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Tom stumbled at the sound of her voice, a voice so long forgotten, and caught himself on the handrail. He cocked his head sideways, positive that he'd not heard her voice behind him. The first thing he noticed was not her faded tan, not her fiery red hair, or the breasts he used to worship, but the sharp glint of steel from a gun. He spun around to face her.
"I said... where do you think you're going?" She said, her anger building in her words despite her cool delivery.
"I was... going down for... what's going on?"
Tom stared at the gun. He couldn't think, couldn't move... his eyes were locked.
"This is not the girl I knew..." he thought, unable to reconcile what he was seeing.
"What's going on, Tom, is that you and I are going to have a little talk. So move it, asshole." Sheila motioned for him to return to the living room.
Tom turned the corner to the living room, Sheila following behind him. She pointed at the couch, and he sat obediently. Obedience can be trained in most people through conditioning, but no conditioning is required when the commands are issued under pain of death. She sat on his lap, straddling him. She gently slid her fingers down his face.
Tom thought, "What the fuck is going on here?" and continued to shake beneath her.
Sheila raised the pistol to Tom's face, caressing his cheek with the barrel before sliding it into his mouth. Tom panicked as the taste of steel came over him, his tongue retracting as though it could escape harm.
"Now." Sheila's voice was just above a whisper, but her hatred and contempt was wrought violently across her face. "I am very angry at you right now, Thomas. And when I get angry, I want answers. You are going to give me the answers I want, or I will tear you apart." Tom shook and she spoke again quickly, as though she'd rehearsed it. "Question one..."
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