To say that this was [i]strange[/i] was something of an understatement.

To say that it was [i]really god damn weird[/i] was closer, but didn’t quite encapsulate the situation. Samantha wasn’t sure if there even were words sufficient. The man on the porch was…well…[i]odd[/i]. Not odd in the ‘living on the streets due to unmedicated mental illness’ but odd in a way that suggested he was perhaps on the way there. He had the look of hard living, clothes worn past their peak and long hair that was in dire need of a cut. 

He also looked [i]nothing[/i] like she imagined her captor might. That was enough to give Samantha pause. Not so much her father; he’d redirected his rifle squarely to the man’s center mass, finger resting alongside the trigger. Samantha hung back behind the screen door, keys still clasped to her chest, uncertain.


And then things got worse. The strange man whistled, sharper than she’d anticipated. She’d been listening to the farm, hunting for sounds of others, for rustling in grass or footsteps that heralded a trap. She flinched, a hand uselessly pressing an ear shut. Pain lanced through her skull, ringing in her head for a dizzying moment; and then another flinch at the bang of metal and plastic.


Then there were footsteps, so [i]loud[/i] and she took a terrified step back. Could she outrun them? She was quicker than she looked, and the strange man was no spring chicken, but the footsteps had become a man who [i]did[/i] look like he was living on the streets due to aforementioned unfortunate circumstances. Samantha held her breath as her father swept the rifle between them, shifting to plant himself more solidly in front of her. Samantha wanted to grab his hand and drag him away, slam the door and make this [i]stop[/i].

The stranger of the two spoke gruffly, voice thick and sentences clipped. 

[i]Help[/i]? She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know what help they could offer. Her father seemed less than impressed, and she could hear his heartbeat quicken. She tried to dim her hearing, but with adrenaline surging through her veins it was a useless endeavor.


“I don’t believe you,” Her father snarled, fixing the guns sights back on the first strange man. But Samantha had shifted, looking over her father’s shoulders to catch the man’s gaze. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, her knuckles white around the keys.

“I killed a boy,” she rasped, eyes stinging as her vision blurred. Her father swore, shushing her, but she couldn’t help the words from falling. “I didn’t mean to—I just wanted him to [i]stop[/i] and I don’t know how I did it.”