Everywhere I Look

I’m just wrapping up on some rough sketches when my half brother Rick texts me something about the government. A muckraking journalist by trade, he sees conspiracies everywhere he looks. I mean, he’s a smart guy; he and his journalist partner, Margaret, have already busted a theme park for having death-trap rides and a small movie studio for covering up some pretty crazy child abuse. So I guess I can’t really blame him for being a little paranoid about the whole thing.

But still, Rick, geez. It’s the holidays! Would it kill you to take a break? At least I can take a break from his rantings and ravings by just ignoring him. So I don’t read or answer his texts, all their buzzing from my walk out of my darkened engineering office to the Uber to my little apartment. When he calls me, though, that’s gone too far.

“What, Rick? I’m trying to enjoy my X-Files!”

“There’s a serial murderer on the loose!”

“Tell Margaret. Don’t drag your poor older sister into your wild conspiracies!” I massage my temples and pause the TV.

“She’s away!”

“Why do you come to me? Aren’t there a million people who could help you more than I could?”

“I know you’re not great with words,” it’s true, but it still stings. “I’m calling to warn you.”

“Rick, I swear you live in your own, much angstier world. Remember something called the news? I think that can warn me just fine.”

“I was worried. You didn’t answer my texts!”

“Yeah man, I’m not on my phone literally all the time. I have important shit to design.”

“He’s targeting young women, professional women in your city! Just try and be more on edge, okay? None of them have been found.”

“I thought you were more a ‘the government is putting nanobots into the water to turn us into Commies,’ kinda guy.” I laugh. It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s so serious all the time. “Since when are you just a straight-up murder guy?”

I can almost see him on the other end, bristling at my light demeanor. “The government is trying to cover this up. Saying it’s different guys who did all of them, even though the modus operandi is the exact same for all of them.”

“Maybe it’s just really incompetent bureaucracy. That’s one of their strengths, you know. I guess nothing’s an accident with you.”

“Just… look out for yourself, okay?”

I have to restrain myself from mocking him more than I already have been. His concern comes from a good place, even if it comes off as hokey and overdramatic. “I’ll try, Rick. Same for you, man.”

I hang up and resume my X-Files, feeling light as whipped cream. I'm going to have a fantastic holiday break, filled with food and family and friends. I can unwind, celebrate the joy of life, and stuff my face.

I can just feel it.

I microwave some hot cocoa, the warmth permeating my entire being, eat a Kit Kat, and begin to fall asleep on my couch. During a commercial warning of some product possibly being linked to ‘genital gangrene’ (eesh) I hear a knock.

The guy at the door has a large knife that he jabs at me and a twitchy smile. Jingle all the nope. I slam the door as hard as I can, but something stands in the way of its successful closure.

Literally.

A foot is wedged in the door. If I weren't 99 percent this guy wants to eviscerate me, I'd feel deep sympathy for the guy. He clearly didn't expect the door to shut as hard as it did. I shut it more and harder. The guy falls to the ground, stiff as a domino, and at last I open my apartment door to repeatedly kick him in the stomach with my besocktacled shin. He clicks back with ugly teeth and swipes the knife at my calf, but I shove his mug aside with my foot, strike him in the vulnerable area, and knock on my neighbor Pat's door.

She answers with her typical questioning smile and says, “Hello, Ashley.”

“Hey, Pat. This guy tried to, um, stab me, so I’m going to call the police. Can you make sure he doesn’t get away?”

“Most certainly, dear.” She shuffles around and calls to her boyfriend, “George! We have a delinquent we need to restrain!”

“Coming, coming.” Said delinquent twitches a little. I think I knocked him out cold.

Retreating back into my darkened apartment, I pull out my phone. I don’t know what the phone number is for the police, so I look it up and call them. “Hello? Yes, I have an attempted assault at the Pinewood Apartments, no, by 621st street, 5th floor, you’ll know it when you see it. Who am I? Name’s Ashley Noelle King.” Did I need the middle name in there? It doesn’t really matter, I guess. I hang up.

I call Rick. Obviously I’m shaken, but the trick is not to show it. The screen glows, a small globe of light making me feel better.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Rick, forgot to ask you, what is the m.o. of this guy? I, um, found an article and I wasn't sure if it was him.”

“Oh!” He sounds excited, which feels off and even hurts a little. Even though he didn't know I had a run-in with a possible serial killer, he still delights in the suffering of someone else. “Very cold and calculated. He uses a gun.”

Wow, man, such useful information. But it does rule out the crazed knife wielder at my door. “Oh, never mind. False match.”

“Aw.” Now he's disappointed, which, again, disgusting.

“Yeah, he was practically foaming at the mouth and carrying a giant knife. The police are just coming over. Byeee!”

“Wha-” I hang up on my half brother with a smirk, grab my charger and some PJs, note with pleasure that Pat and George are using a wiffle ball bat (no doubt a present for Pat's adorable granddaughter) to subdue the guy, run out of the apartment and past the flashing police lights, and call my best friend Rebecca.

“Hey, man, could you pick me up? I'm by my apartment.”

“Why?”

“I can't spend the night alone. Scumbags everywhere.”

“Nothing a sleepover can't fix.”

I highly doubt that.