Ambriel

Thomas hacked and coughed awake, a chorus of church bells ringing in his head. The young man's eyes were encrusted shut, and he was content to keep them that way, possibly for another hour or three. The crumbling leather seat of his aging Cadillac Deville had a certain plush against his red collared shirt which had not been appreciated before. He may have rolled the seat back and fallen back out of our story were it not for a smart whack to his groin.
"Augh!"
His throat had the sensation of scalding water, and his bloodshot eyes zipped open. Thomas felt the world around him shudder. Within a second his eyes had fixated on the twinkling lights of a diminutive starter home in the darkness, and further inspection revealed dark figures through the thin curtains.
"I'm sorry, I thought guys liked that."
Twisting to the right, he looked out of the open door and saw Jessica, who was hardly stood over the roof of his car.
"Did you learn that at one of your meetings," Thomas replied.
"Oh, burn, ha ha." Jessica rolled her eyes.
"Or cut."
"Out before I cut you."
Thomas set one sneaker down, then the other. The ground seemed to shift under his slight frame. The world shook, and he steadied himself against the car to avoid stumbling.
"Uh, Jes, one second."
He reached down to the rusty and bare floorboard, worn yet spotless save a wad of burned paper. He pinched the wad in the tips of his fingers and supporting himself on the recess. He then pressed it into the mushy soil, followed by placing a small pebble over the finger-sized hole. With surprisingly little effort he righted himself, closed the door and said, "Let's go."
"Aren't you going to close the window?"
"Anyone who would steal this rust-bucket deserves it."
Thomas began the brief trek across the walkway, and quietly wondered if people could get tested for a noise complaint. The budget houses are budget distance from one another, and the budget drywall certainly is not doing a phenomenal job insulating the noise. Then again, would anyone care?
The door rang out with the base notes as though it was of clapboard, and at the base Thomas could see the beginnings of water damage. The music was almost blaring with the door closed, and he cursed himself for not remembering his ear plugs.
"Hey, up," he felt a small finger elevate his chin.
The door opened and Thomas almost gagged from the thunderous rhythm. He spotted speakers and string lights around the residence. He also saw a keg, much to his relief.
A husky, authoritarian man said, "Thomas. You might not remember me."
"You, uh, hey..."
"Richard. Tone down on the partying this time, alright?"
"You got it." Fuck you.
Jessica led Thomas in by the hand and Richard stood back. Thomas mingled with the other students, and Richard's sidelong glares mellowed into glances, then Richard retrieved his drink and joined a few sorority girls outside.
Thomas conversed with a spectacled biology major about an upcoming intramural, which she had almost unsettling interest in, and then conned her into retrieving a drink. Five minutes later, they were dancing to Bad Romance. Ten minutes later, she mentioned she liked his style. Fifteen minutes later, they were sharing a chair. That's when Jessica intervened.
"You might need this, darling." With attempted flair, she retrieved a black packet from her messenger bag.
Thomas paused in a haze of confusion and intoxication, pushed her hand away, and replied, "What kind of guy do you think I am? I'm not that easy!"
"That's gross! I... I've really had too much, I need to get home," the girl who Thomas had quietly dubbed "Goggles" said, her cheeks rosy with indignation.
"Wanna see about it?" Her words were a little slurred. Nice. Not too drunk for comfort, not too sober for foresight.
I should write that down.
She shoved his partner's thin, spindly frame off the chair. She nearly careened into a nearby window, eliciting a rare twinge of concern from Thomas. This, however, was short-lived as Jessica grabbed his forearm and proceeded to drag him to the white door of the bathroom.
She slammed open the door and shut it with equal enthusiasm. Thomas heard some murmurs over the blare of the speaker, staring past the seemingly juxtaposed religious icon still swinging from side to side.. This might be a bad idea.
The sensation of Jessica's lips caressing his quickly dashed any semblance of resistance. The top of her chest pressed against his upper ribs. Thomas was now more concerned about maneuvering around the tiny cubicle, and perhaps the opacity of the frosted glass window above them.
She pressed her back against the wall and placed his hand right against her breast. He caressed her cheek and nibbled her ear. He then whispered, "You're such a nice girl."
"Like Amanda?"
A shock went from the base of his spine to the tip of his head. He suddenly felt trapped, and his breaths became short and labored.
"You know, love..."
He wanted to push her away, to run for the door, but his limbs had turned to jelly. Is she going to kill me? Does she have a gun in that bulky bag? I think I'm going to pass out.
"What comes around goes around."
"You crazy b - oh God!" A small, high voice whimpered.
Thomas looked down and saw that her clothes were not limp rags hanging from her seemingly gaunt frame. One exception to this rule was the two bumps which partially obscured her now oversized shoes and the sizeable hips which hardly held up her jeans.
"What... why?" Thomas felt tears welling in her eyes.
"Why the fuck..." Jessica growled, "Would you sleep with my best friend's sister?"
Thomas looked up into her eyes, now curled and holding what she could feel were now shapely, slender legs close to her. They felt cold and exposed even under the baggy black jeans.
"Does this really compare," the high voice muttered, "to a little bit of fun?"
"My friend almost killed herself afterwards. Caitlyn still hasn't spoken to her sister. She even admitted herself to an insane asylum. No, I'm doing the world a favor."
Thomas opened her mouth to inhale, and then screamed at the top of her lungs, "Fuck you."
"You might very well be. Now, I'd advise you run."
Thomas flung her little form as hard as she could against the door, and bounced harmlessly off. She nearly dashed her head against the toilet bowl, but cocked her head reflexively down just in time.
"Not through there."
Thomas noticed she could only hear the music through the window. Then, she noticed the door had taken on a reddish hue, and strange hieroglyphics began to appear. A ceramic crucifix which hung on the door flew across the small room and onto the sink, where it shattered into several pieces. What sounded like the screams of many began to fill the room.
Thomas grabbed her seemingly colossal sneaker, which required two hands to hold, and leapt to the top of the sink. She turned expecting to give Jessica a farewell broken nose, but she found only a splotch of blood and smoke which seemed to rise from the ground. She then twirled around, swung the shoe against the window with all her might, and caused the window to fragment. Thomas then wore it over her forearm and within several seconds had cleared the glass from the frame. Diving out, she left her pants, boxers, and other shoe in that hellmouth. They don't fucking fit now anyway.
Thomas nearly slammed into the neighboring house's wall, but tumbled into the nearby bush instead. Her chest hurt from the sudden motion, and her hair tugged against the branches as she regained her bearings. She then, with awkward gait, dashed to the old, rusting car, her oversized shirt draping down to her mid-thigh. Realizing the keys were still in her pants, she reached through the opened window, unlocked the car, and then clambered over to the driver's seat. There, she retrieved the screwdriver and small hobbyist drill from the glove compartment. The drill was positioned in the keyhole and ran. A crunching noise and a small stream of smoke wafted from the keyhole. She then ripped out the drill and stabbed the seemingly giant screwdriver into the keyhole. Similar to how I can be "stabbed" now.
She turned the handle, which caused a clunking noise to reverberate from the engine. Another attempt, and a gunshot-like boom exploded from the tail-pipe. A third rotation, and the engine finally grumbled to life.
Thomas swung the failing transmission into reverse, which left her slender arm a bit sore. She then slid to the front of the seat and worked the accelerator with the tip of her toes. The car swerved out of the yard and into the street, nearly colliding with a nearby mailbox. She then, in a haze of intoxication and self-pity, proceeded to swerve to the end of the street.
Her face was burning and the streetlights were whitish blobs. The crumbling leather was chafing against her exposed legs - she was able to position her oversized shirt over her posterior and to a certain degree her crotch. The wafts of dry autumn air caused her bosom to contract slightly, a sensation which in Thomas' delirium was similar to a vice on her chest. The tears continued to stream down her face, and she made no attempt to hide them when blue and red prisms filled her vision.
I'm a block from my apartment, and I think I know the code to the key box.
The Deville curved to a nearby lot and the patrol car followed suit. With two tiny hands on the, Thomas was able to shift to park. She proceeded to tear out the screwdriver and toss it to the floor.
The officer left his car. A light burned in the side mirror. A uniformed officer strolled up, motioned for the window to be lowered. He then shined his light into the car and almost jumped back in recoil.
"Ma'am, are you alright?" He sputtered.
The girl motioned for him to approach. He hesitated, then turned his ear towards her and leaned in.
"Listen very closely to what I'm about to say," Thomas uttered.
"You are going to go back to your car and report a rape has taken place. If you do as I say, I will not name you as the suspect." I hope this pig is stupid enough not to remember the dashboard camera. Or maybe it's "malfunctioning."
The officer stumbled back, tripped over a curb, and hit his head against concrete with a hollow thud. When reason fails, the Devil helps! Thomas scooped up the screwdriver, jammed it back into the keyhole, and the car audibly sprang to life.
Thomas swung back into the street without checking. The car rattled as she sped to the corner of the street, which she parked in and then dashed to her apartment. She stumbled up the exposed metal steps and checked back towards the parking lot where the officer continued to sprawl. She thought she saw the reflection of blood on the pavement, but gave it little thought and found apartment "219." She reached down to the box, now level with her waist, and punched the code with her thumb. A shrill beep and a click, and the flap opened. Thomas grabbed the key, which slipped out of her fingers. She retrieved it from the ground, then after groping the door found the handle was now level with the bottom of her sternum.
The door opened and slammed behind her, and she twisted the deadbolt with both hands. The blinds were already closed, as always, and the studio was empty. Thomas inhaled, then her eyes felt heavy and the ground began to shift. She proceeded to the couch, set her body against it, and eyed the blank television until exhaustion took her.