Heartbeat

• Gabriella Ioannidis, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2013

You’re looking, searching – through room after room. You’re stopping, pausing, listening – for a footstep, a heartbeat. You’re walking towards the room where we spent most of our nights. You’re seeing your things scattered upon the floor, all the drawers are open, mirrors and windows are broken. You’re walking further into the room, holding the necklace around your neck, tracing your finger along the edge of your dresser.
You’re looking, there’s a letter in an envelope with your name on it. You’re picking it up and opening it. You’re reading – aloud. ‘You’re next.’ You’re dropping the letter, now turning, jumping, worried. A shiver’s travelling up your spine - tingles. You’re holding your hair away from your face and sensing a presence – my presence. You’re grabbing your coat, now hugging it to your chest. You’re shivering, shaking. You’re afraid – so afraid. You’re walking; I’m tapping my fingers on the wall. You’re jumping, turning, walking, turning, walking, jumping. You’re scared – so scared.
You’re walking back down the hall, peeking around the corner before turning. I’m tapping my fingers, flicking the light, on, off, on, off. You’re shaking, shivering, crying. You’re scared – so scared.
It is dark – quiet, I’m walking, you’re hearing my footsteps on the hard wood floor.
‘STOP,’ you’re screaming, yelling, shivering, shaking, crying, jumping, turning, walking. You’re afraid – so afraid. You’re hiding, I’m coming, seeking, finding. I’m seeing you – behind the door. I’m stopping, listening, creeping – slowly. You’re hearing my footsteps coming – close, closer, closer. You’re holding your breath, so I won’t hear – I will, I can, that heartbeat. I’m standing in front an open door, one thin plank of wood separating us, the closest we’ve been in ages, so you think. I’m feeling the heat of your body on mine, your heartbeat through the door. I’m stepping back, reaching out my arm – quietly, gently.
I’m grabbing your head, you’re screaming. I’m covering your mouth and you’re biting my fingers, hitting a nerve, a great pain's rushing up my back. I’m squeezing your stomach. You’re kicking, punching, kicking. I’m bashing your head against the wall, now on the stove. You’re wriggling, squirming. You’re trying…trying. I’m pinning you up against the wall, you’re trying to fight, but my grip's too tight. I’m pulling out a gun from my pocket. You’re screaming, shouting, wriggling, squirming, kicking, punching.
I’m pulling you back up against my body, bashing you against the wall. You’re pushing, kicking, squirming, wriggling, shouting, screaming, crying… I’m shooting.
You’re falling to your knees, crying, whimpering. You’re now lying on your back. I’m dropping the gun, running to your side – kneeling. I’m wiping away your tears, tracing my thumb along your cheekbone, listening to your heartbeat.
You’re lifting up your arm reaching out for the gun. You’re now holding it in your hands. I’m jumping up, walking backwards. ‘No,’ I’m saying. ‘You couldn’t.' You’re struggling to keep your arm up in the air. You’re shaking, shivering, whimpering, crying, wriggling, squirming…laughing and with the last of your strength, you shoot.