My Light, My Jimin

Chapter 34: School Fight

JIMIN

We're five feet apart, sitting on the gross bathroom floor, and I can see the door from here. In front of me, the professor is staring at the space behind me. Or maybe directly at me. I haven't checked to see if it's true, but I don't need to. I feel his gaze burn through my skull. It leaves me looking at the ground, then at my phone.

Yoongi still hasn't responded and his silence scares me. I have no idea why shoes of all things would be important to him, but I bite my lip. Combat boots with slacks do not equal a professional attire.

My suspicions grow when the man shifts closer to me, sliding just two tiles away from me.

I freeze. I do not move. I do not look at him.

It's not like it was five minutes before. There's no more acting or subtle glances. He gives full stares. I'm willing to bet he doesn't work here, but I can't admit to myself that he's the man who tried to kill another professor. People like that exist in horror movies, not real life.

"Who are. . . " I start to say, a breathless word that's cut off by a shushing noise he makes when he lifts a finger to his lips.

"I think I heard something," the man says, and it catches me by surprise when his eyes zone in on the door. "Let's hide in the big stall."

He starts coming for me, arms outstretched like he's herding me into the stall. My breaths quicken.

Shit. Shit. Shit. The door is blocked by the trashcan. I'm trapped with him- whoever he is.

I jump up, because he's reaching for me before I can even cross the room, and if I can get away from the corner and to the door, maybe I can. . .

He backhands me so fast, I don't have time to react; I just fall down. My teeth clatter together as my chin hits the tiled floor. White-hot pain rings in my ears, the only thing in my mouth is blood. I spit it out on the floor and shake in a curled up ball. Fuck.

"Don't move," the man says as he steps over me, planting one foot by my side and the other hovering right over my fingers that curl under him like worms.

Everything around me wobbles as I cough up more blood and groan. I'm pretty sure I've bitten off a piece of my tongue. I look up and he's pointing a scalpel at me, a tiny, microscopic weapon wielded like a butcher's knife. The tip is bloody, and a drop of red lands right on my cheek. It slides down my face and I let out a strangled cry.

He bends over and swipes up the blood, his finger pressed roughly against my cheek. "Let's go in the stall together." There's no gentleness to his tone. No room for compromise.

I dig my elbows into the uncomfortable, bloody, bathroom floor. I have to get up.

My phone clatters to the floor, the sudden noise stealing away the man's attention. Here's my chance.

I leap up so fast, my legs almost miss the floor. I scramble to the trashcan and heft it out of my way, creating a gap in between the door. My chance for freedom. I inhale and scream as loud as my voice will carry. I scream and try to wiggle out before a hand is on my shoulder and snatches me back.

I bounce against the bathroom wall, the mirrors rattling at the impact. I try to run, but he catches up to me, raising the scalpel and I jerk. My mouth throbs at the idea of more damage. My cheek is swelling up already.

He chuckles, lowering the scalpel, as if he likes the fear in my eyes. He goes for my arm, gripping me in place. This is so much terrifying than the scalpel. At least with a weapon, I had the hope of getting it away from him. With his touch, it's a part of him; a violation to me.