The sole of the tennish shoe rumbles through the soil, tearing waves of grassy earth beneath her heel. The toe, slightly upturned, intimidating, plants down in front of Montana who huddles low for protection. "I am not going back to being little shorty Susan!" Her voice penetrates the surrounding with a debilitating defiance. "You made a big mistake opening your tiny mouth."
Montana tries to run, swinging the megaphone at her side as her knees nearly collapse with each frightful step. Her attempt to flee nothing more than the scurry of a mouse underfoot, Susan simply snickers. She raises her foot high, knee almost level with chest as you peer down from your elevated palmed perch, then slams shoe into soil once more. The quake knocks the running Montana to her stomach yards away, the very walls of the schoolbuildings seem to shake from foundation to roof.
Her callous inconsideration for the life below excites attention in you. Whispering to yourself, "This is all my fault," you do nothing to hold onto Susan's palm, letting the air rush by you as she lowers her hand. She flexes her fingers around you, prompting a pumped scream from your lungs. You yell upwards, "What are you doing!? Let me go, Susan!"
Montana, rolling onto her back, squinching eyes through a wrenching pain in her leg, hears your voice and takes megaphone to mouth once more, "Susan? Susan, please, I'm not going to hurt you! Let your hostage go, and just give me time to fix this whole mess!"
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