psychotropic

"Hello, yes. Yes, of course. I'll come there right away. Thank you for telling me this. Yes, yes. Thank you, have a nice day."

The call ends, signaling the time in bold, bright numbers: 10:00. Their flight leaves in a couple of hours, and they still haven't got everything ready.

It's partly their fault for leaving this all at the last second, but she's smart. She knows everything, no matter where they hide things — money in the cupboard? She's found it, and is already pocketing it away. Documents? They can only stare in horror as she burns them to a crisp.

Running, they hasten their steps and pickup their passport and any other documents they need for leaving the country. Their suitcase is at home, wedged in a corner of the storage closet. They haven't been there in ages, there's no way she knows it's there.

Stuffing all their necessary things into their backpack, they sprint the rest of the way home, darting past anybody who knows them — some stop and say hello and all they can do is offer a nervous smile.

Finally arriving home, they quietly unlock the door, twisting the knob, and sneakily creeping inside, tiptoeing across the polished hallway.

It's eerily quiet. She must not be around.

Their suitcase is still in the storage closet, thankfully, and they begin to lug it out, using all their might.

A female voice pierces the silence, her tone deadpan and borderline threatening.

"Trying to leave me, hm?"

They freeze.