She didn’t lock her door.
It was a deliberate choice on her part, a stand of sorts, leaving behind the memories and bad dreams. The move to a small town in the middle of nowhere was the first step, and now grabbing her courage with both hands, Mary Johnson formerly Mary-Ellen Kettering, took a second and possibly more significant step; she gave one last look at the upright deadbolt and walked away.
Soft evening light filtered though the kitchen sheers as she set her grocery bags on the counter and began to unload them. She flexed her hands out of habit more than necessity. The scars crisscrossing the backs of them like some crude road map ceased aching months ago thanks to Dr. Newman’s surgical genius, and her own hard work. As long as she did not look at the lurid purple ridges she could almost make herself believe nothing horrible happened but even those would fade with time and continued applications of the Cicatrix gel Dr. Newman gave her.
She stared at her hands. “Soon enough, even your ugly reminders will fade away.”
“Are you talking to yourself again, Mary?”
A startled squeak choked off by her heart shooting upwards and blocking her airway escaped Mary. She knew the voice, recognized it immediately, it was after all the one haunting each and every one of her nightmares. She spun to face her ex-husband, a can of baked beans clenched in her left hand, the one she always thought of as her stupid hand, but not anymore, it was cocked back and ready to swing.
“Now, is that any way to greet your husband?”
Her heart dropped back to its accustomed place in her chest, but it refused to slow its frantic pace. Adrenaline fueled fear coursed through her veins, screaming with every beat – Run. Run. Run. She forced herself to stand in place and let her eyes begin their job of cataloguing everything within their purview, just as Dr. Newman taught her.
Greg stood in the doorway. Sunlight surrounded his silhouette generously. Surprise jolted through her. How strange, that this man who haunted her awake and asleep, should be so much smaller than she remembered. He stepped further into the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind him. The sound of the dead-bolt sliding home made a hollow thunk. A sheepish grin curled up one side of his mouth, but only the uninitiated would see it that way. Having been married to this man for seven years made her wise to his games. She knew the shine glimmering in his eyes was not an extension of his smile. If anything it resembled the flat shine of moonlight winking off a wolf’s eyes. Predator’s eyes. He circled wide and suddenly the sixteen ounce can of beans in her hand did not seem nearly substantial enough and she thought longingly of the weighted bat standing sentinel beside her bed.
“As the wife of a cop you should know better than to leave your door unlocked. Even in a Podunk little town like this one, bad things can happen.”
“You’re not a cop anymore, Greg, and I’m not your wife.” She felt a moment’s pride that the words came out with barely a quaver.
“Oh, but you are my wife, little Mary, Mary quite contrary. Unlike some, I keep the promises I make before God.” His smile grew.
She stared, fascinated by even expanse of white; she could almost feel their sharp edges cutting through the skin of her hands, of her thighs, back and breast. His face darted forward, his teeth clicking together repeatedly in a biting motion. He let loose a full throated laugh when she screamed and clipped her hip on the counter top in her hurry to move away from his teeth, keeping the can raised and Greg in sight.
“God, I forgot how much fun you are, little Mary,” he sighed, “but, we do need to talk. You shouldn’t have told on me. A husband and wife’s business is nobody’s but their own. You knew that. You knew I wouldn’t be happy if you told. You caused me quite a bit of trouble telling tales out of school like that.”
Although his voice was light and teasing she didn’t let her guard down. Instead of heading for the door where he would catch her before she could throw the dead-bolt open, she backed towards the living room, briefly grateful that she had not finished unpacking yet. The lack of furniture would make the task of navigating through the room backwards much simpler. The open space would also work to her advantage. She risked a quick look over her shoulder to orientate herself. In the small space of time between heart beats she took to glance away, he disappeared.
Delving into the front pocket of her faded denim jeans, Mary dialled the first number on her cell phone and then set it on the coffee table before tip-toeing back to the kitchen door.
“Greg?”
Nothing. Not so much as a creak. She held her breath, straining to hear any small sound and then cautiously peeked into the kitchen. The deadbolt was still engaged and there was no sign of Greg. She moved further into the kitchen until she stood at the base of the stairs. A shiver worked its way up her spine as she heard Greg start to hum from somewhere above her. Every Breath You Take by the Police – their wedding song. For the first two years of marriage she thought it was romantic when he sang it to her. Then the lyrics started resembling her life and began filling her with claustrophobic fear.
She squared her shoulders to the stairs. They seemed far darker and steeper than when she descended them this morning. Her hands flexed again, crushing the can of beans. A moue of disgust puckered her lips as the cold, congealed mass slid off the back of her hand to land with a sickening plop on the tiles. A light tap on the door distracted her. Throwing a quick glance up the stairs, she hurried to the door, opened it and stepped outside.
“Is he here?”
“Yes.” Mary tossed the crushed can into the bushes next to the door, shaking her hand to rid it of the remaining beans.
“Is there something wrong with your hand?”
“No, its working fine, just like you designed it to. I just,” she shrugged, “anyhow, Greg is here now, upstairs, waiting.”
“We can take care of this for you, Mary. You don’t need to do this yourself.”
“But I do, Dr. Newman. It’s like you said, I can’t move forward and really be a part of the team until I purge my fears from the past. I won’t let Greg hurt anyone else.” Mary paused, listening to the breeze ruffling leaves. She turned to face Dr. Newman.
“Is the clean-up team ready?” He nodded. She pulled in a deep breath and smiled, clicking her teeth together rapidly in an eerily accurate imitation of her husband, opened the door and called out.
“Greg? You’re right, honey. We need to talk.”
It was a deliberate choice on her part, a stand of sorts, leaving behind the memories and bad dreams. The move to a small town in the middle of nowhere was the first step, and now grabbing her courage with both hands, Mary Johnson formerly Mary-Ellen Kettering, took a second and possibly more significant step; she gave one last look at the upright deadbolt and walked away.
Soft evening light filtered though the kitchen sheers as she set her grocery bags on the counter and began to unload them. She flexed her hands out of habit more than necessity. The scars crisscrossing the backs of them like some crude road map ceased aching months ago thanks to Dr. Newman’s surgical genius, and her own hard work. As long as she did not look at the lurid purple ridges she could almost make herself believe nothing horrible happened but even those would fade with time and continued applications of the Cicatrix gel Dr. Newman gave her.
She stared at her hands. “Soon enough, even your ugly reminders will fade away.”
“Are you talking to yourself again, Mary?”
A startled squeak choked off by her heart shooting upwards and blocking her airway escaped Mary. She knew the voice, recognized it immediately, it was after all the one haunting each and every one of her nightmares. She spun to face her ex-husband, a can of baked beans clenched in her left hand, the one she always thought of as her stupid hand, but not anymore, it was cocked back and ready to swing.
“Now, is that any way to greet your husband?”
Her heart dropped back to its accustomed place in her chest, but it refused to slow its frantic pace. Adrenaline fueled fear coursed through her veins, screaming with every beat – Run. Run. Run. She forced herself to stand in place and let her eyes begin their job of cataloguing everything within their purview, just as Dr. Newman taught her.
Greg stood in the doorway. Sunlight surrounded his silhouette generously. Surprise jolted through her. How strange, that this man who haunted her awake and asleep, should be so much smaller than she remembered. He stepped further into the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind him. The sound of the dead-bolt sliding home made a hollow thunk. A sheepish grin curled up one side of his mouth, but only the uninitiated would see it that way. Having been married to this man for seven years made her wise to his games. She knew the shine glimmering in his eyes was not an extension of his smile. If anything it resembled the flat shine of moonlight winking off a wolf’s eyes. Predator’s eyes. He circled wide and suddenly the sixteen ounce can of beans in her hand did not seem nearly substantial enough and she thought longingly of the weighted bat standing sentinel beside her bed.
“As the wife of a cop you should know better than to leave your door unlocked. Even in a Podunk little town like this one, bad things can happen.”
“You’re not a cop anymore, Greg, and I’m not your wife.” She felt a moment’s pride that the words came out with barely a quaver.
“Oh, but you are my wife, little Mary, Mary quite contrary. Unlike some, I keep the promises I make before God.” His smile grew.
She stared, fascinated by even expanse of white; she could almost feel their sharp edges cutting through the skin of her hands, of her thighs, back and breast. His face darted forward, his teeth clicking together repeatedly in a biting motion. He let loose a full throated laugh when she screamed and clipped her hip on the counter top in her hurry to move away from his teeth, keeping the can raised and Greg in sight.
“God, I forgot how much fun you are, little Mary,” he sighed, “but, we do need to talk. You shouldn’t have told on me. A husband and wife’s business is nobody’s but their own. You knew that. You knew I wouldn’t be happy if you told. You caused me quite a bit of trouble telling tales out of school like that.”
Although his voice was light and teasing she didn’t let her guard down. Instead of heading for the door where he would catch her before she could throw the dead-bolt open, she backed towards the living room, briefly grateful that she had not finished unpacking yet. The lack of furniture would make the task of navigating through the room backwards much simpler. The open space would also work to her advantage. She risked a quick look over her shoulder to orientate herself. In the small space of time between heart beats she took to glance away, he disappeared.
Delving into the front pocket of her faded denim jeans, Mary dialled the first number on her cell phone and then set it on the coffee table before tip-toeing back to the kitchen door.
“Greg?”
Nothing. Not so much as a creak. She held her breath, straining to hear any small sound and then cautiously peeked into the kitchen. The deadbolt was still engaged and there was no sign of Greg. She moved further into the kitchen until she stood at the base of the stairs. A shiver worked its way up her spine as she heard Greg start to hum from somewhere above her. Every Breath You Take by the Police – their wedding song. For the first two years of marriage she thought it was romantic when he sang it to her. Then the lyrics started resembling her life and began filling her with claustrophobic fear.
She squared her shoulders to the stairs. They seemed far darker and steeper than when she descended them this morning. Her hands flexed again, crushing the can of beans. A moue of disgust puckered her lips as the cold, congealed mass slid off the back of her hand to land with a sickening plop on the tiles. A light tap on the door distracted her. Throwing a quick glance up the stairs, she hurried to the door, opened it and stepped outside.
“Is he here?”
“Yes.” Mary tossed the crushed can into the bushes next to the door, shaking her hand to rid it of the remaining beans.
“Is there something wrong with your hand?”
“No, its working fine, just like you designed it to. I just,” she shrugged, “anyhow, Greg is here now, upstairs, waiting.”
“We can take care of this for you, Mary. You don’t need to do this yourself.”
“But I do, Dr. Newman. It’s like you said, I can’t move forward and really be a part of the team until I purge my fears from the past. I won’t let Greg hurt anyone else.” Mary paused, listening to the breeze ruffling leaves. She turned to face Dr. Newman.
“Is the clean-up team ready?” He nodded. She pulled in a deep breath and smiled, clicking her teeth together rapidly in an eerily accurate imitation of her husband, opened the door and called out.
“Greg? You’re right, honey. We need to talk.”
Awwwwwesome! Creepy and fun read, Rain! I love it. :) (Especially the clicking her teeth part. It reminds me of Hannibal in Silence of the Lambs. lol)
ReplyDeleteBrrrr! I shivered! This is a perfect story for Halloween, Rain!
ReplyDeleteEmpowered women can be dangerous! lol
wow, to think i know you well...never saw you click your teeth tho...heehee love you too...g'ma
ReplyDelete