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|A Town of mass Destruction (standard:other, 2372 words)|
|Author: Leah Lalaland||Added: Jan 06 2002||Views/Reads: 1844/1349||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|What happens when your boyfriend holds a gun to your head and makes you swear not to tell...|
A town of mass destruction I am standing outside the bank of America in Roswell, New Mexico. It’s 98 degrees out. I am boiling hot, and scared, because I know that Pablo is going to come out any second and hold his gun to my head and make me swear not to tell, like in the last three banks. Pablo is a power freak, a money freak, and an out of control man. He’s about four years older then I, and sometimes he grips my arm so tight I think I’m not gonna’ be able to breath anymore. Here he is. His hair is greasy with the oil from his father’s car shop because they are too poor for hair gel. He is angry. “Rosana, don’t tell.” His gun is there again, and tears are streaming down my face. I don’t want this to be the Pablo I loved just two weeks ago. “Dammit, girl, swear you won’t tell or I’ll blast that stupid head off your neck!’ he shouts at me. I can feel his heart beat thump up and down, he’s so close to me. I don’t want to swear. I don’t want to be next to Pablo, I don’t want him breathing down my neck. I want to break away from him and run, but he has the strong grip on my arm again. “I swear.” Pablo shoots the big gun up at the sky, scaring the birds hovering above away. There is no one in sight. “P-Pablo, do we have to g-go to the other banks?” He slaps my face so hard it burns. I don’t need an answer. “Hey, babe, I’m sorry. But this ain’t some small thing. If the cops catch me, we’re both gonna be locked up in those damn jail cells,” he tells me. I break away from him and head to the beat up Honda that he stole a week ago because his car broke down. I step into the car and buckle my seat belt. Pablo does the same. He starts up the car, and we roar up the street. “Rosana, do you love me?” he asks, swerving a dude talking on a cell-phone. I’m afraid to speak. To say the wrong thing, to die. “Yes.” “Good. So you won’t tell. I can trust you.” He is silent for a moment, then grabs me, kisses me hard on the mouth. I rip away, panting hard. “Hey, babe,” he says, using his pet nickname for me, “What’s wrong?” I stiffly gaze out the window. Sure, I’m scared of Pablo, but I’m angry at him, too. Part of me just wants to grab him and rip him up and scratch him with my slightly long fingernails until he bleeds, while the other half just wants him to stop threatening me. It is until after I start thinking about Pablo before he had to many drinks that night that I realize that tears are flooding down my cheeks. “Wassamatter, scared?” “Bastard,” I mutter under my breath. “What?” “Nothing.” “Did you call me a bastard?” “No.” The death grip is back. “I think you did call me a bastard. Now fess up!” It feels as though he’s cutting off my circulation. “Yes.” He’s going to break my arm, I’m sure of it. But instead he let’s me go. “Don’t ever, ever, EVER do that again!” he shouts, shattering my eardrum. “Never.” He is one, though. His dad had about a million love affairs, and Pablo was a love child. He switches the radio off, and we drive Way into the night. By 11:00 p.m., we’ve reached the outskirts of Nevada, and we drive through the still desert. I want to open the car door, roll out, and make a break for it, but Pablo would probably shoot me. We stop, and Pablo turns off the car. “Time to rest for the night,” he tells me. As I drift off to sleep, I begin to dream about my poor mother and what she’s thinking right now. When I wake up, Pablo is lying beside me. “We have two more hours”, he says. “Wanna snuggle?” I push him away. “How can you say that if you hate me?” I ask. “Aww, you know I don’t hate you.” “You sure act like it!” “Common, Rose. I’ll get us a room. We can...” “No! It’s bad enough that you try to hurt me, but don’t try to seduce me in the same God damn day!” “Never tell me what I can or cannot do, woman!” he shouts, waking all of Vegas. Then he pulls me close and kisses me, not letting me get away with my shirt still on me. Two hours later, we’re driving into Las Vegas. It’s morning, so the lights are still turned off and the city is still. Pablo stops the car at a tacky looking diner, and we step out of the car. He has his arm around me, so it looks like we’re some young couple kickin’ it back for the weekend, but I can feel the gun through his jacket, and it’s a constant reminder that I’ll be dead if I make one wrong move. A waitress with greasy hair and tons of blue eye shadow seats us. “What would you guys like?” I order soup, and Pablo orders a plate of Click here to read the rest of this story (123 more lines)
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