“I’ll shoot you.”

Imagine this: that you are alone, standing before your black Jaguar XF Coupe, in the basement of your condominium complex. It’s dim, and in the reflection of the slightly tinted driver’s window you are having a hard time trying to make out your aggressor’s face. You know it’s a woman, and from the sound of her voice it’s almost impossible to be terrified; it’s so soft, somewhat hesitant, full of caution. You wonder for a quick and trivial moment whether she‘s pretty; you decide with certainty that she‘s at least 5‘5”, and you glance down to find that she‘s wearing a pair of scuffed up sneakers. It seems so surreal, you are quite taken aback, you say “What?”, in hopes that when she responds it’s to say something that doesn’t involve hurting you.

But when you hear the cock of a gun, your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. “Please… get down, or I’ll… I’ll shoot.” The shakiness in her voice is disturbing. It seems that she doesn’t want to do this… so why is she?

You try to make sense of things as you begin to lower to your knees.

“Give me your wallet, your keys, your watch.” It’s kind of breathy, the way she speaks; almost soothing.

As instructed, you dig your wallet out of your pocket, unfasten your watch, and set everything she asked for gently onto the pavement beside you. When she reaches down to retrieve your things she presses the barrel of the gun into the back of your neck; you catch a glimpse of her pale skin, a bracelet in the shape of a bow clasped onto her wrist. She takes a step back and the barrel is removed.

You are breathing through your mouth, your exhales harsh and ragged. “Please…” This woman isn’t exactly what comes to mind when you think of the person most likely to rob you… maybe you can reason with her? “You don’t have to do this.”

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move; you want to look over your shoulder but know that, that would be a bad idea.

You keep talking, “You seem afraid, don’t be; fear muddles the mind, makes you do crazy things.”

“I’m not afraid!” Her voice comes back to you sharp and indignant, as if saying it this way will make it true.

You nod slowly; say quietly, “Okay,” because she’s like a ticking bomb, dangerously close to going off.

It smells stuffy in the basement; the sounds of traffic on the street above seem faint and far away; it’s midnight and most of the residents in your complex are elderly so it’s unlikely that anyone will be coming or going anytime soon; the ground is hard and making your knees hurt; your saliva is acidic, it burns when you swallow; you can only see the clean shininess of your beautiful, most prized possession. Why you? You have the burning desire to know.

But all that’s said is, “I’m sorry,” before you find yourself at the edge of an abyss. Maybe she said, “I’m sorry, Justin,” but you can’t be sure; the mouth of a great darkness has opened up and consumed you.