8 Hours Past a Week

The Call

Claire rushed around her 750 square foot apartment. She was running late to a banquet for her charity, she helped run.

It was a Friday evening, the warm summer breeze blew in from her windows. The many smells of New York City filled her apartment, as it flirted with the perfume she just got done spritzing on herself. She carefully adjusted her golden hair one last time.

It was tied up in a low bun, with a few thin tendrils escaping and gently framing her heart shaped face. She had applied minimal make up, only using enough to accent her natural beauty. She grabbed a shawl, and checked the arrival time of her car.

It was five minutes out. She gathered the last of things she'd need and slowly worked her way down the stairs. On the last flight down, Claire was already regretting the heels on her feet. She walked out the doors, just as her car was pulling up. The driver rushed around to back of it, and quickly opened.

As she was getting into the car, she noticed his eyes hungrily looking over her, there was a small flicker of fear and caution in his eyes as well. Claire knew that look all to well. A cold shiver of uneasiness ran through her body. She clutched the shawl tighter around her shoulders and ignored his glances.

The entire 45 minute drive to the destination had Claire a whole bundle of nerves. The driver didn't say a word but merely kept looking in the rear view mirror at her every so often, and she tried as best as she could to avoid his gaze.

He couldn't help but notice her beauty, her black dress clang to her figure with such an elegance, she looked almost to nice to be coming out of such a building. He could only assume her beauty was bought for her, and he could either hire her for services or be getting a rather large tip from the person she was meeting and hired the service for her.

Upon arrival, she scurried out of the black car before he had a chance to get out. She slammed the door, and looked over at him. He was standing at the driver's side door, with a stunned look on his face. She reached into her wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill and tossed it onto the roof of the car.

"Your services will not be needed any farther tonight. You may leave," said Claire, as she turned on her heels and walked up the stairs of the hotel.

The banquet she was hosting, was in the conference rooms of the Plaza Hotel in New York City. The charity rented three conference rooms out for this the event. One conference room hid a stage and tables in which all attendees would be eating their dinner.

The second conference room was just as big as the first and directly across the dinning one. It held booth after booth. There was an attendee at every single booth. Claire was obsessed with perfection, so she organized that for every 5 booths, there would be a charity volunteer floating just between those five and assisting in whatever way possible.

Claire was doing a last minute check on everything, before the first guests would begin arriving. She held her clipboard in her hand ran down her list. As she was nearing the bottom of her check list, her clutch that was tucked up under her arm and pinched against her body began to vibrate.

The area code was from upstate New York. Claire quickly answered it in case it had to do with the charity event.

"Hello, this is Claire," she said.

"Is this Claire Harris?" a woman on the other end said.

"Yes, may I ask who is calling?"

"Ms. Harris, my name is Sandra, I work for Victim Services. I am calling to inform you that as of 6:45pm tonight, Mr. Eric Byrne, escaped from Attica St- ...."

Claire’s cell phone hit the floor with a thud. A cold panic set in. The anxious feeling started in her bottom of her stomach and crept it’s way into her heart. Her heart beat increasing with every thought of him. The good and the bad memories.

Through her daze she kept hearing the social worker asking if she was alright. She vaguely said yes as she picked up the phone. Her words felt like sandpaper on her throat as they struggled to come out. Her ears were ringing. Her vision blurred between reality and memory. Was constantly changing between the life she lived now and the life she lived then.

She couldn’t understand the instructions the social worker was giving her. The words seems foreign and inaudible. All she kept hearing was her internal thoughts.

‘How is this happening?’

‘Why is he out?’

‘Where is he?’

‘Is he coming for me?’

‘He knows.’