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Who are you pretending not to know?
Perhaps it is the other man or woman in your marriage, a dirty little secret at the center of exciting, clandestine meetups. Most under the guise of business meetings, some, impromptu (fake) medical appointments. Or maybe it’s your drug dealer, a questionable character who resides in the shadows of back alleys—or a psychiatrist who signs off on your monthly Xanax prescription, a dealer your husband has no idea you’ve been seeing for five years. Or maybe it’s the homeless man you pass every day on the way to work, wearing the same moth-eaten clothes, the same duct-taped shoes, carrying the same bags. You could practically draw a picture of him, yet you pretend not to know him.
We all have that person in our lives, don’t we? Our dirty little secrets, their purposes justified one way or another. Some of these individuals are harmless, discreet deceivers, others far more sinister.
I, personally, am privy to the latter.
Picture this:
It is three o’clock in the morning, the time of night when everyone is asleep. The nocturnals have finally succumbed to exhaustion. The drunks have passed out, one hand clutching a bottle of Jim Beam, the other a grease-stained wrapper from the dollar menu. Even the early risers are still asleep, desperately clinging onto the one remaining hour of comatose before they force themselves out of bed on the promise of a good day.
It is the time of night when the world is asleep.
Except for you.
You are sneaking through the woods.
It is late summer in the foothills of Vermont, in the middle of a heatwave. Despite the early morning hour, the humidity is thick in the air, heavy in your lungs. The black long-sleeve T-shirt you’re wearing is damp, sticking to your skin like papier mâché. Your hair is sweaty under the balaclava you are wearing like a beanie. It is too hot to pull over your face just yet.
Overhead, a full moon hangs in a cloudless sky. Moonlight dapples the forest floor beneath your black boots—oversized to throw off investigators should it come to that.
You are calm, steadfast, resolute in your step. A laser-like focus, determination in your eyes.
There is no hesitation in your purpose, no second-guessing. In fact, it is the opposite. For the first time in your life you are absolutely certain that you are exactly where you are meant to be. It’s unnerving, really, how calm and confident you are. How easily you banish the little red flags that creep into your subconscious.
Finally, you spot your destination through the trees, a red, weathered two-story farmhouse with faded white shutters.
Your pace quickens.
The property is washed in silver light. Long, black shadows stretch across the backyard. The house is dark, save for the dim, orange glow of a table lamp from somewhere inside. A nightlight of sorts, you assume.
A dog barks somewhere in the distance as you stride across the yard.
You pull the balaclava over your face.
Gloved hands and a lock pick are used to quietly break into the farmhouse. The door squeaks as you open it, a slow, tired groan of metal against metal.
The scent of garlic and tomato sauce permeates the air as you step into the kitchen, along with a pungent artificial potpourri that makes your stomach churn. Moonlight streams through the windows, pooling onto a stained linoleum floor. The light dimly illuminates a small, unimaginative kitchen with rows of cabinets on each side and dated appliances below them. Tools, stacks of lumber, and boxes scatter the floor. The kitchen is undergoing a renovation of sorts.
Three blue digital clocks glow through the darkness. The microwave reads 3:02 a.m., the stove 3:04 a.m., and the coffee pot 3:11 a.m. You wonder how someone could live with three mismatched clocks in one room.
The door catches on something as you try to close it behind you, a welcome mat that readsWipe Your Paws.Funny, because there is no sign of any animal in the house.
You turn, begin to toe the mat out of the way when you hear the soft creak of a floorboard behind you.
You are not alone.
Your body stills, a rush of excitement tingling with this new plot twist.
Just as you start to turn, you hear thewhooshof the bat a split-second before it comes crashing down on the back of your head. Pain explodes in your skull, a wave of nausea washing through your body at warp speed. You’re grasping at anything to steady yourself, eventually finding the counter for support. Your world goes temporarily black, only to reemerge in blurred waves of color. You stagger, not recognizing the moan that comes out of you. Your voice sounds disconnected from your body.
You are struck again, this time in the ribs.
It isn’t until the metal bat slams into your kidney that something awakens inside you. A searing, electric pain that flips a mental switch, igniting that human instinct to survive. In an instant, white-hot anger replaces the pain, and like a superhero gaining his powers, you are suddenly invincible.
Jaw clenched, eyes wild, you unfold yourself from the defensive position.
