A Mouse for Timur

A massive palm covers the phone, fingers with bruised knuckles. Timur lifts my phone:

— I’m listening.

His voice is so cold it makes me shiver.

— The person you’ll be talking to from this number now. Say what you wanted.

Barely audible murmuring.

Timur twists his lips with contempt.

— Send the account number. The money will be today,—I flinch, trying to say something, but Timur presses a finger to my mouth, — and you’ll forget that number.

Timur hangs up. He looks at me, and he doesn’t remove his finger from my lips. I try to dodge, but he grips my chin. Hard.

His hand moves to the back of my head, pulling me closer.

His fingers stroke the base of my neck from behind; his eyes become pleased, and his voice turns soft:

— So, Little Mouse, let’s go?