The Quiet Girl

At the tender age of eighteen, I was naive enough to believe that I was over having crushes on girls. I figured I was a grown man, going off to college. I'd be meeting girls at parties and in the dorms! No more silly puppy love from afar.

Well, it didn't take fate long to make a fool of me. I saw her in my Freshman English class. The seats for the students were divided into three sections, each having four rows of seats. The largest section, in the center, directly faced the professor. The other two were set at an angle, making a kind of convex shape so everyone could see the front of the room. I sat in the back of the angled section farthest from the door; she sat in the seat that mirrored mine, in the section closest to the door. Throughout the class, whenever I looked at the professor, she was in the corner of my eye.

She was fair-skinned, and her dark brown hair fell just short of her shoulders. She was very pretty, but had a sort of persistently sad look on her face. A few strands of hair covered her left eye most of the time, which was a shame, because her eyes were incredible. They were piercing, ice-blue eyes that often fell on... me.

The first time we made eye contact, I looked away and pretended not to notice. After all, I was in her field of vision, just like she was in mine. But the class met three times each week, and by the end of the second week, she had started to flat-out stare at me. She did it through the entire class. It was flattering, but creepy.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to do. I couldn't change seats: the professor had us fill out a seating chart the first day, and we were strictly forbidden to change seats. So I did the only thing I could think of, and smiled at her.

She smiled back. I felt equal parts confusion and elation. What was she up to? The obvious thing to do would have been to catch up with her after class and say hi, but I was too shy. What if I was making a mountain out of a molehill? She might not be interested. Maybe this was just something college girls did.

So another week passed, and I grew steadily fascinated and infatuated. This mysterious beauty, who only seemed to brighten up when I smiled at her, entranced me more and more. I thought about approaching her, but I was hesitant; and since she sat closest to the door and I sat farthest away, she slipped out into the crowded hallway before I could muster up the nerve to introduce myself.

That weekend, my interest bordered on obsession. She dominated my every waking thought, haunted my dreams. Why was she staring at me? Why doesn't she ever raise her hand in class? Why doesn't the professor ever call on her? Why can't I just man up and say hello to her? A dust-storm of questions kicked up in my mind, and as I lay awake Sunday night, my fervent brain preventing sleep, I vowed I would introduce myself to her on Monday.

Somehow, exhaustion overcame my burning thoughts, and I managed a couple of hours of restless sleep. Yet as my alarm went off, I felt surprisingly refreshed and alert. Today was the day. I would finally reach out to my mysterious beauty.

I showed up to class a few minutes early, sharply dressed and beaming with excitement. I fidgeted in my seat, waiting to see her; but as the professor began class, her seat remained empty. A minute passed, then five, then ten, each moment stretching out like an agonizing eternity, but she never came.

I was crushed. I was finally prepared to chat her up, maybe ask her out for coffee, and she was nowhere in sight. After the initial shock wore off and I became capable of rational thought, however, I realized how silly I was being. People miss class: they get sick, they sleep in, they forget to do the reading. It was no big deal, I'd just wait until Wednesday.

Yet Wednesday came and went, while she remained absent. On Friday, when she didn't show, I almost broke down. I spent the weekend sulking in isolation, beating myself for having not approached her sooner. I worried that she had dropped out; after all, she did seem kind of gloomy, so maybe she decided this wasn't the place for her. I was miserable.

The next time class met, she again failed to show. I waited for everyone to file out, and approached the professor as he collected his materials. I tried to stop from shaking with nerves, and mostly failed, but I had to know who she was.

"Uh, excuse me, professor, I was wondering... The girl, who sat over there," - I gestured to her seat - "could you maybe tell me her name?"

Quizzically, he raised one eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about," he replied.

I gulped, audibly. "Well, if you could just check the seating chart, I'd really like to know who she was. Er, is." The professor took of his glasses, looked down and rubbed his temples. It only took a moment, but seemed to go on forever. Finally, he looked back up at me and spoke.

"Son, are you feeling okay? There's no name for that seat on the chart. That seat has been empty all semester."

That Time Just Before Sunrise

It's my favourite part of the day. It's summer, and these are the precious few hours before which it will become unbearably hot and muggy. When I'm walking about, basking in the dim rays of early morning, I feel like I own this town. At this hour the streets are empty. Usually I walk in a circuit, but some mornings I'll take a random path down side streets whose sidewalks are interrupted by sundry spurts of grass and weeds. My only companions are the soft echo of my sneakers on the pavement and the warm, gentle breeze.

It's been a while since I've slept soundly, so it's no surprise that I'm up at this hour. My stomach is growling, so I stop off at one of those twenty-four hour convenience stores to pick up some chips and jerky. I guess I'm not much for healthy eating, but it's tough to argue with my stomach. Just before leaving, I remember to grab some antihistamine. Allergies. Like you wouldn't believe. If I go a day without sneezing, I thank my lucky stars. Still, it's nothing worth complaining over. The way I see it, I'm a pretty lucky guy.

If I can find a spot where a building won't obscure the horizon, I can see the sun now firmly peeking out to say hello. I've got forty minutes before I start breaking a sweat. As harsh as winter can be, summer really gets me. Hard to enjoy the great outdoors when you're sweating buckets, sneezing like the dickens and being fed on by a swarm of mosquitoes. I tend to sleep during the day and work at night, when the temperature is more bearable. Not pleasant, just bearable. I really wish I had air conditioning.

But I don't mean to complain. As I said, I'm a pretty lucky guy. Roof over my head, belly full of junk food, and healthy as a horse. Even when I was a kid, I rarely got sick. Sure, stuffy nose all the time from the allergies, but almost never actually ill. Colds were a rarity, and I don't think I've ever had the flu. I read somewhere once that allergies are an over-reaction on the part of the immune system to outside entities like pollen or cat hair. So apparently my immune system is hyper-vigilant. I think my friends used to pity me over being an allergic mess, but I've never minded. It's all I've ever known, and I've never been stuck in bed for a week with a fever.

I return to my apartment and bid adieu to the early morning. I sleep best, if I sleep at all, on a full stomach, so I chow down on my chips and jerky. I slump down into my bed, and realize the sheets don't exactly smell fresh. Meh, it might stink a little, but it's my stink. And besides, it's been a while since I've had an opportunity to share my bed with a lady... Still, I ought to take better care of the place.

While drifting off, I like to think of my childhood. I like to think of my friend and I - what was his name? - clambering up the dogwood tree in my front lawn, pretending it was our secret base. I like to think of that cute girl who was my first kiss. I like to think of the faces of my parents, who I haven't seen in years, smiling approvingly as I walked across the stage at high school graduation. Ah, better times.

My pre-sleep calm is interrupted by my itchy nose, and so I quickly honk into a handkerchief to stave off a sneezing fit. Damn allergies. Still, while I'm no scientist, I guess I'm glad for my paranoid immune system. If I remember correctly, I was sitting in my cubicle when the attack on Plum Island happened. Plum Island? Nobody even knew what that was. Turns out the feds had an animal disease research facility there. Makes sense: it's a ways off the mainland in New York, it's isolated, and nobody lived there. Nobody to snoop around. Nobody to find out about the biological weapons testing.

Unsurprisingly, the outbreak started in New York. Oh, just another flu transmitted from animals to humans, said the government and the media. No big deal, wash your hands, avoid contact with the infected. Then they closed the schools. Then they closed the subway. Then they closed the businesses. Then they implemented martial law.

While we were still laughing off the little bout of innocent flu, it had spread to Beijing, Paris, Buenos Ares and Tel Aviv. And while we went about our merry lives, sending get well soon cards to those that had come down with the 'bird sniffles,' those microbes were worming their way around the globe.

Yeah, you probably know how the story goes. Turns out it's fatal, turns out it's incurable. And lucky me, I got to watch the world burn all around me. I'm lucky I live in the city. I've made it this far, scavenging canned food from grocery stores, slowly working my way through every book in the library to keep myself sane. I spend most of my nights siphoning gas and looking for a suitable vehicle. At this point, I've scouted the entire city on a bicycle, and it's safe to say I'm the only human left. I've finally found a truck in good working order, and I've loaded it with food, water and gas. Oh, and antihistamines.

I plan on driving to the next metropolis. It's been three years and fifty-five days since I've heard another human voice, and I just can't take it anymore. There has to be someone else with a stuffy nose but a beating heart, and I've got to find them. Tomorrow, I'll wake up and leave, at that time just before sunrise.

That Damn Cat...

"MREOW!" What the - urgh, what time is it? 3:00 AM blinks at me in red LCD. God. Fucking. DAMN IT. That damn cat. I hop out of bed and pull up a wrinkled pair of trousers. It's dark as all get-out, but I know my bedroom like the back of my hand. I manage to stumble to the door without stubbing a toe. Thank God for small miracles.

I throw open the bedroom door and glare at my cat. "Lester, you rotten bastard. Do you need to go out? You know, I installed that kitty door for a reason." Lester just looks up at me intently, his gray tail whipping this way, then that. Bloody cat. He doesn't have to get up at six in the morning to commute an hour to work.

Resigning to my fate, I trudge to the kitchen and flick on the light. Bloody hell, that hurts. I shield my eyes for a moment, then fumble about for a can opener. Mom always said cats are good for you, lower your blood pressure and such... Yeah, I like the little bugger, but I like sleeping through the night even more. I knock the can on the side of a small dish. Plop. I can't believe he eats this shit, but apparently, at $2.29 a can, this is the gourmet cat dish of choice. Whatever. He's good company, I just prefer his company when the sun has already risen.

I set the dish down on the linoleum, and Lester starts chowing down. "You're lucky, you know that? A lesser man would have made chow mein out of you by now." Lester doesn't seem to notice. I sigh and light up a smoke. Might as well calm down before trying to get back to sleep - that is, if that damn cat lets me sleep through what's left of the night. So needy! I thought cats were independent. Apparently not.

Conveniently, old Lester finishes up his delicious brown muck as my smoke goes down to the filter. "I hope you're happy, buddy. At least one of us should be." He doesn't seem to mind me berating him, as he's nuzzling up against my leg. "Alright jerk, you're the worst cat in the world, and I'm going to get some sleep." He looks at me, almost quizzically. As if a cat could be quizzical. I'm less interested in what's going on in my cat's head than I am in returning to the soft embrace of my mattress.

I take a few steps toward the bedroom, when suddenly my hazy, cigarette-induced calm is shattered by a screeching "MREOW!" Oh ho ho, buddy, you're crossing the rubicon. "LESTER! What the hell, man?" I sigh. I'm talking to my cat. Am I losing my mind? "Piss off, someone's gotta pay the bills. And until you get a job at McDonald's, I gotta get up at six in the morning. So can it." I turn around and resume my march to bed, sweet bed.

In my sleepy daze, I hardly notice that damn cat running in between my legs. Lester stops at my bedroom door and turns to face me. What is his problem? His eyes glitter like a little pair of jewels against the dark backdrop of my wonderful, sleep-inducing bedroom. My lust for unconsciousness is becoming palpable.

I don't believe in violence against animals, but I'm about ready to kick this cat's ass.

I take another step forward, and Lester lets out a low hiss. This is uncanny. He's a pain, but this cat worships me. Now he's woken me in the middle of the night, I've fed him, and he has the audacity to hiss - at ME? "LESTER! Chill out, kitty. I just want to sleep. You can sleep with me, okay buddy?" Another step forward is met with a growl and a hiss.

"Alright, time to show you who wears the pants in this relationship." I scoop up the cat and start making my way to the bedroom. Did I just refer to my cat and I having a relationship? Jesus, man. It's gotta be the fatigue. I shake it off and cross the threshold to the bedroom.

And at that very moment, Lester goes batshit fucking ballistic. He's screeching, he's mewling, and he's clawing the ever-loving hell out of my arms. My adorable little kitty-cat has become a raging ball of fur, spit, teeth and claws. I'm so exasperated and exhausted, I can't even think of a suitable curse to shout out at him. I drop him, expecting him to skitter off, but he starts tearing up my legs. Great, my cat's a fucking demon.

"LESTER! CUT! IT! OUT!" I shout at him. I scramble to scoop the dumb bastard up and toss him out of my bedroom, but he's hopping about, hissing and scratching like a madman. Or, uh, mad-cat. Whichever. I've had enough of his shit. I reach out to my left and flick the bedroom light on.

That's when I saw it, squatting next to my bed. I don't know what that was, and God help me, I don't want to. All I care to recall is a hunched-over figure, two beady eyes, and two glittering rows of smiling, jagged teeth.

I grabbed Lester like he was a fumbled ball in the Superbowl and ran to my car as fast as my smoker's lungs would carry me. In one adrenaline-fueled blur, I started the engine and tore ass out of the parking lot. I drove until the sun came up with Lester in my lap, and arranged to stay on a friend's couch until I could find a new place. I told him I had been evicted. I told the landlady I had unexpectedly landed a new job, and apologized for the inconvenience of having to throw away the possessions I had left behind.

And not a night has gone by that I haven't had Lester by my side, sleeping soundly on my chest. Sometimes he still wakes me up in the middle of the night for a snack, but I don't mind. I love that damn cat.

The Bad Man

He's been stalking me. For weeks. I don't know who he is, but I know what he is and what he wants. He's dangerous. He's killed before, and he'll do it again. And he wants to take me... Take me away from here, to a cold place, a terrible place, a place from which I'll never return. One false step and he'll get me. I must not let this happen.

I was cautious, very cautious. Yet he found me anyway. I'm not safe anywhere. At all times, I can feel him watching me - even when I can't see him. And now he's here. He's right here in my home, my sanctuary.

So I hid. I hid because I was afraid. At first, that's all it was: fear. But as I watched him skulk about my house, violating my home, fear turned to anger. I know that he is capable of horrible things. I know he is stronger than I am. Perhaps I am doomed for all eternity, but I will not go down without a fight.

Got to think. Got to be resourceful. My heart is throbbing, and feels like it's temporarily relocated to my throat. I wipe the sweat from my palms on my jeans. Keep it together, man. Just do what has to be done. Face the fear. Defeat the fear. Let anger guide you. Okay, pep talk over. I'm ready.

He moves out of sight and I take up a new vantage point. A corner in the kitchen. I'm no longer obscured, but there's only one way into this room from where he's gone, and he won't see me when he comes back. Even though I know it's probably futile, I silently slide a knife from the counter into my hand. As quietly as possible, I reach for a quarter in my pocket. This is it. This is really happening. It's not a dream; it's not a nightmare. Or if it is, it's a nightmare that has become real.

I am silent. I'm a statue, I'm a ghost. For all my fear and outrage and adrenaline, I start to transcend the moment. Time seems to slow. The kitchen clock goes tick, tick, tick. My heart goes thump, thump, thump. I hear him step, step, step. Closer. Closer still. Only one shot at this.

Step, step, step. He's coming back into the kitchen. I'm perpendicular to the doorway, partially obscured by the shadows. If he turns his head, I'm done for. But he's already checked this room, so he'll walk straight through it, right? I can only hope. Step, step, step. God have mercy, he's five feet from me. This is it, this is my only chance. As swiftly and silently as I can, I throw the quarter a few yards in front of him.

Please God, let this work.

Stumble, stumble, stumble. He runs forward. Everything is a blur. I run up behind him, raise the knife, slash it across his throat. He drops to his knees. A few moments of gurgling, then - sweet silence.

I did it. I made it. Home free. I feel like everything has gone into black and white. Am I in shock? Is this real? Is the nightmare over? I drop the knife in the kitchen sink. Clean-up will come later.

Hands still slightly shaking, I unlock the basement door and descend the stairs. Stupid fucking pig. Did he think i was some kind of amateur? That he was going to make the front page of the local news rag? That he was going to make detective for this? What a dumb bastard. Oh well - he's dead, I'm not.

I flick on the light, and she scuttles into a corner. She looks absolutely terrified. Well, what more can you expect from a twelve year old girl locked in your basement? Gently, lovingly, I wipe a tear from her cheek while unzipping my fly. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. The bad man is gone."