The Steady Hand

Here is another one of my short stories!  I wrote it not too long ago and I also used it as the backbone for a personal response essay for english class.  I think this one is a little more developed, so I opted to put this version on my blog, but if you would like to read both let me know!:)

The quietness seeps through the darkness like a secret. I try to keep still, as not to disturb it, but it seems the more I focus on keeping still, the more obvious my movements become. I don’t speak. Nobody is speaking. I feel my heartbeat quickening as my nerves tense. I hardly dare blink. Solid footsteps can be heard coming closer to the dark room we are all standing in. I feel a hand take mine and squeeze it offering comfort. Even in the black air, I know who it is, for when has he ever let me down?
The footsteps are crystal clear now and just as they become a beat, they stop. Uneasy silence again for a moment, then the door swishing open, the clearing of a deep voice and the lights flickering on. I can now see the familiar room; an old, cement walled classroom with dim, orange lights. I didn’t know what was waiting behind me and I dared not turn to get a glimpse.
The man standing in front of us was big. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and plain black tie; Simple and professional- the way he always dressed. He stares us down, all five of us, and then says in a mocking tone, “One of you is missing, isn’t he?” I want to punch him in the face, but I know that will only make the whole situation that much worse. His hand squeezes mine again and calms me considerably. “How are things going to go down this time, kids?” He raises his eyebrows. “We didn’t do it, Sir.” My friend, Kyle spoke up. It was a risky move, but we all knew it was the truth. The man takes a wide step so he is face to face with Kyle, “Didn’t do what?”
“Whatever you are accusing us of, Sir.”
The man squints angrily, “How many times have I heard that excuse?” He says it as more of a statement instead of a question. I hate him, more and more every time.
“We didn’t do it.” I hear myself say sternly. In my peripherals, I see his head twist my way and then the sound of a sarcastic chuckle.
“And aren’t you one to trust, Miss. Brylee.” He says, smirking. He had reason, but this time I really am telling the truth and it kills me to think I have cried wolf too many times. “Would you like to tell me who did?” While he awaits a reply, he walks to a wooden desk at the front of the room and takes out a few things. A belt and three rings which he places on his fingers. Knuckle rings. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen them.
“We don’t know.” I answer. He starts coming towards me and I take a deep breath preparing for the blow. He comes until his nose is almost touching mine, then in a dark whisper he says, “Are you going to let the rest of your friends be punished or are you going to admit to the crime?” I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out and quietly submit, “It was me.”
“The rest of you may go.” He says as an order. The hand in mine doesn’t let go and I try to loosen it away, but then the more it holds on tight. The others were making their getaway. “John?” The man says, “You were not asked to stay.”
“It was me and Brylee.” He states nobly. I silently urge that he would just go. I have been through this; I know how to soften the blow as much as possible.
“Go.” The man orders harshly, taking our hands and ripping them apart. I can feel John eyeing me, expecting me to ask him to stay, but I can’t do that to him. He doesn’t deserve it and he wouldn’t know how to handle it. Finally, he leaves the room reluctantly, leaving me and the man face to face. It seems like the lights are diming and the mouldy smell of the room makes me nauseous. He twists the rings on his fingers and tauntingly runs his fist along my jaw line. I stay still, knowing better than to say anything or try to fight him off. He walks around in tight circles, examining me from all angles. The room is filled with a creepy silence and I hold my breath. He stares into my eyes hard, and then spits into my face. I close my eyes for a brief moment, returning to my centre, trying my best not to retaliate. I reach for the hand, but it is no longer there.
“Brylee, Brylee, Brylee…” He whispers, and then I feel the hard punch of metal knuckles on my cheek. I stumble sideways, collapsing hard into one of the desks. “Get up!” He yells, kicking me. I stand weakly, just to get hit again, this time hitting my head on the way down. I feel the pain surge through me and hear myself whimper, “Dad, no more. Please.” I am still somehow alive, yet I wish I could just die, so I wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore. I can feel his breath close to my mouth as he sneeringly, bitterly says, “You deserve it.” I don’t react, partly because my body doesn’t have the strength to get up, and partly because I just want him to leave. It is a long moment before I hear him stand and walk to the door, slamming it behind him. I lay on the cold ground trying to regain consciousness. Then as if an answer to my prayers, I feel a warm hand in mine, a soft squeeze and the gentle kiss of John beside me, cleaning me up as he had done so many times before.