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Tuesday, October 24, 2006

last night

 

Even as it looms above me, I refuse to fear its immensity.

It wouldn't matter anyway because the pressure I feel comes from within - from the raw fear leaching the marrow from my bones.
If you think the fear comes from the rigid, dead body silently waiting on the floor, you're wrong.

As my eyes keenly flicker over the surrounding walls, one thing is certain. He's still here.

Luckily, my brain is filled with methods and protocols to save me in such a trepidatious instance. Something kicks in and my feet automatically step toward the body. My knees bend and suddenly I am right next to it. I'm so close I can feel its warmth. I touch the right hand and marvel momentarily at the slight dent my fingertips makes in the skin - like pressing on a medium rare steak.

The dread remains. It snakes up my spinal cord, causing the little hairs along my back to stand tall. Behind me, I hear movement and I know. It's my time. I reach for my gun, but it's not there. Dammit, Steve, what did you do this time?

I whirl about and race through the door behind me. Office - it's an office. Books, pens, paper. Can you kill someone with paper?


His footsteps drown my thoughts. They fall heavy on the floor, like a sledgehammer to an anvil. Clang... Clang... Clang.... He's coming.

My hands search the area behind me, eyes afraid to look away from the door lest he sneak in past me. Fumbling, my fingertips feel cold steel, grasp hard, and pull up a scythe. I heft it in my hands, remember the lessons my daddy taught me back during softball practice, and get ready to--

Laughter. Little girly giggles. The scythe lowers slowly as I turn around and see a playground. I meander toward it, scythe dragging behind me until it catches on a nightlight and I let it go. Whoosh! A yellow blur sails past my face, brushing my eyelashes as it goes. I pull a tennis racket out of my pocket and turn just in time to hit the next ball and send it careening out of the park.

Several people stand in a group, clipboards in hand, frowns on faces, getting ready to give me my scores. One shakes her head and mumbles tersely, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

Another looks at me solemnly. "It's still there." My eyes follow his finger as he points to the body in the other room. I know this. What, you think I've forgotten? You think I'm stupid?

He's shaking me, slaps me across the face, and I snap out of it. A smile and a whisper, "I'm going for a pony ride." Without another word, he jumps in a little red wagon and paddles away. Three kittens overtake the wagon and rip off the wheels with their talons. One grabs an oar and dashes off with it, meowing with glee.

Bruised and scraped, he limps back to me and hands me a large manila folder, covered in plastic wrap. I peel back the layers and crack it open, only to find maggots and moving pictures. Each one tells me a story of cheating on history quizzes and stealing candy bars.

"You won't like it. We won't be friends once you know," he tells me. With a wink, he catches up to the rest and gets in a car to drive down the dirt road. I watch until he's long gone before I continue flipping through the pages. One falls to the gravel and I pick it up, reading it as I walk into the house.

I see the words on the page and suddenly it's clear. I know. I get it now. I'd always thought I needed an answer. I was so wrong. It's right here in front of me.

As if on cue, the pumpkins start singing in unison, and I take the lead vocal. It's a polka number, which strikes me as funny because classical seems more like Freddy's style.

A loud buzzer interrupts our song and the pizza comes out of the oven. Each pumpkin stops to eat, except for Skippy, whose mouth isn't carved yet. The phone in the refrigerator rings, but I don't open the breadbox like I should because I know what it will say. Thirty-two years and I finally know the answer. It's so easy. It's so clear. It's

BEEP.

 
Laura wrote this at 1:42 PM -- | -- email me -- IM me -- back to top

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