Vertigo

[Rattlesnake]

((Katarina Konipaski continued from Two Opponents))

Katarina's stomach did a loop as she dropped her other leg over the railing of the bridge.

She was not a fan of heights.

You only needed to fall once, she thought. Just one time. Misstep, slip on something, sneeze at a particularly inopportune moment, and over you went. Not that it was common, or even all that likely. And you were even safer if you didn't think about it, and your legs didn't turn to jelly and your hands didn't ride a sheen of sweat over the railing. But that 0.1% chance, it meant business. And it only took one second, maybe two. It was a sort of finality that was so jarringly rare in life that you couldn't help but tiptoe around it.

And maybe because of that, or maybe in spite of that, it felt oddly liberating to perch unsteadily on the edge, scuffing her boots over each other, tapping concrete with her heels and kicking out into pure nothingness. She even braved a look down at the water trickling so far beneath her toes. Someone was there, sprawled and broken in a pool of mud and filth. A spike of fear shot through her and she closed her eyes and snapped them open and stared at the safe, green hillside to her right.

She really didn't like heights.

Her brow twitched and pain shot through the bridge of her nose. Her medication had been in her bag. She swiped her fingers over her forehead, swept back the stray hairs hanging there. She hadn't thought too much of it. Threw it back each day with whatever water she had. Cleared her throat of nothing, felt another twinge in her broken nose. Not that it did all that much anyways. Just made it less annoying when she went through those compulsive routines. She placed her hand on the railing, picked it up. Put her other hand down and grabbed and released that spot, drew it back and busied herself swiping her other wrist in the same casual manner over her filthy jeans. So calm and collected and in control, came the bitter thought.

And so much to do, came the despairing one. Hansel had killed twice more. That was a fact that clung to her mind like the thickening mucus in the recesses of her throat. Nobody else seemed to be close in terms of violence, and she didn't know quite why, and her black eyes and bruises and nose that ached and twinged and oozed black stale blood reminded her that she did. But he was armed, experienced, probably stronger and faster than her as well. The psychos were supposed to self-destruct. That was part of the plan. But he wasn't one, or he just hadn't gotten his due yet, and it wasn't too long until that was on her. And she had to start from scratch. No, from less than scratch.

She tipped her weight forward and rode the shot of adrenaline. It was so stupid. So insane. Anyone could find her there and drill her through the head. Probably do her in with a good shout, even. But just now she didn't care. It was death out there. Death behind her, death before her. Death below her. Squeezing ever tighter as they tightened the island like a noose. It was a wonder she hadn't been forced headlong into someone already. She moved to pick up her bag and the faintest amusement pulled at her mouth when it wasn't there. A solution would present itself in time. She'd solve her body's needs one way or the other. There was no gun or sword or knife at her side to help her. Just herself. Her brain, her heart, her soul, the flicker of longing that would roar into the flame of desperation before everything was through. She might fall, but she'd worry about that when it happened.

One, two, three steps she took balanced on the rail, arms waving at her side. Four, five, and she leaped down catlike onto the dingy road.

((Katarina Konipaski continued in Retrograde))