Corn, Cows, and the Apocalypse (Part 1) by Felicia Jedlicka Page A

with only three thoughts: knife, screwdriver, and bedroom.  To break that down for you, I offered myself three options to survive.  The first of course was to fight, yeah right.  The second was to find a screwdriver and twist the remaining hardware in the door in order to escape—not enough time.  The third option was to run up to my bedroom and hide behind a locked door. 
                  In truth I wanted to go hide.  Two weeks ago, and maybe even one day ago I might still have done that, but I already knew the only weapons I had up there were toxic hairsprays and girdles.  If they hadn’t killed women this far in, they weren’t likely to kill a grim. 
                  My hair snagged on something as I changed directions at the last second to the kitchen.  The pain was easily ignored.  I didn’t bother turning to see how close he was.  I was already moving at impossible speed: “mach holy shit.” 
                  I reached the chopping block and found only one large butchers knife in it.  Garrett had wisely removed the remaining knives so that the grim didn’t follow my lead and grab one also.  I flung the block behind me hanging onto the knife as it unsheathed.  Rounding the island I grabbed the skillet drying by the sink.
                  There was no guarantee of anything at this point, but I knew my speed wouldn’t hold out, and frankly without getting trapped in smaller rooms upstairs, I needed to turn around and face the grim truth.  Literally .
                  I whipped the skillet behind me as I turned.  The pan made impact with the grim chipping part of his face.  My retreat slowed and he reached to grab me.  I jumped out of his reach and stabbed his vulnerable hand.  Though he didn’t feel any pain, he did take the slightest inventory of his now missing finger. 
                  I squatted low and fast—kicked out his knee.  He stumbled and I stood using the momentum of my rise to jump up.  I careened the skillet at his head and landed a satisfying fracture.  I toppled onto to him as he went down to the floor, and I stabbed him repeatedly until his arms had crumbled away and his growl had quieted.      
                  I panted over my kill with only a minor amount of satisfaction.  A slow clap brought my attention back to the room.  Garrett had come back in and was standing over me like a proud teacher.  His mouth wasn’t smiling, but he’s eyes were.
                  I dove at him, neglecting the knife, but gripping the skillet firmly.  He must have expected the lunge, because he caught my arms and hastened my descent to the floor.  He didn’t attack, but he did ready himself for another attack from me.  “You’re not ready to fight me.”  He said flatly when I gripped my skillet again. 
                  “I hate you.”  I said tossing the skillet aside. 
                  He relaxed his stance and offered me a hand up.  “That’s okay.” 
                  I took the proffered hand out of some sense of truce, and he pulled me up.  I started to walk away, but he didn’t let go of my arm.  I expected to see a coy smile on his face.  Something indicating that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of my hand. 
                  A few too many romance novel scenes later and I was twisted up in his arms with one of the missing kitchen knives at my throat.  “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”  He murmured in my ear.                Apparently breakfast wasn’t just postponed, but cancelled.

 
     
     
    -The Middle-
                  A month later, I should have been getting better, but I wasn’t.  Garrett insisted that I was, but he was still beating me hand over fist, and that was quite literally.  I was covered in bruises, and slashes.  I was the poster child for abused