Alone The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,1
jackets, and the older guy had shoes that squeaked. Most people wouldn’t notice, but right then I was hyperaware. He put a foot down on the linoleum in the kitchen and when he went to take another step there was a subtle sound, the squeal of rubber soles that caused those little hairs on my arm to stand up.
I weigh a hundred and thirty-seven pounds and stand five foot four. The old one was over six feet, the younger a little taller than me. The young one held his hands in front of him, probably because his eyes still hadn’t adjusted.
What do you do in a situation like this? I couldn’t run; I’m not allowed to leave the house. That’s rule number two, courtesy of Mom. So when she’s at work, I’m at home. When she gets home from work, I’m at home.
I don’t leave the house, ever.
The two of them edged their way around. The old fat one stepped on a soda can and swore again. I was suddenly thankful for my pitiful housekeeping efforts of late. I saw the younger one heading toward me, and wondered what to do. Can’t leave. I reached to my right and felt the press of an eskrima stick in my hand, leaning against the old record player. I picked it up and transferred it to my left hand while my right went back to searching for its companion.
Eskrima sticks are batons, each about two feet in length. I could fight with one alone, if I had to, but I’m better with two. Mom started teaching me martial arts when I was six. I’m only allowed to watch an hour of TV a day, and that’s if I do all my chores, all my studies, and I’ve behaved myself. The eskrima sticks are part of my studies. Two hours of martial arts every single day, no exceptions.
The young guy peered through the door and didn’t see me. I was huddled against the wall, motionless, crouching at waist level for him. He swiveled when I moved but before he got a chance to react, I brought the eskrima stick up into his groin. I didn’t know him or what he was here for, so I didn’t swing with full force, but it still ruined his day. Just like Mom taught me.
He let out a scream and I rose, driving the point of my shoulder into his solar plexus – that’s the place in your stomach where if you get hit, you’d say you got the wind knocked out of you. Wheezing and gasping, it sounded like he was going to get sick on me. Mom says that happens sometimes, so I moved out of the way as he fell to his knees. An eskrima stick to the back of the head put his lights out. As he fell, I caught a faint whiff of a pleasant scent – sweet yet pungent, cologne of some sort I guessed. It was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before. I liked it.
A stream of curses reached my ears from Oldie in the living room, and I saw his hand come through the door, so I reached out and made a connection with his wrist – with one of the sticks, of course. Just a tap. He yanked it back with a grunt of pain. I flung myself through the door, leading with a front kick that he blocked with the same hand I had just whacked, and he grunted again before trying to counter with a punch.
He was pretty far away, so I let him follow through. I didn’t think he could see me, and he was as slow as a glacier compared to Mom. She practiced with me every day, and still beat the hell out of me during practice. You’d think after training with the woman for twelve years I’d have figured out how to beat her, but no…
Oldie took another swing and I sidestepped, my feet carrying me into the kitchen. I brought the eskrima stick overhand and cracked him on the head as I let out a little giggle. I couldn’t help it, really. Day after day it was study, study, study, practice, practice, maybe watch a little TV, wonder why I’m not as good at fighting as Mom, and then one day you wake up and there are two men in the house. And I’m beating them both senseless without giving it my full effort.