21. Paris Young

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                   "AREN'T THERE STAIRS?"

                    "Locked,"  Paris said.

                    "What about the windows?"

                    "Have you looked outside?"

                     Rory pushed her wheelchair back through the cluttered path of objects, her sharp jaw flexing against her cream skin. The sound of her wheelchair striking metal drew Paris's attention.

                    "What are you doing?" Paris demanded.

                    "I'm . . . not entirely sure."

                    "Stop it, you idiot!" Paris said. Frustration flowing through her, heavy and thick. "Knocking yourself against the elevator isn't going to get us out of here."

                    Rory paused. "How about the door to the stairs?"

                    Miserably, Paris said, "I told you, it's locked. The hospital sealed off the basement years ago because of―"

                    "Because of?"

                    "Rats," Paris whispered, and she shuddered.

                    Blankly, Rory stared at her.

                    "Rats?"

                    "Rats," Paris said, and she wrapped her arms around herself, almost instinctually. Thinking of the sharp-teethed, oily-haired, beady-eyed demon creatures.

                    "You're scared of . . . rats?" 

                    "Yes, I'm scared of rats!"

                    Just thinking of their pointed red stare, their long shivering snouts, and the chitter of their tiny, clawed feet against concrete made Paris's head spin.

                    Rats―her childhood nightmare.

                    "I'm sure there aren't any rats in the wintertime," Rory said soothingly. And then she snickered.

                   Paris whipped around. Crossing her arms.

                   "I don't think this is funny," she said coldly. "Any of it." 

                   "My sense of humour was always better than yours, though."

                   "Your sense of humour is inappropriate."

                   "That's what makes it better."

                   "Just because something is dirty, it doesn't mean it's funny!"

                   "I disagree," Rory said, a wicked glint in her eyes as she pushed her wheelchair through decade-old remnants of items. "I think I'm hilarious."

                   "You and no one else."

                   "Maybe I'm a misunderstood genius."

                   "I think you're misunderstanding the part where anyone else considers you a genius."

                   Rory smirked. "But you're afraid of rats."

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