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.

Charlie

The surrealism of dusk has passed and the infinite empty of night is becoming painfully present. Uneasiness is rocking me to my feet in my would-be antique store I call a living room. I know this cannot continue and I have to take action before the claustrophobia crushes my body. I give another shake of the matchbox in my hands to hear the rattle of a dozen skinny little pyromaniacs, which serves to confirm my growing resolve. It is time to ask my uninvited guest to leave.

From the thick mustiness of my front room I make my way past the mantle to the doorway, which leads to where I have eaten so many meals with my family. The dining area is easily twice the size of the living room but it has afforded no space as my own reality has pressed in on me from all sides. I take pause before entering this room, struck to a standstill by the only light in the house, which is coming from the kitchen entry across from where I stand hidden by the evening's darkness. My eyes swim in their sockets. There he is! Just sitting there, in my home! Resting his filthy elbows on the small table in my kitchen, taking in the infernal cancer from his cigarette. I don't know this stranger but I'll be damned if he isn't Charlie Manson! I have to remember to breathe again.

I shake my matchbox.

Taking the first step into the dining hall seems to be the most difficult decision ever but I manage to put into motion the concrete poles I had once called legs. My steps don't take me closer to the kitchen but deeper into the dining room. Now is not his time, not yet. Each step I take does brings me closer to the moment of truth and further from the warm comfort of what I used to consider the safety of my comfortable life but my body is following the plans of a secret mission my mind knows but will not tell me. Finally, I make it to the edge of my dining table. This is the corner where my two boys would sit, constantly playing the game of one-upmanship. "I'm already to level twelve."

"Oh yeah? Well I rode a wheelie for half a block today"

Gone. That game will never be played here again.

The table as my guide, I walk silently and deliberately from the only light in the house to the darker corner of this room. Why does there never seem to be any colors of life in the bleak grays of darkness? These next two chairs often sat empty with only each other as company but always hoping for the company of others. My trek across the room is taking an eternity and there suddenly seems to be thousands of chairs in my way, scattered ever so gently about the perimeter of the table. I shake my matchbox. The rattling pyro sticks sparked not flame but fear from under the table. With a slight bend, I can see directly underneath to a pair of desperate, cornered eyes. Inhuman eyes, eager for freedom and I know they belong to one of the two German Shepherds the stranger brought with him. This poor beast, like his brother at the end of the table is worn and dirty with patches of hair missing and signs of life missing. These frightened dogs could easily be mistaken as homeless people reincarnate. I continue walking.

Across from me now is where my girl would sit, next to her Grammy, not my mother but my wife's. I didn't care for her much then and I don't suppose I miss her now but my daughter loved her so much.

I shake my matchbox.

It feels as though a lifetime has come and gone but I make it to the end of the table. In some way, I guess a lifetime has come and gone. I guess a few have. I sat here with my wife, the king of the castle and his queen. This is where I would often sit proud, knowing that it was due to my protection and care that the evils of the world would not, could not permeate and defile the sacred sanctuary that we called home. It was here that fate was so often waiting to prove me wrong.

I shake my matchbox and look down. The two pathetic excuses of life look up at me from scarred and beaten faces. I kneel down and hold out the matchbox. Their quivers work to push the fear off their seemingly sandblasted coats as it comes to me in pulsating waves, nearly knocking me off my perch. Suddenly, it comes clear that our captor has his own matchbox, the one he carries to keep his habit ablaze. Maybe he shakes it before he beats his dogs. Maybe he holds it as he swings the hammers at the end of his arms.

"I'm sorry," I plead as I set the box down in front of these two chained slaves and slowly wrap them only in compassion. These poor animals don't even feel alive. My arms are telling me, as I hold them, that this must be what it feels like to pick up animal carcasses from the highway and for the longest minute in my life, I just hold them. I talk to them quietly, soothe them, and swear to give them freedom.

For these two, I regain my resolve and stand. This is it. I tell my self repeatedly, this is it. Our Charlie must die. On the back wall of this dining area, near the entry to the living room, there is an inset cubby where my wife and I felt placing a stereo was a spectacular idea so that we could play music while the family ate. That is where my gun is. That is where retribution is. The fear of death will give even the clumsiest oaf a military class stealth level and I find that I am no exception as I steal my way to the cubby. From here, I can catch glimpse of Charlie. Still he sits there, enjoying the calm before the storm and I know that time is nearly gone as he puffs away on the time bomb in his mouth.

Wait. What about the neighbors? What will they hear? I can't bring my drama to their doorstep. Will they call the police? Is prison in my cards? NO! This is self-defense. This is survival. I know that's a lie. The burn in the back of my throat doesn't taste like survival but of hatred. Pure and rancid hatred.

I need music. I need loud distraction. I must have the ending spelled out like the climax of a movie. Mostly, I need something to drown out the ability for witnesses to clarify how many shots emitted from within this Hell. My hand closes around the cold comfort of steel as I slip my favorite Monster Magnet CD into the changer and demand it play.

The bony chill hand of Death slides up my spine and my peripheral senses tell me that Charlie has disappeared from the kitchen and materialized directly behind me! Possessed by a cyclone, I turn and fire. The burst of noise from my weapon beats the beat of drums to any nearby ears but the bullet sails into the void of nothing. Oh god. I was wrong! My eyes slice the room apart, ripping through the gray of darkness. Nothing.

I have to swallow my heart before I can move again but once I do, my eyes like homing missiles zero in on the yellow wash of the kitchen doorway, being blocked by his silhouette. I didn't realize anyone could be so evil that he could even imprison light! His presence invades this room just as he did the very first minute he walked into what I used to call a life and by sheer will, he thrusts invasion upon me. My chest is on fire with the pain of pressure. I can't take this eternal instant of panic and stumble backward. I realize my feet want to run the other way and I find myself falling. I may never stand again! With blind hope, I fire a shot at the kitchen doorway. The pistol's kick burns in my elbow just as lightning strikes the back of my head from landing where my feet used to be.

My senses all assault me at once! Oh god! He's right on top of me! How did he move so fast without making any moves at all? His silhouette blocks out any light the kitchen would give as comfort. He has become a specter of the underworld, a shade that descends mercilessly upon my throat, nicotine stained nails excavating my collar bone as his dirt caked hands feel for my throat. The drums and guitars from the CD player suddenly get as frantic as my pulse and I feel his ruthlessness shaking my neck and taste his acrid breath spill out onto me! My arms are pinned to the ground by his knees from behind torn and crusted jeans. The pain shoots like my gun should but never gets to the receptors in my brain as it gets backed up just like my blood, waiting for his hand made dam to break from my throat but it never does.

As my vision and the hauntingly frenzied whirl of Monster Magnet fade, a half groan and half scream escapes my captive throat which is muted only by the haziness of an impossible distance. This instantaneous, yet endless primal cry carries me into black oblivion. Through this, the only image that tattoos my mind is that of Charlie's two broken dogs, yet, even in the last fleeting moments of consciousness, even those two poor beasts slowly leave.