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    lucyoncolorado

    One Hundred Seven

    by , 11-02-2015 at 04:10 PM (391 Views)
    In which I have a terrifying nightmare...

    I’m walking down the residential street to my childhood house. I take the patio entrance, holding the screen door open with my hip as I fiddle with the lock. It takes a while, but finally, I get the door open, and I enter. The house is dark. From the corner of my eye, I see a shadow dart down the hall, then I hear a door slam. I realize I’m not alone in the house.

    I shout, “hello” but there is no response. I walk into the living room, and I flip open my cell phone. I have no signal. I hear footsteps in the back of the house and a voice saying that I’m going to die. The closest exit is the kitchen door to the garage, so I run towards it. I get the door open just as the intruder appears in the living room. I only see him for a second- a man, dressed in black, his face covered by a mask.

    I shut the door behind me and enter the garage. It’s dark, and I fumble around the wall searching for the button to raise the garage door. I find it and click it just as the man enters the garage behind me. I run over to the door and wait as the cables slowly crank it up the tracks. When the door is lifted a few feet, I duck underneath and run across my driveway. I’m panicked and not thinking clearly, so I take a fraction of a second to pause and focus. I look to the left, at the front porch of my nextdoor neighbor, then I look in front of me, to the door across the street. Which can I reach faster? Which is more likely to have an unlocked door? I see the masked man emerge from the garage. He’s only a few seconds behind me.

    I focus on my nextdoor neighbor’s front porch and feel a surge of adrenaline. If I sprint as hard as I can, I’ll make it before he gets to me. I clench my fists and try to run, but I can’t. I can barely walk. I’m clumsy, and I keep falling over. Even though I can feel the power in my muscles, I can’t seem to get going. My legs are heavy, and I’m moving slowly. I no longer see the killer. Again, I try to use my cell phone. Now I have a signal, but I can’t see the numbers or direct my fingers to hit the right ones. I’m trying to call 911, but instead I keep dialing 201. Jersey. Meanwhile, I’m wasting time that could be spent trying to run.

    Briefly, I consider how dangerous it is that I always lose the ability to run in dreams. During my childhood, other kids chased me to this same patio, and I usually made it safe with an “ollie ollie oxen free!” But now that a masked killer is chasing me, I can hardly walk.

    Finally, I reach the patio steps and grasp the railings to pull my limp legs up onto the porch. I ring the doorbell and shout for help, then I reach for the doorknob, desperately hoping that it is unlocked. Before I can try it, though, a man opens it and I rush inside his foyer, locking the door behind me.

    I’m shouting that someone is trying to kill me; we must call the police. He’s remarkably calm, standing still, smiling widely and showing me his perfect white teeth. He’s young, late 20s, and very well-built, with biceps like tree trunks. But his face is bright and clean-shaven, and he has thick styled blonde hair with frosted tips. Gym rat, I think. Preppy jock. Or gay. Maybe gay jock. Who is he? I remember that Mr. B, who lived there during my childhood, had died. My parents told me that an older retired couple had moved in. Judging by the decor, the house appears to belong to retirees. And I catch a strange smell coming from inside the house.

    The gym rat tells me to calm down, and I follow him into the kitchen where he picks up an oversized and outdated cordless phone. I tell him to dial 911, but he dials 201 instead. I start screaming that there is a murderer just outside the door and that no one in Jersey can possibly help us. Gym rat smiles widely again and says that he knows all that. He says not to worry, that he’s already called the police.

    “How can that be?” I ask him. “I just got here.”
    “I’ve known there was an intruder in your house since you returned from paddling.”
    “So you called the police a few minutes ago?”
    “Just relax. Everything is going to be OK.”
    “Who are you? Do you live here?”
    “This is my parents’ house. They’ll be home soon, and then we can all have a nice chat.”

    Something about this exchange seems strange to me, and I start backing out of his kitchen. The gym rat notices I’m upset, but he does not pursue me. Instead, he tells me that he’s just had a baby. He points towards the bassinet in the living room.

    “She was born in May,” he says. “My first baby.” I start to relax a little. I look at the bassinet. It’s on the floor next to the couch in a typical suburban living room. A lace blanket covers the opening. “She’s sleeping,” the gym rat says. “Come have a look at her.”

    “My niece was born in May, too,” I respond. “They’re at a fun age right now.” I’m trying to calm down and make small talk. I keep looking to the window. When will the police arrive?

    The gym rat crouches down next to the bassinet. He removes the lace blanket and smiles down at his baby. Then he says to me, “Don’t you want to come see her?”

    I walk over and look down. The baby’s belly is exposed, and I see a rose tattoo just above her belly button. The skin of her stomach is red and raw. I’m not sure what I’m looking at; I’m confused by what I see. Who tattoos a baby’s stomach?

    “They say you have to be very gentle with babies,” the gym rat says. He looks up at me and smiles. “I guess I wasn’t gentle enough.”

    I look at the baby again and realize what I’m seeing. Her belly isn’t just red from the fresh tattoo, it’s bruised blue and purple, swollen from beating and bloated from decomposition. This rotting baby is what I’ve been smelling.

    Immediately, I run towards the door, and this time I can run. The man doesn’t follow right away; he stays on the floor smiling down at the dead baby. For a second, I think I’ll actually escape. But, just as I reach the doorknob with my left hand, I feel his grip on my right wrist. I turn to face him.

    He’s calm. He grabs my left wrist with his other hand and holds my arms, now bound, in front of him. His grip is gentle, but when I try to pull away, he tightens it. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at me. “No, no, don’t do that,” he says quietly. Still, he’s smiling.

    I think of the baby’s bruised stomach. My skin is going to look like that. I’m going to take a beating. It will begin as soon as I struggle, and there is no way to escape. I’m caught. It’s going to be torture; I can’t even die to get out of it. I’m terrified.

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    Updated 11-02-2015 at 04:16 PM by 38879

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