The Other Hailey

4| bulletproof

     Of all sounds humans are capable of producing, the scream tends to seize the most attention. It is considered "rough" and we perceive it as unpleasant. Creating very rough sounds is correlated with activity in the brain's amygdala, a region associated with feelings of fear. So, when my mouth is opened the widest it has ever been, with my voice at the top of my lungs, I can't help it, I'm terrified.

"Fuck. Stop screaming!"

"It's hard not to scream when I have guns pointed at my head!"

"Oh," One out of the two sitting before me says, uncocking her gun. "Don't worry it's not loaded."

"It's not loaded, and you just cocked it?" I scream.

"Gabe, lower your weapon. She doesn't look harmful. I mean, come on, she screams like a three-year-old." The middle aged, black woman with thick black curls says to her partner— the security man with a buzzcut who previously pulled me out of the mall. His nice smile has vanished into the air, and has now been replaced with a vicious look.

I take a moment to observe the two. That's what you're supposed to do in a kidnapping situation— according to Wikipedia. You're to stay calm, despite the insane feeling to shit your pants, and you're to try to connect with the kidnappers, while scanning the environment as much as you can.

The van is empty, the only thing occupying it is our humanly matter. It hasn't moved, so we're still outside the mall, meaning I have a perfect chance of survival. However, with the sensed conflict between the male and the female, I'm thinking they might accidentally shoot me right here, with my sister few meters away.

At that thought, I start to sweat all over, trembling and shaking on the floor of the van. My mouth goes dry and my heartbeat is irregular, fast, strong, and thereby creating the sensation of muscle aches. I recognize this feeling all too well. My anxiety has gotten worse since I lost my parents. So, getting into a life-threatening situation barely a month after they died isn't doing me any good.

"That's the thing with these gen z's. They are mischievous. They look innocent, but I bet you she's plotting an insane means to escape right now." The fake security man —who I've learnt is called Gabe— says, pointing his gun at my head still.

"Why wouldn't she try to escape? You kidnapped her."

"We kidnapped her." Gabe corrects.

"No, that was your plan. I only wanted to interrogate her peacefully."

"And we shall do the interrogations, Dimitri."

With his latest sentence, I sense a bit of an accent. He must be Russian, and the woman, a black American.

Both eyes fall on me, contemplating what their next move will be.

My throat feels tight as I say, "Please, don't hurt me."

"Oh, we would never hurt Veronica, even if you're just a mere lookalike." Gabe responds, his brown eyes reflecting sincerity.

My forehead creases. Okay, why the fuck are guns and Veronica connecting?

"Then lower your gun if you won't use it, butthead. She'll clearly not process anything we say if she's trembling in fear." Dimitri rolls her eyes.