Obsession by Lena Little
4
Carolina
The feeling of water droplets gently tapping against my eyelids awakens me from my light sleep just in time to see the geyser that’s headed my way.
The man who’d been cleaning the floors on the machine now holds a pressure hose, a smile emanating from his mouth which holds few teeth.
I’d read about Italian train stations and bus stops getting their kicks from indiscriminately spraying down anyone who dared sleep on their “hallowed” grounds in the wee hours of the morning. It was almost their way of letting off steam after a night full of work, enjoying spraying down the homeless, backpackers, and random tourists and travelers alike.
I reach for my backpack, a quick sigh of relief escaping me when my hand makes contact with it where it rests, still underneath my legs. But my victory is short-lived as I brace myself from the onslaught that’s a second away from drenching me, and my belongings, to the core.
And then suddenly the water disperses…to my left and right equally as a large frame steps in front of me and walks the stream down, all the way back to the source. Is that even humanly possible? Was someone else sleeping next to me? Someone much bigger than me?
Whoever he, or it is takes on the entire brunt of the spray until he reaches the end of the hose. Grabbing the spray nozzle and quickly wrapping the hose around the cleaning man’s neck like a nose. And then the stranger lifts his hands overhead and the color leaves the cleaning man’s face.
I tuck my head to the side and prepare to run while I still can, but I take one last look and see that not only is the exit blocked by a hulking man in a tight black T-shirt, black pants, and black boots, but also that the man that’s having his way with the jerk who was about to spray me is the Good Samaritan from earlier.
How is this even possible?
I watch the cleaning man’s feet kick and the life leave his body before my rescuer lets loose of the hose and the man’s body tumbles to the ground like a stack of cards. My hero from earlier is starting to look more like a villain to more and more of the people of Italy than I can imagine. Without changing his expression he makes a sweeping circular motion with his finger and carbon copies of the man in black guarding the exit appear out of nowhere, entering a room with the words “Solo Amministrazione” emblazoned on a sign just above the handle. It doesn’t take Google Translate to figure out that room is for administration only, and those guys look far from playing the part.
They don’t care, but apparently, they do care about one thing and one thing only. Seconds later they’re stomping computers and destroying security cameras in the station with baseball bats. Hard drivers with what must be footage prove to be anything but hard under the wrath of these men who move with military precision, yet whose uniform dress code doesn’t resemble anything regarding an official military outfit. Although special forces might be another matter.
The man from the sleek Italian sports car from a few hours ago quickly closes the distance between us. “You got away from me once. It’s not going to happen again.”
He motions to one of his men. “Get the backpack.”
“You told us not to touch her, boss,” he gently protests, before a worried look covers his face telegraphing he wishes he could take his words back. “It’s underneath her legs.”
“Not anymore,” the mystery man says, scooping me up in his arms just before everything goes black.
