Chapter 60th

I body-slammed the door, crashing into the principal's office, stopping only on the large mahogany desk, its solidness serving as a brake to my mindless race.

I pulled the hair from my face, trying to see better in the dark as I fumbled my way around the desk, accidentally dropping everything on my wake with those agitated hands – no time to care, no point in being quiet, not anymore.

My shaking was so intense, I could barely move, barely think! It didn't feel like I could do it – not like that, not when I needed speed and precision, and my limbs only responded with that inaccurate flailing.

There were papers and… things everywhere. So many objects: clock, trinkets, statuettes, folders, all heaped and piled up.

Part of me was too scared to be there, it just wanted to yield to that primal call of fear, to hide under that desk and somehow think I would not be found. Useless impulses! Why weren't they there before, when I really needed them – before even getting close to Chris?!

I slammed my hands against the desk, nervousness getting the best of me, and as I flung my arms across the surface, sending everything down, I finally found it: the telephone, the handset hanging by its cord, tossed about in my early panic. I fumbled for it, pulled it up again, pulled the base to me. I willed my fingers to dial… they failed me so many times, it was excruciating! At last, I managed to get the individual numbers in, to press only one button at a time – emergency! Then I stepped closer to the wall, deeper into the shadows, fear at its peak now that I was so close!

I tried to control my breathing, to silence it, at least – I put the phone to my ear, counting on there being someone else on the other end.

"H-hello?" I thought I'd whisper, I gathered the courage to use my voice, I constrained all my throat muscles, bidding them be silent, and still my voice came out a choked, coarse and very much audible cry.

I winced, bracing, expecting that, like in a nightmare, Chris would materialize in there, attracted by the sound I made. It didn't happen… but it didn't matter, either: the line was mute. I pressed my thumb to the switch – pressed it down hard and long, as if effort could make it – and when I let go, nothing… no tone. I laid the base back down on the desk, put the handset back in its place, as if that made any fucking difference… then I gasped, first silently, then hyperventilating, gushing noisy panic, my eyes fixed and stagnant, dread consuming, at last: The phone didn't work. It was disconnected. There was no way out from there now. No time to run for the next exit – to gain the streets again.

Of course! Of course it was no coincidence that Chris was coming out of the one place that lead into the maintenance room – it was there that all the power lines and cords led to. I had been so stupid as to trap us in that empty, vast school building – Chris just took the chance to prep the scene, cutting out all communication so that I wouldn't interrupt him – not with any real attempt at escaping, not with one that could actually represent a chance! Now, the school was a controlled environment for him, his hunting grounds, and one more time I found I had only made his life easier to come and take mine! At this point, could I call it accidental, or was I simply being unconsciously suicidal? Whatever it was, I kind of understood it: I felt tired, like I wished it would end already – one way or the other.

I knew he was behind me… I could feel the interrupted circulation of air. He didn't need to announce himself, or to seize me at once: it was all under control! And just to confirm it, I turned to see him standing at the doorway, hands in his pockets, an amused, excited expression coloring his face: to behold my realization, and watch me react to the disclosure of my defeat.

"Are you all done?" He cocked a sideways smile, waited patiently for an answer that didn't come.

He eyed me with those smiling eyes for a while, mocking my silence and my failed attempt, challenging me to say something brave again, waiting as if it was my turn in a chess game, having just called 'check'. Yes… that's just what it was: his conceitedly challenging me to make a move, while knowing there was no winning.

And though I was aware of that: aware that I could only amuse him by trying, aware that I was too tired, I still couldn't stop, not while I could still stand! What could I do at that point? Where could I possibly run to, with him standing on the door. Nowhere! I was a cornered animal, pacing from one side to the other, looking for a miraculous exit, but just like a cornered animal – just as equally irrational – I attacked him, lunging at him hoping all my weight would be enough to displace him. I crashed into his waiting hands, they seized me by my arms, squeezed, pushed me back though I kicked and screamed.

My planting my feet down was futile – he pushed me against the desk, tried to control my arms, tried to push me down against its surface. Whenever I tried to slip through his sides, he blocked me, pressing harder against me, until I was effectively pinned.

I knew where this would end, if I lost here… I knew this was it! So I fiercely punched and clawed, and pulled my arms from his grip whenever he got a hold of them, pulled them free even when it felt I might displace my wrist in the effort. I passed my arms around his in the intention of holding them down – too feeble to manage! But still it left him open enough for the second part of my desperate fight: I threw myself upwards, headbutting his chin. Breaking his impenetrable stance, I attacked him again, jumping at him with a series of punches and kicks meant to move him out of my way.

I don't know, then, if I simply annoyed him, or if I finally actually posed some real threat, but he tried to keep me at arm's length, and having failed, he struck me across the face, throwing me to the side. I crashed against a bookshelf on the wall and fell down.

Before I could get up, he pushed me down again, stepped over me, one foot on each side. Panic struck, and I screamed and writhed as he captured my wrists, then bent on one knee, then finally crouched down over me, immobilizing my legs. I pulled myself from him with a series of kicks, half-crawled under the desk, looking for something, anything that could help me, my arm stretched ahead, trying to reach for a statuette – one heavy enough! Chris pulled me by the ankles and yanked me from there, turning me around and grabbing me by the torso. I placed my hands over his face, trying to push him away – to hurt him somehow! Another slap struck me, tossing my head aside… it stung! It burned! But I couldn't stop… not just yet! His hand weighed down my shoulder, trying to immobilize me, his thighs gripped the sides of my legs, but I was slender enough, mobile enough to turn on my stomach once more, to stretch myself under the desk, to feel across the filthy carpet for something that could aid me, something amidst all that clutter I sent down in my last frenzy. I grabbed the closest hard thing I could find: a magic eight ball, those that tell you your fortune. Had it been an actual billiard ball, one blow to his temple might win me my freedom… but it was nothing but a plastic toy. I tossed it, sparing a thought to wonder what fortune it had for me as it was shaken by our struggle – would it be an ironic one? A befitting one? If it foretold my death, would that be enough for me to stop and finally, finally give up? I sighed, tired, sore, despondent… but still fighting: my hand kept feeling around, and though I couldn't find the statuette I needed to strike him, something else would do: a graffiti can, no doubt confiscated by the principal and left there as evidence against the accused. I managed to pull it closer with the tip of my fingers, to finally grasp it in time, as Chris pulled me and turned me, his hand grabbing me by my jaw, immobilizing. I pulled the can from under the desk and sprayed it across his face, painting his eyes black.

He squeezed them shut under the assault, immediately letting go of me to shield his eyes, or rub the blinding paint out. I crawled from under him. Before I could run, he somehow captured my arm mid-air and flung me against the threshold. I gasped at the blow, but still managed to escape his grip, and still managed to run, limping and wounded, through the corridor, while he stumbled behind me, half-blind, a new form of impatience moving him: he pulled the pistol from his belt, held it up in the air, and chased after me!