This is part of my first attempt at my short story assignment for Creative Writing. It's very rough, choppy, and incomplete, but it's a taste nonetheless.
The steady tick of the clock was amplified by the silence of the house. Just over three hours had passed since Baylor climbed into bed but he could have sworn the sun should be rising. He had counted the forty-three textural inconstancies on the ceiling twenty-five times and the slight flicker of the street lamp outside (it flickered every three minutes according to the Star Wars alarm clock on his bedside) sixty-one times. His bedspread lay crumpled on the floor and his dark blue sheets were twisted into a knot from all the tossing and turning. Despite his desperate longing to, the one thing he hadn't done was get out of bed. This was the case for two reasons--first, his mother had made it crystal clear that if he left his bed before he could see the sun, he couldn't go to the neighbor's birthday party. The second reason was that the tree branches outside his window and the clothes hanging in his closet were casting vicious shadows that stretched and crawled across his floor. He was quite certain that if his foot so much as slipped from the mattress, he would be devoured.
Baylor's anxiety grew steadily as Hans Solo's blue saber ticked from notch to notch slowly across the face of the clock. Did Hans Solo really know how to tell time? Maybe time had frozen but Hans didn't get the news. Maybe it would be nighttime forever. What if he had to stay in bed forever? How would he use the bathroom or eat dinner or go to school? Would time be frozen for everyone or only in his bedroom? Really, it was a fascinating thought but that didn't keep his eyes from welling with tears. He didn't want it to stay night forever and he was sure that the shadow monsters were getting bigger and closer. The sheets were pulled to his chin and he hugged his ragged stuffed monkey tight against his chest.
****
The man with nine and a half fingers (as would be the only description later given to the police) propped himself up on both elbows and smiled down at the woman beneath him. A very faint hint of pipe tobacco danced in his breath and for some unknown reason, Caroline found it erotic. The two breathed heavily and sweat matted their hair. Caroline brushed her fingers gently up his arm and tapped her plastic nails across his back. She looked over at the clock and panic flashed across her meadow green eyes.
"You have to go," she said, pressing the palm of her hand against his chest and pushing him away.
"Why the hurry?" He gently pulled her hand off him and leaned back down, connecting his lips with hers. For a moment she disappeared in his kiss but reality flooded back quickly and she pushed him away again.
"Please, you have to go. I'm sorry. Liam's shift is over, he'll be home any time." This time she escaped from beneath him and sat up. Grabbing her bra, she slipped her arms through the straps and clasped it in the back. The man with nine and a half fingers simply smiled.
"You don't have to worry about him,"
Caroline ignored his comment and looked at the clock once more. "Oh God, how did I let it get so late?" She grabbed her pants off the floor and nearly did a somersault as she tried to dress and run at the same time.
"Relax," He spoke the word in an almost serpent-like way, still sitting on her bed. He himself was fully, unnaturally, relaxed.
"Relax? You're telling me to relax? Why are you relaxed? He's going to decapitate you, and I don't mean at the neck! And me, oh god..." She was still in the process of trying to successfully dress herself while she stumbled towards the bedroom door. The man with nine and a half fingers finally rose, but his heart rate did not elevate. He calmly walked to the door and clasped his hand loosely around Caroline's wrist. In that moment, Caroline's lover reminded her of her husband, reminded her of the old Liam. The man who was always stoic, the man she could always count on to be her rock and keep her calm in the midst of panic. Now, in this moment, it was that husband whom she feared.
"There is nothing to worry about. Stop dressing, stop panicking, and come back to bed." The man saw that his reassurance did nothing to the terror in her eyes, only added a swirl of confusion. "It's taken care of. I've taken care of everything."
"What do you mean you've taken care of everything?” Caroline had stopped moving. “What did you do? Where's Liam?" She spoke slowly and the terror in her eyes gave way to suspicion, and suspicion to nervousness and uncertainty.
"I'm a problem solver, Caroline. Your husband was a problem, so I solved it. I'm also a helper. I saw you lacked the strength to leave the man behind, I saw you needed help, so I helped."
"Where is Liam?" Her heart was pounding again, but to a new beat.
"He's dead," The man with nine and a half fingers spoke very casually. His voice was an almost verbal shoulder shrug. "Oh, but I suppose that isn't what you asked. I apologize, I don't mean to be indirect. You asked where he was, correct? Well, actually, he's here." Caroline's eyes shifted around the room anxiously. "I don't mean here in this room of course," he said. "He's out there," The man kinked his neck in the direction of the window. Caroline didn't know what to think or what to feel. She did not like the sudden change in his voice. She stared momentarily into the unfamiliar eyes of the man whose body had been entwined with hers just moments ago then rushed to the window. She split the blinds between her fingers and peered down to the front of her house. Again, the man read her mind and answered her question before she had a chance to ask it.
"In my car. I know it's a bit of a risk, but I was unsure what else to do with him. I did not wish to be late in meeting you. Don't worry, I'll dispose of him properly upon our parting." For a long moment, Caroline did not speak. She did not turn away from the window. She gave no outward response at all. She was trying to process it all as quickly as she could. In any other situation she would have questioned the facts, questioned his seriousness, but she did no such thing. She knew, and finally she spoke.
"I have two children. You killed the father of my two children," There was no emotion in her voice. Still, she did not turn from the window.
“Here’s where I expect things to go wrong. It’s a classic scenario, really. You love the idea of me, but let’s face it, you’ve never loved me. Don’t worry, I’m not offended, I’ve known it all along. Still, it was mighty fun. It makes sense that you would tell me of plans to leave your spouse, Liam, was it? and I believe you even convinced yourself that those plans were real. But I knew, and I think you did too deep down, that it wouldn’t ever really happen. You claimed you wanted him gone, now he is, and yet you seem upset. This too is classic. I am your fantasy, your ‘tall, dark, and handsome’, and you’ve longed to break the rules, do something wild and forbidden. You would love nothing more than to defy expectations and run away with me, the unnamed stranger. But you waited too long, you built yourself a comfort zone and have grown too accustomed to it. Your true desire is to continue on just like this forever. Homemaker by day, forbidden lover by night, with no consequences and no change. Darling there is nothing exhilarating about consistency. Consistency is what bored you and ignited your desire for me. This spark too will fade and you will long for more. Discontentment never dies, not really.”
Caroline was rendered speechless. Suddenly her legs felt weak and she questioned their ability to hold her. Who was this man? She put her hands to her forehead, let out a small cry, and rushed to the door. The man with nine and a half fingers beat her there and stood passively in her path.
“I did this for multiple reasons. I’ll share a few of them with you if you like,” His nonchalance sent chills through her veins.
“Oh please, do tell. Share with me how you excuse killing my husband and father of my children. En-fucking-lighten me, will you!” Her yell was buried beneath a whisper, afraid of awakening her son and daughter.
“Well, for one, I have just relieved you of the guilt you were undoubtedly going to suffer from the rest of your life,”
“What?”
“Oh you tried to pretend it wasn’t there, but I saw it. I felt it. The guilt for not loving him.”
“And you helped that?” She said with dry, scared sarcasm.
“You’re grief-stricken at the news of his death. No, it didn’t hit you immediately, but so few things hit with their full impact right away. I see it now, though. It’s seeping into your eyes, right there mixed with the desire to hate me. But you don’t, do you? Hate me, that is. Anyway, that grief is proof that you do love him, or at least part of you does. That should alleviate your guilt substantially, does it not?”
“You killed Liam because of my guilt?”
“Among other things. The list of reasons is nearly infinite; all of them are to your benefit. Well, almost. I must admit that a tiny part of it was for selfish gain.”
“Who are you?”
“That is perhaps something you should have investigated before inviting me into your home where your children sleep. Before you invited me into your bed... into you.”
“What kind of monster…” a geyser of tears pushed up her throat but she fought them back down, determined not to give him any pleasure of weakness. She regained composure then started again. “My twelve year old daughter and my seven year old son are now fatherlessness. You did that. You.”
"Children are resilient."
****
Baylor's heart was seconds away from pounding itself right out of his chest and onto the floor where the shadow monsters would rip it to shreds with their razor blade teeth and play keep away with the remnants. He pulled the sheets completed over his head and clasped both hands over his chest to hold his heart in place. He rolled over onto his side to face away from the window. As he did, his foot slipped from the covers and caught the corner of his nightstand. The whole thing, clock and all, went toppling over. The nightstand struck the floor with a ferocious BANG and Hans Solo bounced across the room, striking the wall with force.
Baylor let out a cry and the tears he had been trying to hold back burst through. He leaped out of bed and ran for the door, blankets following him half way across the room. He pulled open the door and ran. The kitchen was his first obstacle and his socks held no traction against its linoleum floor. He landed on his back but scrambled back onto his feet before his nerves had the chance to send pain signals to his brain.
He continued on, through the sitting room and up the stairs as fast as his seven-year-old feet could carry him. As he reached the top of the staircase, he froze. Rationality caught up with him and second thoughts of plowing through his mother's bedroom door began to flood in. His mother would never believe him if he told her time had frozen and shadow monsters were taking over and besides those two things, there was really no emergency that caused Baylor to leave his bed. He really wanted to go to Adam's birthday party. Baylor turned away and started back down the stairs. Two and a half steps down he froze again whipping around in response to what sounded like his mother's voice. It sounded just like his mother, but Baylor knew it couldn't be her voice. The voice screamed a word he knew his mother would never say. Who, then, was in his parents' bedroom imitating his mom's voice? Most importantly, who was using the words that were never allowed in their house? And why were they screaming?
Baylor ascended the two stairs he had progressed down and peered down the hall towards his parents' bedroom. The door was cracked open. With great caution, he shuffled his feet silently towards it. Out of instinct he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the remaining three feet until his nose nearly touched the doorframe.
At first, all he could see was his mothers bright red toenails peeping out of her much-too-long grey sweatpants. Suddenly her feet shuffled backwards until they slipped from his narrow margin of sight. A man's feet appeared in their place. Baylor knew they were not his father's. The hair was black against his pale legs, not blonde like on Baylor's head and his father's legs. The man stepped into the view of the cracked door and Baylor quickly threw his hand over his eyes without thinking. The man was naked, and Baylor could see his whole body. Horror struck him breathless like the time he had fallen out of the tree and landed squarely on his back. He scrambled to his feet and looked through the door at every angle possible, trying to find his mother. Finally he did.
Caroline was pinned against the wall by the grip of a four and a half fingered hand across her throat. Both of her comparatively tiny fists were clenched around his wrist but it was no use. Her feet flailed uselessly beneath her but the man seemed to pay no attention. His breath was steady as he stared through her eyes watching the life slip away and the fog take over. Eventually, the hand loosened its grip and Caroline's body fell lifelessly to the floor landing only inches from the cracked door.
Baylor fell to a sitting position and scooted away from the door in alarm. Out of nowhere, the four and a half fingered hand came back into view. It was clenched again, but this time around the handle of a butcher's knife. Baylor recognized the knife, it came from the set downstairs that he was not allowed to touch. Before he could blink, before he could shield his eyes once again, the knife struck his mother's breast. He could see no blood through her black t-shirt, but he envisioned it with perfect clarity. Her eyelids were peeled back wide and the fog had taken over her irises completely. Baylor's eyes, in shock, horror, and an unconscious mimicking of his mother, stretched open larger than his sockets should have been able to hold. He rose to his feet and began to run then slowed, terrified of alerting the man with nine and a half fingers of his presence. He crept down the stairs unable to tame his heartbeat, trying to swallow his breaths so his gasps would not be heard.
