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“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”
What do you think? Is on the tip of my tongue but it comes out as, “yeahlittleIdon’tknow.”
“I’m comin’ to get you.”
Reaching in, he unlocks the back door and pulls and pulls until it creaks open halfway. Then the unpleasant part. A very bright light shines in my face, forcing me to slam my eyes shut.
“Nahhoooo,” I hear myself cry out. The light hurts my head something fierce. I bury my face in the clothes I have piled over me. The sound of gay Santa sucking in a breath has me wondering what the drama is about.
“I’m getting you out. Just…gimme a minute.”
The light disappears, and the pile of clothes on top of me is pushed off. I know this because I’m getting colder, which I didn’t think was possible. Shortly after that, there’s some ham-fisted jostling, and arms the size of tree trunks scoop under my knees and armpits.
Next thing I know, I’m ripped out the car with no warning. Falling snow covers my face, my closed eyes, clinging to my eyelashes. It’s cold and annoying and makes me turtle into my jacket. I feel bruised and battered. I may not be dead yet, but I’m too tired to stay awake. Last thing I remember is gay Santa murmuring, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Then, “I’m sorry.”
I know I hit my head and I’m halfway to becoming a human popsicle, but he sounds drunk…or something.
Chapter 4
A bright light hits my eyelids. It might as well have pulled me out of the grave because I feel dead. Sore and in a bad mood, I crack open my eyes slowly and at first the strange surroundings startle me. Until I reach up and feel the protruding lump and subsequent throb on the side of my head. Then I’m reminded of the prior night’s events in high-definition.
I’m lying on a ratty oversized leather couch. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, however, so that’s good. And there’s a goose down blanket over me and pillow under my head. The pillow smells strangely similar to the Moroccan Oil shampoo I use. Don’t know why I notice that but I do.
I take stock of the room. This farmhouse looks ready to be condemned. The yellow 1950s wallpaper on the walls is peeling, water stains cover the high ceiling, and the fire place is in the late stages of decay; half the bricks are in a pile inside. As for the floor…gross. It’s an ugly wall-to-wall green carpet, torn out in some areas, stained in others with what appears to be paint of every color. Sienna, magenta, cerulean blue, and lemon yellow. A veritable rainbow of drips and drabs of bright color.
I’m still wearing all the clothes I had on last night so it’s a little hard to sit upright. And when I finally do manage it, by rolling onto my side and pushing myself up, I find the same colored stains on my sweater. Yikes.
My sister’s pink cashmere sweater has a big splatter of blue oil-based paint over one nipple and a yellow one on the sleeve. Jackie is going to be pissed. Then again, serves her right for what she did to me.
Gingerly, I struggle to get my broken body off the couch. First thing first, I need to find the guy who saved my life. Gay Santa. It’s all coming back to me now. The crash, his selfless act of bravery. There’s no doubt Gay Santa is the only reason I’m alive right now.
Passing a window, I can see the conditions outside are still apocalyptic. It’s snowing. And not just snowing; it’s snowing sideways.
This is not romantic. At all. The only stirring this elicits is nausea, a hypersensitivity of the skin probably due to a mild case of frostbite, and a reminder that I hit my head. I take back every nice thing I ever said about snow.
The good news is that this hellhole is warmish. The fireplace is out of service but the heat is definitely still working. The rest of the news is all bad. No bars on my cellphone and I can’t find my red Pumas anywhere. All that separates my bare skin from whatever died on this carpet is a pair of wool socks.
“Hello,” I half whisper as I slowly creep through the house. I’m not feeling half as courageous this morning as I was last night. Yes, he’s a big gay mountain man who saved my life, but I can’t be sure what his intentions are. He could have saved me for nefarious purposes. What I am sure about is that I’ve seen Motel Hell one too many times as a kid and I’m not keen on becoming beef jerky.
“Hello?” I whisper louder and get no response. The only sound that answers back is the howling of the wind outside and the creaking of this old farmhouse, which for the record is beyond creepy. I’m barely holding onto my imagination as it tries to run away with me.
