This was written while flying back from Joynt Scroll '09. It's a lot more serious than my usual writing.
“You really don't have a clue what you're doing, do you?” I asked as the water pooled about our ankles. The washing machine had disgorged its contents across the floor the moment it had been turned on. This was not optimal, of course.
“I'm sorry honey, but I'm sure I had it this time. You see there was this washer thing that was loose, so I reassembled the thing and replaced it. Was totally sure it was going to work.”
“Oh I'm sure you were, Dave, but I had kind of hoped you were right for once.” I paused for a moment, before deciding to plough on and take a risk. “Can we call in a technician now?”
My husband looked like he had been slapped. The exact reaction I had hoped to avoid. “And pay the bastard five hundred bucks to do some totally easy repair job, I don't think so!”
I sighed. Once Dave got it into his head that he would be able to fix something, be it a waste disposal, a lawnmower or a delinquent washing machine, he could never be diverted from that course. Sometimes he even succeeded, albeit in twice the time and at twice the cost that a technician would have needed.
“Anyway I'm sure I'll be able to get the job done right next time, I think I even know what I did wrong!”
All I could do was shake my head slowly as he turned around and began to frantically unscrew the back panel of his latest obsession. It was painful, but one of the costs that came built into an otherwise wonderful marriage. I'd let him have his fun. In fact I'd make some sandwiches. Perhaps on a full stomach he'd get somewhat back on track.
“Ham and cheese okay?” I asked the backside of his overalls, the only part of him that was visible.
“Ymph.” came the response from inside the machine. I took that to be a yes.
He had baked a loaf of bread earlier in the day. Well, more accurately he had breadmakered a loaf, and it had been cooling on the bench by the kitchen window. Outside black clouds were forming, threatening to ruin what had otherwise been a bright white day. As usual, I slightly butchered the loaf with the bread knife. Keeping knives sharp was just one of those mundane tasks I failed to keep on top of. Perhaps I'd get one of those professionals in to do it. I moved across to the fridge to get a couple of slices of processed cheese and the plate of leftover ham. Apparently Stephanie had had a really good experience with the professionals. They'd come and sharpened all her knives, and it hadn't been too dear, or so she said. On the other hand Stephanie had those really fancy knives, so maybe it more sense for her to spend money getting them sharpened. On that thought, perhaps it was time to get some new knives. There was a really nice set in...
I froze in front of the window.
Standing behind the low white picket fence was a dark, hulking brute of a man. Gang patches, tattoos and an ugly bearded face which cracked into a leering grin as our eyes met. I dropped my gaze and realised that my loose singlet, while comfortable around the house, also exposed rather more than I liked when I lent forward a little to, say, make a sandwich. The creep had been enjoying the show.
Heart racing, I quickly averted my gaze and reached out to shut the blind, shutting out the invader. Pausing for a moment I regained my composure, before plating the sandwiches with trembling hands. It was stupid for me to react in such a way, but the sleaze had left me shaken. I tried to shut out the thoughts as I brought the neat white triangles to Dave who, thought having thought to mop the floor clean, had now covered it in dark streaks of grease.
Like a child hard at work on a school project his face lit up at the provision of food, wiping his grease-blackened hands on a rag. I suppressed nausea at the thought of the greasy black spots that were bound to end up on the bright clean sandwiches.
Part of me was still left uneasy by the dark figure beyond the pickets, and it must have crept through my façade for Dave suddenly asked if anything was wrong.
“Oh no, there's nothing wrong. I just don't like seeing you eating so much grease!” I laughed nervously, embarrassed about my overreaction to what was but a momentary encounter. Dave wasn't entirely convinced.
“You look like you've seen a ghost, are you sure you are just worried about my waistline?”
“Well, it's really pretty stupid, I just caught a guy perving on me from the street. Kind of creeped me out. It's silly, because everyone gets checked out every now and then, it's just that, well...”
“The guy reminded you of Mike?”
I blanched at the mention of the name, my hands starting to tremble. Dave hauled himself to his feet and placed a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Yeah, he kind of reminded me of him. It wasn't much of a resemblance, I guess. He was never that fat, and he didn't have a lot of tats, but just something about the guy made me think of him,” I paused for a moment, trying to force myself to spit the word out, “Mike.”
Dave's hand was reassuring, his smell comforting. “Mike's in prison, love, he's not getting out for a long time, you shouldn't still be afraid.”
I flushed, “Oh I know, it's just that, sometimes, things trigger stuff. It's stupid I know. I'll be fine, it just sort of overcame me. It was weird.”
“It's okay honey, perhaps you should watch some TV or something to distract you, settle you down.”
I nodded my agreement and went and sat down in the living room, flicking through the channels while Dave worked away in the laundry. While I managed to distract myself for much of the afternoon, watching television, reading books and preparing a shopping list, the memory of the stranger who looked so much like Mike continued to bother me. By the time came to prepare dinner, my efforts had been almost worthless, with the unknown stranger looming large seemingly over my shoulder, or just inside my blind spot.
If Dave noticed, and he probably did, he chose to ignore it lest his intervention go further in reopening old wounds. Dinner was awkward, with me constantly harried at my own inadequacy in allowing such a small thing to cause me such grief. One good piece of news in the otherwise gloomy circumstances was Dave's declaration that he had, in fact, managed to fix the washing machine, news I took with some degree of trepidation. Unexpectedly a cursory test seemed to support Dave's claim, a fact he delighted in with a strict veneer of magnanimity.
In bed that night, cuddled in closely with a husband who despite his best efforts still smelt vaguely of grease, I still felt afraid to shut my eyes. The more I tried not to think of it, the more I thought of Mike, the more I felt afraid.
The crashing noises that woke me in the middle of the night sent my emotions into a tailspin.
“Dave, Dave, wake up! Dave, wake up!” I cried as I shook him.
“I'm already awake, what the hell is that noise?”
My mind raced reaching a terrible conclusion almost immediately. “It's Mike, he's come to get me. He's come to get me.” My hysteria built and built as the sounds continued downstairs, the sound of things breaking along with continuous thumps and crashes.
Dave looked increasingly alarmed as I broke into sobs, tears streaming down my face as I rocked in bed, powerful before the memories of my past that had stirred.
“Listen to me, honey, Mike is still in prison, it can't be him!”
The reality of his statement cut through my panic, before it was subsumed by fear of the unknown watcher. “Maybe it's that guy I saw! Maybe he's one of Mike's gang mates, come to exact revenge. He said his mates would get me. He always said they would. We have to call the cops.”
Dave looked sceptical, “Honey, I'm sure there's another explanation for this, but to put your mind at ease I'll go and check it out.”
“No! He'll get you, we need to call the cops!” Just as I said it the realisation dawned on me that neither me or Dave had our phones with us in the bedroom. Dave echoed my thoughts.
“Even if that is the case, I need to get to the phone anyway. I'll take one of my golf clubs and check things out,” seeing my stricken face he added, “Honey, I'll be fine, I wont take any stupid risks.”
I simply nodded in response as Dave went to the closet and picked up one of his golf clubs. As he stepped out into the landing, and vanished into the darkness I stood in the doorway, listening in terror as tears rolled down my cheeks. For a minute all I could hear was the thumbs and crashes coming from downstairs. Then there was silence, followed by Dave's voice.
“Honey, there's no one here, it's just, argh!” his voice was cut short by a loud thump and a cry that was suddenly cut short. My heart went cold. My worst nightmare had come true. Mike had come, had come to kill me. Just like he had said he always would. In my heart of hearts I knew he would. He would come and kill me. He would gut me. He would rape me. He would torture me.
Tears streamed down my face as I crawled to the corner of the room furthest from the door, curling up into a ball. I knew in a moment of absolute clarity that I was going to die.
Down below in the laundry the washing machine, now turned off, sat next the shelves its unbalanced movements had knocked over. Water pooled on the floor and in that water spread a red tinge, as Dave lay prone where he had slipped and fallen.
