Hello Monday

Part 9; 3:56 pm

I was hoping it wouldn't come down to this. In the midst of my desperation, I decide to tilt my head back harshly, hitting Monday square in the face. A string of profanities escapes his mouth while he holds his head in both hands. Although my vision is hazy from colliding with a stone for a head, I grab the gun from where Dr. Sanders dropped it on the floor.

I point the gun at Monday with one hand, while the other rubs the back of my head, hoping to soothe the the sharp pain. "Language, please!" I cry out, having enough of his aggressive behavior.

Monday lifts his head from both hands. "Princess," he starts, "this image I'm seeing right now, it doesn't suit you. Just stick to reading and stuff. This behavior won't get you anywhere. Put that down before one of us gets hurt," he deadpans.

He is not going to disrespect me like that.

I make a show of waving the gun around, glad when I see him writhe in fear. "You didn't listen to me. What makes you think I will listen to you?"

Monday squints at the rifle in my hand and lets out a breath of relief, as if he just remembered that the gun isn't real. This is stupid, I know, but I am short of ideas. He then looks at me with a pointed look, "You've got brains, I admit, but I bet you don't even know how to use that."

He's right, but I won't admit that.

I stare at the gun and turn it around in my hand. I rack my brain, recalling the recent Lucifer episode I watched. I just need to pull this thing at the top of the gun to the back, and push on this thing that only fits a finger. I try to copy what I remember by placing a hand on the top of the gun, attempting to pull it back. Nothing seems like it could be pulled back, though. Then again, they had a smaller gun, but guns are supposed to operate the same way, right? Or is it because this isn't a real gun?

Before I could pull the trigger to test my theory, my arm is held behind my back, wrist twisted. I feel the end of the gun poking the side of my abdomen. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

Monday grips my arm tightly, pressing it against my back. I'm not the most flexible person on the planet, so whatever he's doing pains me, a lot. Tears spring to my eyes from the sharp pain I feel on my wrist. I let out a gasp when all I want to do is scream. It's all about my pride: I don't want to admit that I am in pain because of this giant man.

It is only the second time he holds me in a compromising position when I realize that he is a head taller than me. He has to stoop his head down to whisper in my ear, "I didn't pin you as a disobedient girl. I told you, this behavior will not get you anywhere. You did this to yourself."

Seeing from past experiences that the only way he would let me go was to headbutt him, I plan to do just that. I aim to swing my head back again but he anticipated it so he pushes me away. I hold my wrist close to my chest, wishing the pain to subside. I wipe the tears that managed to escape, but the movement induces a sharp pain on my wrist, making the tears I tried so hard to keep in pour out.

When Monday realizes that I have become quiet all of a sudden, I can hear his footsteps approaching me. He tries to look at me and find out what's wrong, but I hide from his view because I don't want him to pin me as a weak girl who could only theoretically heal a sprained wrist.

"Hey, hey, hey. Are you–," he pauses when he hears my sniffles, "Are you crying?" I can hear the criticism in his voice. The mockery. The insult. This is why I didn't want him to find out. I offer him no explanation.

Since I know that I am in no shape to go against Monday and that there is little to no chance of him letting me go out of pity, I decide to resort to my chicken plan. I can't go out to the hallway because I can hear a few men out there. What I can do is that I can wait for Monday to be human. A few hours of him not doing anything? It should put him right to sleep. When he's asleep, I will strike and take the key from his pocket to open the connecting door and get help from the others. Won't be too hard, right?

I commence my plan by sitting down against the wall. I lean my head on the wall and hug my knees to my chest. Slowly, I close my eyes. I can feel Monday's burning stare on the side of my head. Then he starts pacing around the room for a good... twenty-seven seconds. Then he follows my lead by sitting down against the wall across me.

His voice cuts into the silence, "Be careful who you let into your heart," then he just has to spit out with disgust, "Princess." As a woman in the twenty-first century, I am a woman of free will. I can to ignore him. Keyword: can.

Instead, I opt to ask him the question that's been asked countless times but received no answer, "Why have you come," then I spit back, "Sunday." Low blow, I know.

With my eyes still closed, I hear him laugh softly, "I told you. We want her."

"Why? Why her?"

"I don't find the need to tell you that, princess."

"Stop calling me that," I growl.

"Why? Isn't that who you are?"

I keep quiet. I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. But coming from him, it's most likely an insult.

"A spoiled, selfish brat who has a brain but not a heart," he finishes.

Ah, there it is. I might just curse at him.