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I peek through the living room window first, but I don’t see the truck. “Must be a deer or… please, don’t let it be a bear. I’m gonna scream if it’s a bear.”
They’re a rare occurrence during this time of the year, but certainly not impossible. The heavy snows should have kept them hibernating, though. Cautiously, I tiptoe over to the kitchen and look through the window by the door. I only see the snowy yard, the sky above already darkening with the coming blizzard. It’ll be impossible to see anything past the back fence in less than an hour.
“You fellas had better be back by then,” I mutter.
There’s movement at the corner of the porch, but I can’t tell what it is. It doesn’t look big enough to be a bear, so I’m emboldened enough to step outside to get a better look.
Careful not to slip, I move toward the edge but there’s nothing there. Not a rabbit, not a deer, certainly not a bear. I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief over that last possibility, then laugh lightly to myself. I’ve been so on edge since the incident in Providence that basically any noise makes me jittery.
I hear the rushed footsteps and turn around just as Cynthia charges at me.
I scream and duck when I see the log swinging for my head. She misses by only a few inches, but I slip on the snowy porch and land on my ass. “OW!” I cry out upon hitting the hardwood, but I need to get up. She’s coming at me again. “Cynthia, what the fu—?”
“You’re gonna pay for this!” she snarls.
Looking crazed and disheveled, I barely recognize her. She’s wearing jeans and a black parka, her hair a mess and her eyes bulging with rage, hysteria, and hatred. Cynthia hates me so much that she wants to seriously hurt me, if not kill me.
“Stop, Cynthia, please!” I shout, raising my hand to try and protect myself.
The log hits me across the forearm and searing pain shoots all the way up to my shoulder. Tears sting my eyes as I scramble backwards only to find myself cornered by the porch railing.
“You’ll pay for this, you bitch!” she keeps coming. “I had him! He was mine! You took him away from me, you stupid, filthy bitch!”
“Cynthia, stop it! I’m pregnant!” I scream, my mind blank and my survival instincts flaring every which way as I try to buy myself another second or two—long enough to figure out how I’m going to survive, because this woman is ready to bludgeon me to death.
To my surprise, the words do stop her, if only for a moment.
But the moment turns out to be a crucial one. She stares at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Her beauty is long gone, smothered by her hatred and toxicity. Cynthia has been drinking her own poison, and it’s all downhill for her from here, there is no coming back from this.
Suddenly, Mary Swanson is behind Cynthia. All I can do is hold my breath. I didn’t even see her coming let alone hear her.
Before Cynthia can raise the log to try and hit me again, Mary whacks her over the back of the head with a snow shovel. I hear myself yelping but I cover my mouth when Cynthia’s eyes roll up, and she falls flat on her face with a shameful thud. The silence that follows is downright frightening, the hairs on the back of my neck rising stiffly as I try to take in the multitude of events that just unfolded before I could even realize what was happening.
My breathing is ragged, bursts of steam dancing past my lips into the cold winter air. The gray skies above thicken, darker clouds swelling ominously with the promise of heavy snow. My arm hurts, but I can still move it. The wrist seems fine as I twist my hand around. Flashes of pain shoot upward, and the fabric of my dress is torn to reveal several scratches and cuts, blood dripping and seeping into the green velvet.
“Honey, are you okay?” Mary asks, panting but unable to let go of the snow shovel yet. Her gaze keeps darting back and forth between me and Cynthia.
All I can do is look at her with paralyzing fear. I glance at Mary’s feet and notice she’s wearing her heavy duty snow boots. Thank God those things don’t make a sound, especially on the wooden porch. I’m baffled and horrified as I manage to shift my weight from my likely-bruised ass to my knees, the stockings also shredded in the skirmish.
“I… I think so,” I manage, finally able to breathe, as I bend forward to check on Cynthia.
She’s out cold but definitely still alive, blood trickling down from the back of her neck. Her lips are parted, and her breathing seems even. The last thing I need is a dead body to add to all the trauma I’ve been through. She’s done enough damage, and the rage pooling in the pit of my stomach signals the dissipation of that earlier adrenaline rush.
“I knew she’d be coming around again,” Mary says. She helps me up, my legs shaking terribly as I lean against the railing to catch my breath. “From the moment Matthew told me about what happened in Providence, I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d slither back up this mountain and try to finish what she started.”
“Was she always like this?” I ask.
Mary shakes her head slowly, her graying hair curling around the temples. She looks bulkier under her winter coat, but I welcome her strength tenfold after what she just did—she basically saved my life. “Honestly, Cynthia was a good kid growing up. Happy, smiling, playful. Always friendly. She used to stick to me like glue whenever she came around, especially in the winter. Her parents would often leave her on her own, causing her to believe they never really loved her. The older she got the worse she became; it was as if their absence ate away at her, swallowing her soul. They threw all their money at Cynthia, giving her whatever she wanted, hoping that would make up for the absence of their attention and affection.”
“So, they spoiled her.”
Mary nods. “Rotten. Ski instructors. Snowboarding instructors. Nannies. Personal assistants. Trips all over the world. Jewelry, cars, expensive clothes. Anything that Cynthia’s heart desired, she got. By the time she turned twenty, she became insufferable.” She pauses for a moment, shaking her head in dismay. “And the sad thing is, I mentioned how bad things were getting to her father more than once. I told him, ‘Henry, this girl needs her parents, not a winter chalet in Aspen.’”
I nod slowly. “What did he say?”
“He said—and I kid you not—he said, ‘Cynthia doesn’t need us. She already has everything she needs.’ Imagine that. Her own parents. It got worse after college. I couldn’t stand her, to be honest. She’d often come around and try to spend time with me, but she gave off this terrible energy, Selina… for every smile she offered, Cynthia would eat away at your soul. She’d make your feel small and miserable because she couldn’t stand people being happy around her. She felt everyone was beneath her.”
“She had all the money in the world, and she still wasn’t happy.”
