Wanting
23 May 2019Today’s prompt: “Put two characters, each of whom wants something from the other, in a room together. Neither of them is allowed to ask for it straight out. Give them five minutes with only dialogue to get what they want.” [I don’t feel like writing a dialogue-heavy scene today, so I’m going to modify this just slightly.]
You’re sitting across the table from a person with a slight build, their blond hair in a short, boyish cut.
“I know what you want,” they say. They pull a set of keys from their pocket and set them on the table with a clank. You eye them and nod. One of them looks like it will fit the padlock on the door out of this room. Another would almost certainly operate a vehicle outside. You could drive far away from this treacherous place.
“And you know what I want,” they say. They pull a vicious-looking jackknife from their pocket, unfold the blade, and set it on the table with a solid clack.
You stiffen a bit and breathe deeply. You know what they want. They want to drive the knife deep into your neck. They want to watch the red stains pool on your shirt as blood blooms from your carotid artery. They want to hear your soft wet breaths escaping from a bloody hole in your trachea as you expire on the cold tile floor.
“I want it more,” they say, and smile, unmoving.
That’s not possible. It’s simply not possible that their desire to kill you could surpass your will to survive.
The next few seconds crawl by like eons.
They still haven’t moved. Their hands are sitting on the table, their fingers interlaced. Their eyes are boring holes into yours.
Are they daring you to move first? Do they think their reflexes are that much faster than yours?
Should you try to grab the keys, and then push them to the ground? Force your way to the door? Slam your fist into their hand as they reach for the knife when you grab the keys? Grab the knife yourself, and kill them first? Knock the knife to the far side of the room and grab the keys?
That last one. It’s not that you’re against killing them. It just seems like it has the greatest likelihood of success. They’ll scurry for the knife and you can run for the door, and have more of an edge with the timing.
You tell your arm to bat the knife away. Your hand moves, but instead of keeping the back of your hand to the handle of the knife so you can quickly swipe it to the far wall, your hand turns. Opens. Reaches for the handle of the knife.
Your eyes widen. You glance at the person sitting before you. Their eyes flicker up to meet yours, then narrow again, their gaze now leveled at your hand.
You try to move your hand away from the knife, to reach for the keys instead. But it’s like you’re in an invisible arm wrestling contest. And you’re losing.
Your hand grasps the knife. It raises the blade to your neck. It carves a thin red line across your throat. It punctures your windpipe. You gasp wet, fluttery gasps. Your blood soaks your shirt.
They breathe deeply and allow their muscles to relax. They wanted it more. And they got what they wanted.