When We Met

Aren't you afraid of me? When he asked, my heart disintegrated, then erupted with shattered pieces, sending a loud, thunderous explosion into my chest, sending chills down my spine.

His eyes were blood red, and when I briefly caught a peek at them, all I could make out was emptiness. I was standing next to such a sterile individual who was devoid of any emotions and incapable of feeling anything.

His soothing voice kind of lured you in while also sending chills down your spine. He had rosy lips. His voice could have easily put someone into an unbreakable trance, but here I was in his presence holding onto my sanity.

"No, you don't scare me," I tried to answer his question while maintaining eye contact, but I couldn't help but glance down because there was something weighty and strange about him. I don't know why I lied and said I wasn't afraid of him, but who am I fooling? I'm terrified to the point where I'm on the verge of having to urinate, so I'm standing with my legs crossed to stop myself from embarrassing myself in front of this terrible man by letting the tank open. I'm certain he would kill me immediately away if that occurred.

Are you certain? He asked me while keeping his eyes on me as if he were researching me.

I said, "Yes, I'm sure," attempting to sound confident and mask the raging panic in my voice.

He had been shot or stabbed, but I was certain that something dreadful had happened to him when I saw blood trickling from his right hand's fingers. The question "Are you hurt?" He answered my apparent question with a slender smile, "Yes, I am," You know, you didn't even ask me to scream for help, and here I am, a total stranger looking for a place to hide, in your home. He was telling the truth; he was a stranger who had broken into my house, and I was supposed to have screamed or tried to run for help yet here I was. "I might kill you for all I know," he said, piercing my heart.

I gave him the command, "Shut up and follow me," and then I led him into the kitchen, turned on the light, and instructed him to sit down at the table and take off his top. He had attractive muscles, was wonderfully built, and was undoubtedly the sort to occasionally work out in the gym.

At the back of his right shoulder, he had a gunshot hole. I gave him a bottle of gin to drink so he could try to be ready for what was about to happen. The funny thing is, I didn't have a first aid kit, and neither am I a doctor or a nurse. I only knew what I was going to do because of the movies and TV shows I had watched before this particular night. I set those ancient steel irons on the hot plate after turning the burner to its highest setting.

You claimed to be merely a stranger. But to me, you are like a friend or an adversary I have never met before, I murmured, placing my finger into his gunshot wound. He sighed, like men do, like a dying lion that was straining too hard not to howl. "Fuc'! Oh, how it hurt! We are definitely rivals, and we just met. Are you attempting to murder me? He asked while inhaling deeply and taking a drink of gin. Sissy boys should quit talking, please. I went on to remark that I wasn't as afraid of him anymore.

I pulled out a pair of very sharp, pointed scissors and started my fairly challenging treatment on him. I had to fire the bullet because he was writhing in pain but he was silent. As he cried out in pain, I cleansed his wound by pouring gin over it. I kind of loved that. I cleansed his wound and put on the oven-safe gloves I typically wear while handling hot objects. I then ended his treatment by applying the now-very-red stolen iron from the furnace to the wound. I detected a medicinal scent.

He was trying to put on his shirts when he exclaimed, "Are you crazy, those are dirty and would cause your fresh wound to become infected, I'll go buy you some clothes to wear. I hastily entered my room to retrieve something, but since I'm a rather uncomplicated woman, I went there wearing a boyish shirt and a white sweatshirt on purpose.

He was dressed, but the white sweatshirt I gave him didn't appear to suit him. I smiled a little as I replied and swiveled to look at him from the side. I said, "Unfortunately, that's all I have that you can wear."

The restrooms are where? I need to leave, he added. When I showed him where the bathroom was, he moved quickly. He ate like a man who hadn't eaten in 20 decades when he came back from the bathroom, so I made him supper since I knew he was starving. I introduced myself as Jane and he continued, "I'm Nicholas. "Nice to meet you, Jane," he said. "You see, we are no longer strangers," he added, as he carried on eating. He drank the juice I offered him after that.

He commented, "Let me step outside to have a quick smoke and get some air," and he did. I stayed inside and questioned how I managed to act so coolly around a burglar. Was I crazy in some way? I just couldn't comprehend how in the space of a few seconds I could stop being afraid of this man. I suppose I'm one of the foolish single women in my 27th year.

When I went to check on him after he had been outside for more than fifteen minutes, I discovered that he had simply vanished. I wasn't sure whether to be terrified or relieved when I learned dad had passed away, but I was actually rather worried. I don't know why or how because I didn't know this person. He might have been a thug or, worse, a serial killer, for all I knew. The fact that I didn't even consider asking him why he had been shot in the middle of the night gave me the creeps and made me worry that perhaps I had gone crazy.

I locked the doors and secured the windows as soon as I returned home. I groaned, grabbed a bottle of wine, took a seat on the couch, took a sip, and turned the TV on. I kept watching whatever was on, but I couldn't help but be constantly thinking about Nicholas, which caused me to feel fearful once more. I drank my wine till I was sleeping out of concern that he could return and murder me.

When I went to sleep and woke up at six in the morning, the TV was still on. Four cash-in-transit thieves were shot dead by police yesterday night, and one of them managed to flee but was shot and injured somewhere in his upper body, according to the Morning News, which was on at the time.

My mouth dropped open as I wondered if I had helped a criminal. My pulse began to race, but I reminded myself that I was not going to report this and that I would never admit to having cared for a criminal. If, by chance, he was a member of that dead crew. It indicates that they murdered five men involved in cash in transit who were working for their families before his gang was slain by police gunfire and he managed to escape.

When I entered my room to get ready for work, I discovered a package of shoes on my bed. As I made sure the windows were shut and saw that they were, my heart raced. How did this happen? I carefully opened the box, and what I saw inside made me grin while also filling my heart with worry. This package contained cash—a stack of notes, including $100 bills. Inside was a message that stated:

Because I didn't want to wake you up when I returned this morning at about four o'clock, I chose to give you this box as a token of my gratitude for all you did for me. Such deeds of charity are extremely difficult to forget. There is $50,000 in the box, and the money is all yours. In the meantime, take care of yourself, Nicholas.

I wasn't sure whether to celebrate or take this money to the police since if they learned that he had visited my house and also found this money, I would be in big trouble. However, I decided against doing that. Nicholas could certainly murder me, after all. He was at the forefront of my thoughts as I was taking a shower, so I sealed the box and stashed it in the closet before getting ready for work. I have to be ill.