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Celeste
I’m alonein the darkening house, sitting in the living room with my gun, unable to shake the image of myself. I want to laugh and joke that I’m finally fitting into the neighborhood, one step away from rocking on the front porch with a shotgun across my legs. I can’t laugh, though. I’m too frightened for that.
Frightened.
I have spent ten years facing down that emotion with dragon fire. Planting my feet and looking it in the eye and saying, “No.”
I will not let you rule my life ever again.
Every time I think I’ve vanquished the beast, it rears up again, mocking me for my naiveté and my weakness.
I’d been in my office, anxiously watching the sun set when the doorbell rang. I’d crept downstairs with my gun in hand, only to discover a delivery woman with a bottle of single-malt scotch from Liam.
In my surprise, I forgot to tip the delivery-woman, and that had me running down the driveway, waving a ten like lifesaving medicine. That’s what happens when I am afraid. I cross my t’s and dot my i’s with a panicked mania, as if one faux pas will sentence me to the Reaper.
Now I sit in the living room, glaring at that bottle and cursing Liam. I was already on the edge, and that doorbell sent me tumbling over. All I can think is that Liam sent me booze I don’t even like. Scotch is his thing, and I’m not even sure he likes the taste. It’s just part of his bullshit persona. The man is a goddamned walking stereotype of a successful middle-aged white guy, from the scotch to the Land Rover and the biweekly golf games. I want to dump the damned bottle down the sink. Fill it with Jack Daniel’s. See whether he notices the difference.
I’m pissy with Daisy, too. It’s almost ten. Where the hell is she? We had an intruder last night, and she’s left me alone past dark?
How much of this is me genuinely being upset that she’s still gone... and how much is me wondering what she’s doing with Tom to keep her out this late? That second part only proves I’m being pissy. Tom calls her a kid, for Christ’s sake. I don’t think she’s noticed him, either. She went over wearing cargo shorts, a shapeless tee and no makeup. Definitely not planning to seduce the local hottie.
Earlier, I made up the spare room for her, deciding we were both better off with her sleeping inside after the break-in. Now I’m reconsidering. That’ll teach her. Force her to stay in the back porch, where she’s safe from intruders, rather than upstairs where she can help me fend one off.
Stop being afraid. Stop being pissy. Focus on how you can end this once and for all. With Daisy’s unwitting help.
I cannot afford to be afraid, and I cannot afford to be kind. There is an anvil over my head.
I cut a deal with Liam, and now that bargain has become an anvil. They always do, don’t they? You think you’ve come to an arrangement, and instead, you fulfill your end of it to discover that it only stopped the anvil mid-drop. It’s still there, waiting for one false move.
I rise and finger the scotch bottle, running my thumbnail along the seal. Then I peer out the window.
It’s dark, and there’s no sign of Daisy.
Where the hell is she?
She’d better not call and expect me to pick her up.
God, I sound like my mother.
I’m turning from the window when I catch movement in the trees.
Someone’s out there. It’s not Daisy. She would come from the other direction, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be skulking through the swamp.
My hand slides to the end table, fingers wrapping around the gun I set there. Then I ease closer to the window. As soon as I do that, I realize I’m standing in front of an open window, backlit. I might as well wave a red flag over my head.
I step to the side fast and consider closing the cigarette-smoke-yellowed sheers. The movement will be noticed. Also, how will I see outside if the sheer is closed?
I adjust my grip on the gun. From my spot beside the window, I can just make out motion in the forest. That’s it. No light. There’s a bright moon and floodlights on the back of the house. Whoever’s out there doesn’t need light.
The movement stops. I imagine someone there, swathed in darkness, staring into the house. I imagine stepping just an inch toward the window, and a bullet shatters the glass, and I drop dead to the floor.
No. As much as I fear death, that is not how this will happen. The man out there is a messenger. A warning that my tormenter is about to make his move. Unless I make sure he doesn’t.
All the doors are locked, and I’m not opening them to anyone except Daisy. I should retreat. Go into the spare room upstairs. Pull the blind and wait, the gun on my lap. Or I could run for Tom’s place.
I slip out the front door and squint for any sign of Daisy, but the road’s far enough from the house that I won’t see her unless she’s swinging a light. Then I ease into the forest and begin making my way around the house, gun in hand.
I am not as silent as I’d like, but there’s little I can do about that. I am careful, moving across the loamy earth, avoiding anything that might crackle underfoot. Thankfully, after three days of rain, there’s little dry foliage left, and all I hear are the soft chuffs of my shoes. I strain to hear my attacker moving, but everything is silent.
