the change with the rest of the night’s tips.
I cleaned the bar and a few tables before the owner came from the back room and told me to leave. I handed him the rag and went to the back for my things. I was leaving through a back door moments later, thick pea coat and scarf in place. Putting my head down and bracing the cold I walked into the alley behind the bar and started towards the road. I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything. I don’t know how but suddenly he was behind me, ink-stained hand covering my mouth and a long arm pulling me towards him. I wanted to kick, to scream, to bite but I couldn’t. He was strong and I was terrified.
He turned around, slamming me between himself and a brick wall, a dumpster on my right. He turned me to face him then grabbed my arm and pushed it against the wall. He was still wearing his hood, and the shadows obscured the rest of his face. He still held one hand over my mouth and I was breathing heavily, gasping through my nose. His other hand wandered to my scarf, gradually, slowly unwrapping it and pulling it off. I expected him to drop it. He pulled the knit to his face and I heard him inhale deeply.
I finally screamed. I don’t know what finally allowed the message to make it from my head to my mouth but it worked. It just brought his attention back to me. His hand pressed harder on my mouth; I tried to bite it. It was like trying to bite granite. He laughed. I was petrified.
I closed my eyes when I saw him reach towards me. He ran his free hand through my hair, down my face, along my neck, finally resting it on my shoulder. He bent down and ran his nose along my collarbone. I whimpered, he seemed to like it. He bent his neck and I felt a cool breeze on my neck, I realized it was his breath.
And then he was gone.
I waited a few moments and heard nothing, and then the dumpster screeched and cracked. I screamed and opened my eyes. The dumpster was destroyed. I saw someone, a man, a different man, climb out of it. He was tall but young, lean. He stood and raced toward the shadows. I couldn’t move with the sounds I heard next. It was almost like a car wreck, scraping, crashing. Then silence.
The next thing I saw was a fire, red-purple flames coming from a trash can, the younger man standing next to it. He looked at me, his face illuminated by the strange glow.
“Go.” His voice was melodic, mesmerizing. I stood where I was, staring. “GO!” he shouted, this time the trace broken. He sounded feral, animalistic, and my body was running before I had even realized what he’d said.