Hello Monday

Part 8; 3:38 pm

Light slips from the room as the sky turns darker and darker, reflecting my future.

That's right. I've accepted my doomed fate since Dr. Sanders locked the door a minute ago.

"Talk. We don't have all day. What do you want?" I can see Dr. Sanders' patience running thin.

He tries to keep the smug look on his face, but the pain on his head overpowers. He touches the wound on his hairline and grimaces. Serves him right. That doesn't stop him from talking, though. "Not what, who," he says criptically.

My patience is equally running thin. "Just tell us, will you?" I cry with a constipated look.

Excruciatingly slow, he lifts up a finger and points it at Dr. Sanders, "We want her."

My response is immediate, "Absolutely not."

"It's not up for debate, sweetheart. If we don't get her, we're not leaving."

"Why do you even need her? At least be less vague. Get straight to the point."

"It won't be as fun if I tell you everything now," he replies with a pout.

I take a threatening step towards him, fists once again clenched tightly on my sides. Dr. Sanders, who has been quiet for a while now, has had enough of our pointless discussion, "Take me."

I stop midstride. My head whips back to look at her. "Come again?"

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Monday annoyingly sniggers.

"Under one condition," Dr. Sanders adds.

For the first and hopefully the last time, I give Dr. Sanders an angry glare. Don't you dare.

"Let her go back and I will go with you to wherever you want me to go." She dares. My heart sinks when I see the pained expression on her face.

"Doct–"

"You'll do that, won't you?" she interrupts me with urgency. That's when it hit me. She used a contraction. Scratch that. She used two contractions in one sentence. I have never heard her use a single contraction, let alone two. So the fact that she chose to use it at this very moment tells me that this fearless woman... is afraid. It is as if she knows that sometime very soon, something is about to go awfully wrong. 

And I don't like it one bit.

When Monday says nothing, she pushes past me and stands in front of him. "Mr. Monday, please. Where do you want to take me? Let us go now," then she whispers something in his ear.

His eyes, they tell stories. Whatever Dr. Sanders whispered in his ears must have affected him a great deal because I could see the battle in his eyes. Although that look left as quickly as it came, I saw it nonetheless. He looks at something behind me and gives a curt nod. Before I could turn around to see what he was looking at, the door burst open. There stands a man who satisfies my imagination.

Unlike this Monday fellow, he looks everything like Sylvester Stallone in The Expendables. He sports a black t-shirt with a black sleeveless vest over it, black trousers, black shoes, and, I assume, black socks as well. The muscles on his arms that strain against his shirt looks like it had been worked out one too many times. It is not the kind I find attractive.

The next thing I notice about this man is the stance he takes up. He stands as if he has power and authority, which I'm sure he has. As far as I can tell, if there's a leader in this team of men, it's him.

"Ladies," he acknowledges us. "This the girl?" he directs the question at Monday.

"Yeah," Monday replies.