Glance

Carrie poses awkwardly in front of her standing mirror, questioning her satisfaction of the slightly thick woman peering back at her. She rotates her broad hips and runs a hand down her shapely silhouette, frowning. "Maybe if I cut my hair..." her thought trails to nowhere as she scoops a handful of blond curls and presses them to her scalp. The bangs still frame her dollish face, allowing her pink, pouty lips to give attitude. Her focus is stolen from her flaws as a large void of light momentarily slips across the background.
Instantly, Carrie tastes her heart as the roots of her cherry wood hair lights aflame. Her hazel eyes scour the mirror, trying to glimpse the shade but has no such luck. Fear and desperation wheel her at the speed of panic away from the reflective surface and toward reality in hopes of locating the distraction. Her gaze races from nook to corner, running under the pillowy couch, behind the matching recliner and screaches to a halt at the partially open closet door across the room.
Between her audible breaths, a whisper escapes, "Has that been open all night?" Her finger absently jabs an accusing point at the door that holds back the darkness. No one answers her. Trying to dismiss the blackness of her shut away, Carrie visually investigates the room again without moving, for fear of giving away her location. Nothing.
In an attempt to remain calm, Carrie hopes to convince herself that she is still alone by voicing confidence building remarks such as, "It was nothing..." and, "You're just imagining things." This helps, if only a little, and, sheepishly, she turns back to the mirror, trying to regain focus on the frustration of her appearance. The criticism comes half heartedly as her eyes scout the room on the other side of the glass. Eventually, Carrie's terror subsides and her self esteem takes control again as it decides the black slacks she is wearing should not be where they are. Resigning to the will of her abused ego, Carrie watches her alternate self deprive her sandy hued legs of covering, exposing both her blue pearl panties and her non-matching peach colored stocking socks. She throws her rejected pants to the bed and scoops up a long black skirt, all in one motion.
When she turns back to her mirror, the negative presence is caught for the briefest of seconds in Carrie's view. Again, she tastes her heart. Rust coats her tongue and electric shocks bolt to the center of her body, just below her belly button. Her wide eyes try homing in but the presence is no longer present. Again, she spins about, hoping to catch her watcher but finds herself just as deprived as her legs. "Hello?" She sounds out to try greeting her peeper. Her voice is full of quiver, betraying her projected courage and showing her truth. Fortunately, she thinks, nobody responds. Perhaps that isn't fortune.
No longer thinking of what outfit to wear to work in the morning and the feeling of Carrie feels compulsed to try locating her stalker. Before she moves her feet, her hand snakes down to the vanity next to her and feels for a weapon as her eyes continue to act as lookout. Her shaking fingers weave around the nail polish bottles and lipstick cases and other such feminine products before finding the solidity of her hairbrush. Her digits cling to this as a drowning swimmer would cling to a lifeguard and her feet begin the longest journey to the front door so Carrie can determine whether it is still locked or not, being very wary with each step to avoid furniture and doorways.
Millions of footsteps later and Carrie finds herself at her front door, one hand pressed against the painted wood and her porcelain cheek resting at the frame. Her eyes scrutinize the brass knobs and levers, tracing each mechanical device to its proper locked position. "Still locked." She sighs. A thud sounds from behind her, on the far side of her two bedroom living area, near the restroom and she breaks out in a sweat. "The windows..."
Chaos erupts. She hurdles end tables and damages blinds in an attempt to secure the perimeter at each glassy entry way and at each look out point, she peers out, searching for more optical intruders. The next painful minutes are filled with swinging latches and scraped knees. She races from window to window, causing her partially buttoned peach blouse to flap in the wind her speed creates, forgetting that her legs are bare and she could be exposing the neighbors to her flashy underwear. Midway through her kitchen, Carrie slides to a stop in front a counter and whips open the knife drawer. Care escapes her mind as she rifles through the drawer, creating thin red lines across her hand and knuckles until she finds the most monstrous blade in the small wooden compartment. Leaving the hair brush behind, she continues her pursuit for security. 
After all entry ways have been barred, Carrie begins the hunt for the invader inside her home. Like a tiger in the brush, she stalks slowly and deliberately, plotting each step before taking it. Her golden mane sways as her keen eyes survey the prairie for the hidden gazelle. A bump to her right. She jumps. An open door to her left. She swings her knife wildly as she crosses the threshold. Her void watcher is nowhere to be seen in this room and standing motionless in the room, too afraid to move are a pale washer and an equally white dryer, both waiting for the partially clad woman to strike. In rage, she grabs the front of the dryer and throws open the door, unknowingly knocking her mop into an off kilter balance as she stabs inside the dryer barrel. Carrie then moves over to the washer and begins gutting the sunshine scented metal beast until she is satisfied that there is nothing worth stabbing inside.
Carrie stands, her round hip nudging the dryer and the dryer, in turn, taps the ill stabilized mop, which finally takes a spill and skitters across the ground, bringing along with it a couple brooms, a precariously perched dustpan and two mostly empty bottles of cleaning fluid from the neighboring shelf. The smashing clatter causes quite the start in Carrie and she spins about, knife jutting out and foot sliding through an oily scented substance freshly covered the floor. No longer able to contain her balance, Carrie begins the panic dance as her arms begin flailing in all directions, looking in futility for an anchor. Her hand refuses to release the knife, following strictly to its first orders of survival. She lurches forward, trying to grab the side of the washer but connecting to the corner of the dryer instead and with her jaw rather than her fingers. The blow knocks her equillibrium off. She instinctively attempts to correct but finds herself in a timeless descent to the ground, stopping just inches past the blade of her north pointing kitchen blade. The void comes into the room and covers her vision but her fear is replaced with comfort as the body numbs. Carrie's blood mingles with the bleach and she welcomes the embrace of the shroud as he carries her softly into oblivion.