At Least They're Committed

I close the back cover of my latest research effort, otherwise known as Trash Romance Novel No. 70-or-so. Heh. I had it figured out — it was the seemingly gay assistant who was avenging the loss of his woman lover and the betrayal of having her heart beating in another person’s chest. It did have some nice twists near the end, though, with four men showing up at the heroine’s place seemingly to protect her, but one to kill her. Those silly, silly obsessed men. Yet, amid them all there is the one whose love is true and pure and strong, despite his sordid behavior, troubled past and lies by omission. Uh-huh.

The living room below has gone strangely quiet. The screaming, bellowing, groaning and rejoicing at a lull. I stretch my back and step onto the landing. “Game over?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING IT’S BARELY HALFTIME!!!!”

Ugh. Men. I retreat — as if hitting rewind — back to my room.

The sunset is lovely, the clouds a light peach. I’m standing at the screenless window, breathing in the autumn air, when I feel something whiz past my head, hitting with a “thunk” against the closet on the back wall. I nearly cry out, looking to where the sliding door is rocking slightly back and forth. There’s a smudge on it. I glance to it then the window while inching toward the door to my room. “What the fuck,” I say under my breath.

Suddenly downstairs, there’s a guttural scream, as if two men were stricken by pestilence, plague and heart attacks all at once. Eh, the Broncos must have fucked something up. I decide to investigate the UFO on my own.

Crouching low, glancing warily out the window at the sky as the sunset turns from orange to fiery red, I stoop to see what had nearly struck me. In the creeping darkness — I do not dare turn on the light — I see something the size of a rock. I grab my phone and click it, turning the faint light toward the object. As my eyes adjust, I cup my hand over my mouth, choking back a scream. On my floor lays a rat, a large, gray rat, dazed and heaving. Tied around its chest is a string and tied to the string is a note. My phone goes dark and I click it again, gently untying the note: “I’ve come for you. I told you I would.”

I veer toward the window right as the last of the day’s rays are blocked by a silhouette, a wiry figure reaches the height of a ladder, his hands on the window sill as his torso forces its way through the opening.

“I’m here,” he chuckles. I don’t need to see his features in the darkness. He smells of old coffee and the twisting of his long fingers around the pane is all I need to see. “I told you I’d come. I told you one day I’d come for you.”

For a moment I’m paralyzed. But only for a moment. “It’s about time,” I whisper. “Ten years is much too long to wait.” In one swift move I lean back onto my left hip and kick out at the man, striking his torso with my socked right foot. The motion jettisons him backward, his figure cutting into the gray and red sky, falling, clawing first at me, nearly catching my black T, then into nothingness, his arms splay, grabbing at the air as his makeshift ladder collapses, tumbling him headfirst to the cement patio. In the darkness I can make out the dogs as they at first scurry in fright, then inch their way back to the dark lump of flesh and bone as a dark pool spreads, trickling toward the lawn.

Another scream, “OH SHIT! THAT HAS TO HURT!” I stand motionless.

Ah, Broncos.

I watch the figure below until I’m convinced it will move no more. I doubt the dogs will eat it, but whatever. I flip on the light then and sink to my knees next to the rat, which although wobbly has found it’s feet. I look at the mark on the closet door. Blood? No, just shit. A common lab rat. I gently pat him on the head, wrapping him in one of my sweaters and making a bed for him in an empty dresser drawer. “You poor thing. You’re safe now,” I croon. “And so am I.”

I grab the Comet and a Kleenex and clean my closet door.

Those silly, silly obsessed men. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, research.