Run, Whirlwind, Run... [Open]
Posted: 09 Sep 2016, 05:56
A breath.
One... two... three...
Another breath.
...eight... nine... ten...
The blocks seemed to pass by quickly, more so than usual, as Benvedeaux's feet pounded the ground. Sure, she was fast (as eight first place trophies sat on the mantle of her apartment flat's fireplace would proudly state), but this was not normal fast. This was fear fast. The rapid taps of foot-to-ground barely had time to echo against the looming buildings on either side of the street before she was already on the next block.
...fifteen...sixteen...
Ben cursed her luck. She had been doing just fine in that stolen Jetta. Nobody even knew it was missing yet (as that's one of the perks of stealing it off the car lot right after closing time). But the damn thing just had to have bad oil. What kind of dealership sells a brand new car without checking the oil?! Detroit dealerships, that's what kind. The drive up to Canada had been easy enough, and crossing the border was no hassle with her plethora of expertly forged paperwork. As far as the border patrol was concerned, she was Hannah Lewis, visiting her fiancé's mother in a nursing home. She had had to wear a wig of course. Her signature white hair (which was definitely not natural on the twenty-six year old female) would be most memorable. She had also put makeup to cover her spray of freckles and worn brown contacts to match her brown wig. A prosthetic nose, chin, and cheek-fatteners definitely transformed her from Ben McBrannaugh, high-profile serial killer, to Hannah Lewis, bubbly pre-school teacher. It was such a relief to get out of that silly get-up and let her natural features free.
When she had been a child, her father (a miner named Killian) told her about a wonderful place where anybody could go and be who they are. You could be a mailman or an actor or even a mermaid (to which young Benny giggled and called absurd, as everyone knows mermaids are just as fake as vampires and werewolves and witches), but you would always find a home in this place.
'Where is this place, papa?' she would ask with wide eyes.
'It is called Harper Rock, Benvedeaux. If ever you get into trouble, you will find sanctuary there.' he would respond. Night after night, it was the same thing: her question and his response. He never did tell her exactly where. That was something she had to research on her own after his death whe she was seventeen.
'Well, I'm in some damn trouble now,' Ben huffed to herself as she ran. She had crossed the border and followed the directions to this Harper Rock, but her car had broken down about a mile from the city limits. She decided to get out and walk, but that quickly turned into a run as she felt an uneasiness in the air. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she could've sworn something was watching her in the night.
And here she was now: running down the city blocks like a mad woman, stealing glances behind her when she dared.
A sign for some sort of Irish pub lit up her interests. If there was going to be a fight, if the border patrol had caught wind of who she was and was after her, she was going to have a final drink before her fight (though it never occured to her that she didn't actually see anyone chasing her). She slowed her pace quickly and entered the pub.
She cleared her throat gently, nodding to the patron whose neck had almost snapped itself with the speed with which he looked at her. She moved past him quickly, headed straight for the bar. She avoided eyecontact with any of the people in the establishment, uninterested in any delay between her and a Macallan 12 Godfather. She tried to imagine what they were seeing: a 5'7 woman with stark white hair who was sweating and out of breath in a black v neck shirt, black leggings, and knee high boots of, you guessed it, the black colour. Her hair had been pulled up into a high ponytail that day, but that still wasn't enough to make her look like she had been on a routine jog.
'Hello. How are ya? Macallan 12 Godfather, if you will,' she quickly greeted and ordered from the bartender. She turned her back to the bar, icy blue eyes focused on the entrance (for an opponent that would never come). The thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of her right hand were twitching against her side, drumming an unknown pattern on her thigh, as her killer instinct waited in anticipation. Ben was ready for a fight. She was set to go. She was even muttering under her breath as she stood.
'Bring it, *****.'
One... two... three...
Another breath.
...eight... nine... ten...
The blocks seemed to pass by quickly, more so than usual, as Benvedeaux's feet pounded the ground. Sure, she was fast (as eight first place trophies sat on the mantle of her apartment flat's fireplace would proudly state), but this was not normal fast. This was fear fast. The rapid taps of foot-to-ground barely had time to echo against the looming buildings on either side of the street before she was already on the next block.
...fifteen...sixteen...
Ben cursed her luck. She had been doing just fine in that stolen Jetta. Nobody even knew it was missing yet (as that's one of the perks of stealing it off the car lot right after closing time). But the damn thing just had to have bad oil. What kind of dealership sells a brand new car without checking the oil?! Detroit dealerships, that's what kind. The drive up to Canada had been easy enough, and crossing the border was no hassle with her plethora of expertly forged paperwork. As far as the border patrol was concerned, she was Hannah Lewis, visiting her fiancé's mother in a nursing home. She had had to wear a wig of course. Her signature white hair (which was definitely not natural on the twenty-six year old female) would be most memorable. She had also put makeup to cover her spray of freckles and worn brown contacts to match her brown wig. A prosthetic nose, chin, and cheek-fatteners definitely transformed her from Ben McBrannaugh, high-profile serial killer, to Hannah Lewis, bubbly pre-school teacher. It was such a relief to get out of that silly get-up and let her natural features free.
When she had been a child, her father (a miner named Killian) told her about a wonderful place where anybody could go and be who they are. You could be a mailman or an actor or even a mermaid (to which young Benny giggled and called absurd, as everyone knows mermaids are just as fake as vampires and werewolves and witches), but you would always find a home in this place.
'Where is this place, papa?' she would ask with wide eyes.
'It is called Harper Rock, Benvedeaux. If ever you get into trouble, you will find sanctuary there.' he would respond. Night after night, it was the same thing: her question and his response. He never did tell her exactly where. That was something she had to research on her own after his death whe she was seventeen.
'Well, I'm in some damn trouble now,' Ben huffed to herself as she ran. She had crossed the border and followed the directions to this Harper Rock, but her car had broken down about a mile from the city limits. She decided to get out and walk, but that quickly turned into a run as she felt an uneasiness in the air. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she could've sworn something was watching her in the night.
And here she was now: running down the city blocks like a mad woman, stealing glances behind her when she dared.
A sign for some sort of Irish pub lit up her interests. If there was going to be a fight, if the border patrol had caught wind of who she was and was after her, she was going to have a final drink before her fight (though it never occured to her that she didn't actually see anyone chasing her). She slowed her pace quickly and entered the pub.
She cleared her throat gently, nodding to the patron whose neck had almost snapped itself with the speed with which he looked at her. She moved past him quickly, headed straight for the bar. She avoided eyecontact with any of the people in the establishment, uninterested in any delay between her and a Macallan 12 Godfather. She tried to imagine what they were seeing: a 5'7 woman with stark white hair who was sweating and out of breath in a black v neck shirt, black leggings, and knee high boots of, you guessed it, the black colour. Her hair had been pulled up into a high ponytail that day, but that still wasn't enough to make her look like she had been on a routine jog.
'Hello. How are ya? Macallan 12 Godfather, if you will,' she quickly greeted and ordered from the bartender. She turned her back to the bar, icy blue eyes focused on the entrance (for an opponent that would never come). The thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of her right hand were twitching against her side, drumming an unknown pattern on her thigh, as her killer instinct waited in anticipation. Ben was ready for a fight. She was set to go. She was even muttering under her breath as she stood.
'Bring it, *****.'
