There is a knock at Ms Jennifer Ackerson’s front door. She isn’t expecting company but does hope it’s some cute soul stood on the other side who is lost and in search of one of her neighbours. She licks her lips with greedy anticipation at the possibility. Still her face remains partially covered by a skin plaster. It helps to hide the bruise caused when that ghastly cleaner Kayla struck her.
Best to keep my good side facing toward any would be suitors, she reminds herself in the moments prior to releasing the twin locks on her door and opening it wide. As soon as she regrets her decision and feels panic set in for who is stood there before her but the very woman who so viciously attacked her, Kayla.
Jennifer can scarcely believe it. Hector had sworn he’d ejected her from the employ of To A Shine. “You!” Is all the middle-aged woman with dyed brown hair manages before Kayla slams a fist, an organic one, into Ms Ackerson’s face.
The resulting force of the blow is immediate and sends the middle-aged woman of fifty nine reeling backward. This affords Kayla the ability to slink inside of the apartment slowly. The former cleaner kicking the door closed with her heel but making no attempt to engage the locks whatsoever.
Just as Jennifer is beginning to recover with the intention of giving Kayla a mouthful of abuse the former cleaner with shoulder length black hair, most dishevelled, grabs the older woman around the throat with her mechanical arm. Right after Kayla hauls Ms Ackerson off her feet and up into the air. The middle-aged woman’s legs kick desperately hoping to find purchase where there is none.
“Nice to see you again, Ms.” Kayla’s tone is condescending and antagonising all at once. A snarl permanently carved into her normally soft features as sweat beads down her face.
One of the fingers of her mechanical left arm is twitching ever so slightly. Kayla can feel it, as can the older woman because it is tapping against the side of her neck quite worryingly.
Jennifer attempts to let out a scream but manages only to expel a choked gargle of air. Kayla smirks cruelly while in her head a voice exclaims in shock asking what she thinks she is doing. That voice is Kayla’s conscious. Currently it is a passenger that has no hand on the wheel to control events. The woman’s withdrawal from Antrej is so far along that sense will and cannot enter her head for the moment. If it could Kayla would never dream of actually doing this. It would’ve been a fleeting thought. One she might likely would’ve laughed off. But that woman, currently, is gone. Lost to the desperation of not wanting to feel weak and exploited by this world any longer.
“You owe me you attention obsessed whore. And you’re going to pay…” Kayla is shouting loudly. She doesn’t hear it. To her she sounds as if she is speaking at a normal volume; her voice carefully intoned. But the reality is far removed from what Kayla believes as she reflexively tightens her grip around the woman’s neck.
“…because you are the reason I’m in this mess. You and you’re cravings disgust me. You knew what you were doing was wrong but still you tried to pressure me into that situation. Were you even going to pay me…for the sex?” Kayla cannot believe those words are passing her lips. She feels degraded by them. Not because Ms Ackerson is a woman but because of how she went about it. The presence of the unknown male made it obvious that had Kayla not lashed out and been ordered to leave, Ms Ackerson had ideas beyond a simple girl-girl encounter. She partially admitted as much when she stated she wanted to film it and have Kayla sign a waiver. At the mere recollection of the events Kayla’s grip tightens, even though she can feel trickles of sticky blood running to the top of her raised arm and then down her side.
“Of…course.” Jennifer manages to croak barely above the level of a whisper.
Kayla gets the impression Ms Ackerson is lying but with her left arm beginning to struggle, the former cleaner feels it necessary to toss the older woman aside.
Jennifer flies across the tastefully decorated living space only to slam face first into a wall. The sickening crunch of her nose shattering fills the air. Kayla grins as she quickly stomps across to the motionless woman where she stoops down and rolls her over. To Kayla’s surprise the woman offers no form of retaliation. Not as stupid as you look, the black haired woman thinks a second before demanding, “Do you have money, jewels, valuables here?” Again Kayla is unaware that she is shouting at the top of her lungs.
Jennifer nods fearfully, her eyes wide but averted from Kayla’s own glaring pair.
“Show me.” Kayla demands.
Jennifer does not dare move. She isn’t sure she could if she were inclined too. Thankfully, the former cleaner does not press the issue and insist when instead Jennifer points across the room to a sideboard of three square cupboard doors and a single draw.
Kayla, her attention averted in the direction of the sideboard, catches movement at the periphery of her vision. The former cleaner turns toward what she caught at the edge of her vision only to see the same man from her previous visit leaping toward her. Instinctively, Kayla throws her left arm, fist balled. Her mechanical hand connects with the airbourne man’s jaw. There is a sickening crunch but the man goes down hard. Ms Ackerson screams. Then Kayla hears sirens close by. She looks out the window to find two squad cars pull up, tyres screeching, outside the apartment building she is in. Cursing, Kayla does an about and sprints to and through the door, which rather than crash through she rips almost off its hinges and leaves flapping in her wake.
Jennifer meanwhile is hunched over her ‘producer’ Winston Corbett. Blood is pouring from somewhere around his head. Jennifer can’t discern as to whether it is his mouth or somewhere else. She hopes it is his mouth. Tears are streaming down her face while she wails for aid.
Kayla is oblivious to the cries from Ms Ackerson for she is already out the corridor and leaping recklessly down the stairs. On one of the lower flights she lands awkwardly and nearly twists her ankle. Still, the damage is done and that is why she is forced to hobble the rest of the way including when she bursts out the apartment block entrance. There before her are four officers ready and waiting. They are stood feet apart, guns pointed at Kayla and order the ill looking black haired woman to surrender. If she doesn’t it is made clear she’ll be gunned down. In that moment of shock Kayla regains control and begins to plea, panic stricken and fearful. The officers repeat their order for her to get on the ground. Without argument the dark haired woman complies by quickly collapsing to the asphalt, face down. Then raising her hands to show she isn’t armed she waits. One of the officers demands she interlock her fingers behind her head. She tries to oblige but her left arm refuses to obey. One of the officers mutters something about Antrej withdrawal into his radio while another supersedes the demand she interlock her fingers and instead orders she simply keeps her hands raised. She does so without hesitation or deliberation.
Barely an instant passes after that before two officers’ collapse upon her. Kayla feels them but isn’t sure if they are a fresh pair or were among those she was already aware of because her face is pressed against the asphalt. Unlike the last time this happened, when she was being attacked in that alley, she feels no rough grating against her skin. In fact she feels very little at all. She can hear her heart however and it is beating louder and faster than she ever recalls it having done so previously. That scares her, even as the officer finishes securing her hands behind her back with cuffs and only to haul her up and onto her feet.
She continues to offer no resistance and is quickly bundled into the back of one of the squad cars while being informed of her rights.
Maybe a minute later Kayla loses her sight, panics and then having only been capable of letting out a single cry, slips from consciousness, accepting the black void of what she can only imagine is death.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 