Endless Night

My shoulders sagged and my legs formed a distinctive limp as I made my way to the front door. It had been one of those days. You know the ones, where everything that can go wrong does. I fumbled around in my large bag for my keys, and dropped them on the floor twice before I managed to fit the key into the lock and turn the knob. Before the door was even shut behind me, I kicked off my shoes, one of them hitting the wall and sliding to the floor, the other landing in the ficus next to the door. The arches of my feet ached as I steadied myself in my stocking feet. I dropped my bag and keys onto the hardwood and limped into the kitchen.

My stomach told me to find something to eat, but every other muscle in my body argued, and directed me to the liquor cabinet. I complied with the greater part of my body and extracted a glass and a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. I didn’t normally drink scotch, but that was what you see the working men and women in the movies drink after a hard day at the office. I filled the glass about a quarter full and drained it. God, it burned. I made a horrible face, one that I would disguise if anyone else were there, but I was all alone. I stared at the bottle. Did I dare? Oh, what the hell, I thought, and poured another quarter of a glass before putting the bottle away.

The refrigerator was empty, of course, save for a block of molding parmesan cheese, a few eggs, and some leftover shrimp salad that should have been thrown out two weeks ago. I picked up the phone and speed-dialed the Chinese restaurant downstairs.

“Mr. Chin, it’s Leigh from upstairs.” The fact that I was on a first-name basis with the owner of the restaurant (well, name basis – I couldn’t pronounce his first name) was proof of my cooking ineptitude.

“Ah, Leigh. What will you have?” I ordered my regular and hung up, my stomach starting to grumble. I downed the glass of scotch, hoping to quell it a little. It didn’t work.

While I waited for my lo mein, I stripped out of my suit, leaving remnants of the ensemble in a trail to my bathroom. I scrubbed off my make-up and took my hair out of its bun and slid on my fuzzy yellow bathrobe. My apartment was a mess, so it really didn’t matter when I threw the hair elastic and my undershirt on the tile floor. One day I might get around to cleaning it up.

When the delivery boy arrived (it was a different one each time, so I never bothered to learn their names), he stared at me like the crazy lady I was as I rummaged through the bag on the floor looking for my wallet. I really needed to clean that thing out. After I paid him and threw the wallet back in the general direction of my bag, I had the usual debate. Do I eat in the living room while watching TV, or do I pretend like I’m a civil human being and eat at the kitchen table? The TV usually won, but tonight, I chose the kitchen. Probably because it was closer.

I sat down at the small, round table and pushed a huge stack of clutter out of the way without even looking at it. I was halfway through my lo mein (and struggling hard with the chopsticks, I might add) before I saw it. It seemed innocent enough, and to anyone else it wouldn’t garner a second thought. But as I stared down at the small framed photograph, cold chills ran down my spine, and my chopsticks fell out of my hand and onto the floor. It was so quiet I could hear the slight clicking as the wooden sticks bounced around on the tile. I wasn’t breathing.

Where did it come from? How did it get here? I knew the answer to that. But how had HE gotten in here? How had he found me? I had moved – I had moved out of state, damn it! I didn’t list my name, phone number OR address in the phone book, and the name on my lease was L. Smith. How more generic could you get? How had he found me?

My eyes stung from not blinking, but I couldn’t make myself blink. I tore my eyes from the frame and looked frantically around the room. There was no one there. I ran for my knife block and wrapped my shaking fingers around the largest chef’s knife, holding it in front of me as I backed out of the kitchen towards the front door.

I was being foolish. I couldn’t let him chase me from another town. He’d just find me again. If he really was here, I had to end this. Or was that the foolish thing to do? No. I was sick of fearing him. I’d rather be dead than scared for the rest of my life, I thought, as I steeled myself against the door frame.

“I know you’re here,” I said in a singsong voice, and was surprised when I didn’t hear my voice quivering. I actually sounded a little menacing. I wanted to add a “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” but that was too cliche.

“Frank…” I called. “I’m not running. I’m not a little girl anymore, I’m not going to let you scare me. Come out, and let’s end this.” My voice was confident, but my hands were shaking and my legs were wobbling. I took several deep breaths to steady myself, careful to keep my eyes as wide open as possible. They darted around the room, looking for any sign of movement. From my spot, back pressed against the front door, left side against the wall, I could see every doorway in the apartment. There was no way he could surprise me.

I blinked back angry tears and tried to stop the flood of memories that pressed against my mind. Images and sounds broke through my barriers and tried to tear me down. Me, ten years old, trying to force my nightgown down while the man my mother pretended was my father fought me to keep it pushed up. Frank’s disgusting laugh, amused by my pain. My mother running into the room with a baseball bat and swinging at Frank, only to miss. My mother’s gurgled scream as Frank wrapped his hands around her throat.

“No!” I screamed out loud, pushing the memories from my mind. I’d kept them away for almost sixteen years. I wasn’t going to let them beat me now. “FRANK!” I yelled, fueled with revenge and anger for what he did to me and my mother.

I saw a shadow move in my bedroom doorway, a mere twelve feet away. Of course that’s where he would be. My tears stopped suddenly and my body went rigid as he stepped into the light. My heart pounded against my chest and my throat went dry. His bald head was gleaming, his stomach was shaking with laughter. That horrible, visceral, evil laugh.

“What do you have there, Leigh Anne? A knife? You planning on stabbing me?” he teased. “You know I’m going to kill you. Just like I killed your pathetic mother.” He studied me. My feet were planted firmly on the floor. My voice caught in my throat and I couldn’t respond. “You know, it’ll be a shame. You’re the best I ever had,” he taunted me further, his eyes venturing down my body slowly. I could see in his eyes that he knew he had me, he knew I was too scared to move.

And I had him right where I wanted him. I let out a loud scream and lunged at him, fist clenching the knife above my head. I caught him by surprise as I plunged the seven-inch blade into his chest, right into his heart. His laugh cut off immediately, replaced with a shaking gurgle as blood dripped from his mouth.

I wanted to say something, some final word, but I had nothing to say to him. I saw the look in his eyes, a mix between fear, shock, and evil staring back at me. I looked away and backed into the kitchen, feeling around for the cordless phone.

As the policemen and forensics team crawled my apartment, a very nice female officer sat with me at my kitchen table taking my statement. I described everything to her, sixteen years’ worth of statements, turning the small framed portrait of my mother, Frank and me over and over in my hand.

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Prompt: A character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day. He finds something on the kitchen table that isn’t supposed to be there.