Too Pretty
One Shot
I'm alone in the small, cozy, first home of my husband and I, and making a bagel.
Today is a day meant for relaxing and indulgence and I've already started it. I woke up at nine, purring like a kitten in the soft yellow sheets on my bed, and took a bubble bath instead of showering. This is what days off are made for, I thought in the vanilla-scented soothing water.
After soaking for a good two hours in my tiled haven, I dried off. I tried to ignore the always-there feeling of paranoia as I walked down the quirky creaky stairs into the modest kitchen. It's stupid; no one's been tiptoeing around the first floor while I was upstairs. I can't shake the feeling though and my instincts don't like to be ignored; problem is they're almost always 100 percent wrong. I've had these unorthodox sensations ever since I was a small town girl growing up in Quinn. Even in such a rural middle of no-where town I can't be blissfully happy. The alley way between the grocery store and ice cream parlor where I speed-walked by on journeys home after hanging out at friends' homes across town or the dark shadows of the street at night or just the darkness itself all scare me. My evil thoughts have haunted me all this time but I've grown accustom to pushing my paranoia aside.
I'll show you right now. I'll put aside my irrational thoughts and cut up one of my precious sesame seed bagels from the stock even my husband doesn't know about.
He likes them too much. Who wouldn't? One of my favourite O.C. moments said it best.
"'Are you going to be okay?'
'Of course, we have bagels.'"
Yes, I'm a junkie for a good guilty pleasure and the O.C. is definitely one of mine. I swear to God my husband, Collin, is like a younger Sandy Cohen. He even comes with the trademark bushy eyebrows and there-for-everyone persona.
Speaking of said comedic drama, an O.C. marathon is next on the list. Leaving my bagel in the toaster, I sashayed confidently in my fuzzy yellow robe to the TV cabinet holding the goods. On my hands and knees in front of the mess of a pile of DVD episodes of the rest of my favourite dramas-I'm a sucker for them-, I hear rummaging noises. You would think my brain would have a few pleasant seconds of logical thinking as in 'it's just me' and then realize I wasn't touching anything; my hands are (now weakly) holding me up, but no. My thoughts skip the logic, cross out any animal intruders and go straight to human ones. Something like Oh my God, someone's in my house! Who's in my house!?
Letting out my initial squeak of surprise and fear, I quickly stumble to the nearest phone and clumsily dial Collin's work number. I put the phone to my ear expecting to hear it ringing but get nothing. I can only help but feel like my worst fears have been heard and a sadistic out-of-his-mind psycho thinks it's funny to mess around with them.
Since my primary reaction only led me to being even more freaked out then I ever have been in a fit of paranoia, I'll go with my second one now.
I scan the room in search of a weapon; you can make everything into a weapon, even a newspaper. I know; I've done my research just in case. I don't need the Quinn Town Times newspaper on the counter though; I'm in the kitchen and there's a perfectly sharpened butcher's knife in there.
With my knife held the correct way so as not to hurt myself if I need stab someone or something, I slowly and quietly walk, listening to the noise that was more like a blunt clanging and banging. That was when, for a second, just a teensy tiny second, my mind allowed me to feel the calming relief of a thought like, "That must mean it's just a pesky raccoon or skunk." Then it was over so fast I forgot the cool relief of deluding yourself. It doesn't come often.
I burst open the garage door with my weapon held low to my side. There are no sounds now and I can't remember when they came to a halt –the opposite of my heartbeat. Everything would be as dark as the midnight sky if it weren't for the foot of space the garage door was open for our cats. Our cats! I think suspiciously and search with my eyes the cluttered spaces they like to hide when they know they're in trouble. The thing is though; there aren't any glowing cat eyes in any of them. Hmm… this is probably just an extreme incident of paranoia. See what I meant earlier? My instincts are never right and apparently neither is my hearing. Mental note: call a psychiatrist as soon as Collin gets home and fixes the phone.
I swivel to go back inside quickly but realize I forgot about the automatic lock when it doesn't open.
"Damn!"
No one is trying to draw you out. No one could have made sure I would forget the door locks. It's just a silly mistake I made because I'm freaking out. It's just my fault. I was too busy trying to think of everything that I forgot something. I just added to my own paranoia. That's ok though. I can go out the garage door, into the saving daylight, and be free of this. Yeah. I will not let this ruin my day-off. I'm going into the warmth of the sun, out of this cold, creepy garage, and will go on a walk in the light spring breeze and maybe do some gardening.
I whirl around, mind calm. This too is rare. I'm going to sprint for it, my bare feet rushing dow– Ow… Oh God, ow. What was that? My knee!
In the fetal position on the hard concrete, I hold my knee, which hit the ground first when I tripped. What tripped me?
I really need to get out of here.
Thank God I didn't land on the knife. Wait, where's the knife? Find the knife, and get out of here. I can do this! I'll have to limp.
I grasp the knife handle in my hand and try to get up. There's a thud and I jump only to land poorly on my ankle.
There's a figure.
"Who are you? What're you doing? Please don't hurt me, please! Why are you doing this?" I can hear my voice trembling and breaking as I speak.
Their back's turned on me now. Maybe they're leaving, thinking the fun's over now. I scared her, goal accomplished. Their back's turned to me, away from me, but I'm paralyzed. I can't move, and their hand is on the door handle.
Why aren't I moving? I've got to get out.
I've got to stay till they're gone.
They're shutting the door. They're shutting the door.
NO!
"Stay away, I have a butcher's knife!"
They're walking toward me but my ankle and knee hurt too much to move.
"I'll kill you! I've been trained."
"Oh fair Hailey, don't be silly," he, the figure, said light-heartedly. "Weapons are for men."
My name is Jenna. There's only one person I know that calls me Hailey.
"Christian? What're you doing here?" He ignores my questioning.
My back bangs into the steps. Shit. He's reaching for something. I drive my knife-wielding hand outward and aim for the closest limb: his leg. I manage to slice into the bone as he grabs my wrist and yanks it away from his calf spouting blood like a watering can. Ivory bone is noticeable through the blood, just aiding to his crazed killer appearance.
"Let go of me, let go!" I yell, kick, and scream as his freakishly sharpened nails dig into and rip my skin.
"No. You shall let go dearest," he tells me in an eerily calm voice. He's right. I don't think I can take this pain any longer. The skin where he holds me in a vice grip is chewed up as if I was a meal for a pack of ravenous wild felines. The blood trickling down my arms only adds to it all. My whole body hurts.
I'm letting go. He's prying my fingers away.
"There we are," He smiles. "Swell girl. A beauty of thou's quality shouldth know to obey any man, her master."
I ignore the disgust bunching in my throat and focus on the butcher's blade to my throat. It's cold. He starts to run it's long length along my out-stretched neck repeatedly. It doesn't hurt at first but I can feel the new wound bleeding. Why is he doing this to me, God? Oh why, God?
"Christian, please no," I whimper, not even noticing I'm crying. "I've only been nice to you. I talk to you every time I walk by your house, for Christ's sake! I was even planning on it today! I was just going on a walk and I still can if you let me go. We can go together even.
"Please Christian, don't do this. There's no need for it."
"I think not! You would hath done no such thing! Thou wouldst have taken the day to pamper herself a queen and only comst out her shell to check the ruckus."
He leans in close. I feel his breathing, as ragged as mine, and the blade stop gliding.
Is he finally going to listen to me? Did I get through to him? I did. Please, God, tell me I did.
"You are much too fair, Hailey. Thou's chestnut brown locks glisten whenst I come about seeing you, thou's eyes twinkle like stolen stars, and thou smellst of petals of lavender from the newly blossomed flower. Much, much too pretty to choose to speak words with me every new day, you are. It's unfair to the other fillies."
His hand roughly swipes away my tears and caresses my cheek; I whimper. His hand pushes through the first wall of my hair and pulls my head back with a tightly fisted grip. The knife begins sliding, slitting again.
I don't say anything. I don't know what to say to this psycho. I mean, I thought he was just the talkative loony, but nice, guy down the street. I don't have to say anything.
He continues, "No. What is unjust is that thou is too suspicious, too questioning to live in beauty with perfection. That is why I have come, darling Hailey. I shall be your aide.
"Too pretty to be paranoid. We'll fix this mess, put an end to it and send the gift of such a maiden back to wherest she came; God's collection of only the greatest of his children."
"No! No, no, no Christian! Don't do this. I don't have to die! This isn't funny Christian. You're really scaring me. Please, don't kill me. I don't want to die… I want to talk to you! Yes, let's talk about the enchantment of the stars," I suggest pleadingly, panting heavily in his face. I make sure not to say magic because magic is heresy in the Dark Ages, where his mind is obviously at.
"Lest we talk of death instead?"
Xx
"Oh look, you made your Lord brunch! How quaint. Thou's quite the Lady of the House, Hailey." The speaker of an old tongue admired as he limped toward the bagel in the toaster, slowed down by the large weight he was dragging by the hair. There was a loud bang as he regained use of his right hand and used it to slather butter on the bread, humming an old hymn.
