Swim

Happy Friday the 13th! Though many people associate the combination of Friday and 13 with bad luck (or slasher films) I adore it. So I present a pleasurably cruel story for this most lovely of days with the characters from Dark both mine and Ms. Salina's

“Avery, I don’t think this is a good idea,” a man said hesitantly, quivering with fear.

“You’re not a child anymore Zanther,” the pale beauty replied, an edge to her voice at repeating this again. “You have to learn how to swim, you’re simply to big to rescue if something happens.”

“Never thought I’d miss being little,” came the sullen response.

As a child Zanther’s body was put into a type of supernatural stasis, allowing him to live a perfectly normal life but physically unable to age past nine. Due to his demonic genes he was guaranteed a long life span and, much to his displeasure, the majority of it had been spent as a child. The stasis had finally been removed a few months previously and he’d quickly filled out to the broad shouldered 6’3” frame he was meant to have.

It still caught Avery off guard when she’d look down to talk to him only to crane her neck up. His face still held a boyish charm, blue eyes sparkling with mischief and a too wide grin. His voice had deepened but, despite being higher than most men, she found herself occasionally missing the bright childish chirping. Still, Zanther was a grown man and his fear of water had to be dealt with. Eyeing the tall blond gingerly looking over the edge of the dock at the clear water below she gave a resolute nod.

“What’s so great about swimming anyway?” Zanther muttered, “It’s not like I have an urge to sail the seven seas or become a pirate. Actually, I’d love to be a pirate. Hector could be first mate, you can navigate, and Celesta could be the cook. We’ll be sky pirates. Do they make airships? Hey, Averaaaiiii!”

A loud splash filled the air as the flailing Zanther plunged head first into the water. Avery, knowing it would take a lot of dithering before he even put a foot in, decided the best way to teach him was a firm push. Literally, as the case may be. It’s better, she reflected as electricity arched through the water, not to teach a terrified lightning demon how to swim by example. As scorched fish began to float on the water a blond head broke through the surface taking in greedy gulps of air.

“You push…” Gasp! “You pushed me,” Zanther sputtered, outraged, as he tried to keep his head above the water.

“I did,” Avery agreed calmly, crossing her arms as she leaned against a post of the dock.

“Help meee,” he gurgled, arms waving desperately above the water.

Pitifully pleading sapphire eyes met cool crimson, widening in horror when she quirked an eyebrow.

“Swim or drown, I won’t save you.”

“Aberwy,” he burbled, disappearing under the frothing water as sparks of electricity danced across the waves.

Well, she thought as more fried fish sizzled on the surface, at least we won’t have to worry about dinner.

Dark

This revolves around one of Ms. Salina's characters. This particular character is often a mystery to me, but she is so dearly entwined with one of my characters I simply can't imagine one existing without the other.

It’s dark. Painfully, impossibly dark. Worse than the gloom that comes from switching off a light when there’s still the vaguest outline of your hand or closing your eyes but seeing the light against your eyelids. This is darkness that sinks under your skin, roiling and twisting your insides until there’s nothing left. The kind of murky ink she grew up in and swore never to return to. Fire and light are hers to command with a flick of the fingers, darkness is nothing. Except her powers aren’t working, the enemy smarter than they’d realized, and she’s trapped in this damned cave.

A burning white rage blooms in her chest. She wouldn’t be defeated so easily! Mouth twisted in a sneer she takes careful determined steps forward. Arms out, she gropes her way through the suffocating gloom, unable to find walls or ceiling despite the solid rock beneath her boots. The otherworldly atmosphere swallows the soft shuffling sound of her steps leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake. Memories of childhood horrors buried in the deepest recesses of her soul slither up, whispering fear through her veins with every hammering beat of her heart. She doesn’t like this.

It’s startlingly raw, the feeling of irrational unfiltered terror. A hard dangerous childhood shaped her into a strong capable woman, but beneath the veneer of cool, calm, collected is the remnants of a screaming little girl trapped in the dark. Behind the locked doors of her past the child tips her head back and howls. Pulse rising with panic, she tries to calm her harsh breathing. The floor dips and she stumbles, hands waving desperately in front of her as a knee hits the ground. Hissing in pain, she rocks back while gingerly pressing a hand against the stinging appendage. The feel of sticky fluid followed by a sharp throbbing tells her gently probing fingers there’s an injury. Just great! She’s damn well skinned her knee.

A growl of frustration is swallowed by the shadows as she focuses with all her might, willing fire to leap from her fingertips. A spark. A flash. Something! Nothing happens. Frustration mingles with the strong edge of fear she’s fighting to keep back clogging her throat with angry tears. Of all the stupid things. She’s better than this, damn it. Stronger than this. Swallowing thickly she stands on shaky legs, releasing a slow quavering breath. Closing her eyes, she breathes in and out, trying to regain her poise. Something brushes her hand and she flinches, startled, wheeling around quickly, struck by a wave of fear that something is in the cave with her.

“Avery?”

She stops, frozen in relief at the familiar sound of that bright child’s voice. How long has he been there?

“Avery, are you okay?” He asks, concern coloring his words. “I think we got separated at first when they put us in here, but I followed your scent and now I can smell blood.”

Relief flooding her system, she can’t help but smile. Even trapped in the darkness his first thought is of her.

“I’m fine, Zanther, just a skinned knee,” she assures, happy her voice stays steady despite her rickety emotions. “We should keep moving.”

His hand slips into hers, fingers entwining tightly. “So we stay together,” he mumbles, and despite the dark she knows his face is bright pink.

They walk slowly through the inky shadows, the chatty boy by her side strangely silent. She finds herself oddly missing his babbling, wishing he would say something to hold back the oppressive feel of their environment.

“Avery?” Zanther questions softly, a clear sign that he has something on his mind.

“Hmm?”

She scans the darkness, trying to find any sign of life or freedom.

“I know this must be hard for you,” he says hesitantly, “given your past. But…”

Her attention focuses on Zanther as he pauses.

“Avery, you’ll never be alone again.”

Maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice as he swears to stay with her. Perhaps it’s because she can’t see him. Avery will never be certain why, but Zanther no longer seemed like a child. His hand in hers is warm, reassuring, and oh, so solid. In the darkness he transforms into someone deeper, stronger, and older. His presence surrounds her, blocking out the suffocating oppression of the darkness, pushing back her fear, cocooning her in a promise to protect her always. Deep in her bones she knows this isn’t a child’s pinky swear, but something deeper. It’s the kind of vow a man makes to the woman he loves. Avery allows herself to enjoy the warm feeling of safety welling up in her chest. He’s been with her the entire time.

Squeezing his hand in acknowledgement she says, “Let’s go,” and they walk into the murky gloom together.

Beautiful Damnation

Another story from the same series as "Mock Orange Blossoms" and "Chocolate and Honey" this time from the perspective of a different character. It was something new for me to try.

This was virgin territory and he was flying blind. It wasn’t just his favorite pastime of sex. This was different. She. Made. Him. Feel. The press of those curves, and the swing of her hips, combined with ripe cherry lips and dark sultry eyes. He was temptation dripping with sin, and she made him seem saintly. A paragon of virtue by day, no one saw the truth behind her kind smile. He’d seduced whores and nuns alike, but she made eternal damnation a delicious reward.

 Her hips swayed to the music, slowly grinding against the warm body pressed to her back. The feeling returned, stronger, and he rubbed a hand against his aching chest. She tipped her head back exposing her neck. Licks, bites, she purred. Chest constricted, throat closed, clenched fingers bruising, he quivered in agony. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

It should be him.

Across the dingy bar Cecily St. Ange, instigator of the feeling, was with another man. He watched as the man smoothed a hand down her thigh; touching, teasing, tasting. He didn’t know the taste of that skin, but he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. But the man on the dance floor; the ignorant, scum-sucking, jerk off, felt every sweet part. It was unacceptable.

She rocked her rear against the man, and his eyes couldn’t help but follow. Bitable. Her ass was bitable and delicious, even with that redneck’s beer gut pressing into her. She was a little misguided. Had to be since she was with a guy wearing a baseball cap, a straining, stained t-shirt, and ratty blue jeans. She wanted that instead of him. It was insulting. His jeans made his ass look bitable and the t-shirt showed his abs were firmed not gelatinous. And yet. The beautiful girl with blue eyes and honeyed curls, in a strapless dress snug on the breasts and smooth on the curves was with that slack-jawed knuckle dragger.

She must have seemed like a sign from God, he mused, leaning against the sticky counter as Beer-gut whispered dirty nothings in her ear. It had to be dirty because nothing clean could ever come out of a mouth as disease ridden as that. It didn’t help that she flashed a smile and put a hand on his ass. Beer-gut was rubbing against her as she whispered back. Honestly, there wasn’t enough scotch in the world to make that okay. Of course, this bar only served scotch that left an after taste paint thinner would envy. Not that it mattered as he downed another glass and paid his tab. She was leaving with Beer-gut and judging from the friendly squeeze of his hand it wasn’t for a handshake at the door.

Time to follow her home and kill the fucker. If he wasn’t allowed to touch her in deliciously naughty ways, Beer-gut wasn’t. She would live, of course, the inspiration for the feeling. That suffocating ache in his chest that made him burn with anticipation for murder. Bloody, sadistic murder.  It must be love for him to feel this way.

He kept a sedate block and a half behind Beer-gut’s rusty Chevy, reading fluorescent yellow bumper stickers that proudly proclaimed “Girls wanna ride in this truck, better know how to suck” and other charming sayings that further convinced him Beer-gut’s demise would be a blessing to the gene pool of humanity. They pulled to the side of the road and Beer-gut got out, pissing in the bushes. At three-thirty in the morning the roads were deserted and he kept driving. He knew they were headed for her house. It was the same every time she brought a man home. He wasn’t worried. It would be better if he came after they started.

Forty minutes later he broke into her dark suburban home. She’d be upset that he’d made copies of her key, but it was worth a little anger to see Beer-gut perish in a grisly fashion. He walked through the basement to a windowless room of brick and stone. Carefully, he removed the thirteenth brick from the left, reached out and pulled on a hidden handle. A concealed doorway pulled open revealing an insulated, sound proof, bomb shelter. Her playroom.

Beer-gut was lying down, arms and legs strapped in place, in nothing but yellowing formerly white briefs. She stood to the side, brown hair pulled back, wearing a tank top and jeans, poised above Beer-gut with a bloodied exacto knife held expertly in her hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve gotta help me! This bitch is insane,” Beer-gut hollered. Well, he assumed it’s what was said since she’d already removed the offensive redneck’s tongue. Terrified moans were so hard to translate.

“Did I say you could watch?”  She asked, irritated, cinnamon eyes meeting his gaze with a glare.

He preferred her like this, free from her façades, candid, deadly, and poised. Although, it could be fun to get her back in the bar outfit for an hour or two. He’d leave out the contacts to see her real eyes. Speaking of which, he noticed her glare became a look of amusement at his lengthy lapse. With a careless grin he closed the door and walked towards her.

 “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, lover, that’s not very nice,” he answered, voice husky. “The least you could do is let me watch. I’ll even sit in the corner like the good little boy I’m not.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a masochist,” she purred, closing the distance until their bodies almost brushed.

Neither moved as their warmth mingled and they breathed each other in. His body was thrumming, sizzling with heat as her tongue swept out and licked her lips. He leaned closer, fixated, and she stepped away.

“There’s a chair by the shelves, don’t touch my things,” a staggering arrangement of blades, toxins, and instruments of torture, “and you can tell me about your day while I work on our friend here.”

It was endearing, he decided, lighting up a cigarette, to see her so happy. There was a warm flush of life in her face as she lovingly pierced hot needles through Beer-gut’s finger tips. Her delighted laugh, as the man keened, brought an ache to his chest that could only be love. She was radiant, humming contently, an echo of lost childhood harbored in her eyes. He adored every monstrous beat of her heart. To the rest of the world she was a quiet, almost fragile woman. But he knew the truth. And she would kill him one day. He didn’t share her hobby and she didn’t love him, but they were irrevocably connected. He knew, as he watched her peel back strips of Beer-gut’s skin, that they’d never make it to Heaven. Eternal salvation couldn’t compare to seeing her like this.

Utterly Unexpected

A short piece from the perspective of one of Ms. Salina's characters. I worry that he's a little out of character...but this is new ground for me and him. : )

It began without notice. Relaxing when he was with her, the urge to smile when she did, and the way his eyes would find and follow her every move. By the time he noticed it was already to late. Sitting on the balcony of his apartment, above everyone else, crimson irises searched the street below darting from face to face until she appeared. Exiting the underground structure that ran beneath the town lovingly dubbed “The Basement” she looked radiant against the sinister backdrop. Sharp demonic eyes softened as her face lit with laughter at something someone said. Wanting to catch every lilting note he leaned towards her, realizing, too late, that he’d upset his precarious balance on the thin metal rail.

Quicker than a blink he caught the bar, swung onto the balcony, and disappeared into his dark bedroom. Disgusted he collapsed on his bed, scowling into the silk sheets. What the hell was that? He hadn’t really been…? He wouldn’t. It was impossible. Absurd even! There was no way he’d ever allow himself to…to… A shudder as the traitorous thought of affection crossed his mind. He was a fire demon. Notorious and powerful with better things to do then let himself get distracted by a silly human woman. She appeared in his mind; dark hair shimmering, eyes teasing, lips curving into a shy smile. Oh no. He felt it; warm ache in his chest both terrible and pleasant. Snarling, he grabbed the sword from beside his bed and left the apartment. He was going to fight until he killed this godforsaken feeling.

Months later he was slowly coming to terms with the feeling. Despite his best efforts and grave displeasure the newfound affection persisted. It could be worse, he supposed surreptitiously watching her from the shadowy branches of a tree in the communal garden, she could be worse. That wouldn’t say much for his taste, of course, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the situation anyway. Still, she wasn’t bad for a human, or most demons for that matter. She was young, intelligent, and carried a lot of potential. In a confrontation she was capable, quick witted, and determined. Not the worst choice, he mused watching her go through the motions of a drill. Her weapon arced through the air as she moved gracefully to meet the attack of an invisible enemy. She practiced the same movements over and over again, muscles memorizing the motions for real battle.

Weeks ago he discovered her sneaking out in the time between late night and pre-dawn when everyone in town was actually asleep. Had it not been for the fact that he was just returning from his impromptu trip, she’d have never been discovered. Not that she was aware of his knowledge. She would slip away, and minutes later he would follow masking his aura from discovery. While she began to warm up he’d settle in the upper recesses of the trees above her line of sight, hidden by the leaves, but always able to watch her. Every move was critiqued as he observed, silently praising her strengths and noting her weaknesses, ignoring the unbidden desire to help her. It would be so easy to let words of advice pierce the air alerting her to his presence.

He could pretend to have stumbled upon her; never admitting how long he’d been watching, and offer friendly advice to keep her from getting killed. She’d be embarrassed at being caught, and curiously interested by his involvement. He’d be blunt in his statements, attitude disinterested, even put upon, as he helped to shape her into a better combatant. Would she be able to see the truth behind his derision and disregard? Would she hear the calling beat of his heart? I adore you. I need you. Be mine. He couldn’t. It was too dangerous a risk to take while these feelings were so new. Later, perhaps, when he’d managed to hide them away where she couldn’t see. But not now. He wasn’t ready for their relationship to change. The truth would draw her in or send her running, and he didn’t know which response he’d prefer.

An hour or two passed in this way, her training while he mused, and the sky began to lighten. Movements slowed as she cooled down, finishing with a stretch of aching muscles. Eyes gliding over her form he followed her fingers reaching up as she arched, standing on the balls of her feet, body taught like the string of a bow, utterly beautiful, before slowly releasing. Wordlessly humming a tune she walked back to the warm confines of her apartment, blissfully unaware of her crimson-eyed shadow. He waited until the light in her room turned on before returning home, slipping into the soothing embrace of silk sheets, his mind filled with her.

It Doesn't Matter

Another writing exercise. This time with a voice that wouldn't leave my mind, and a point of view I've never tried before. When I first wrote it there was a striking feeling that somehow this was a young Tack, from my previously posted story "Choose Me", but I can't say it with any certainty. I often get into my stories, but this little voice was breaking my heart before I ever got it on paper.

She’s going to come this time, I can feel it. I’ve brought flowers and chocolates for her. I wasn’t sure what kind of chocolate she likes so I bought six boxes. And they’re all for her. Well, if she wants to share I might take one or two. I saved my money all year just so I could buy her somethin’ special. Dad would be furious if he found out. He’d holler and hit me, callin’ me a fool for wastin’ my money. He says she abandoned us, but I know the truth. She was just tired of Dad smackin’ her around all the time, so she left.

‘Course she forgot the most important thing, me, but I understand. I was only seven then, just a little kid, and wouldn’t have been able to make a long trip. But I’m ten now, that’s got to be old enough. She’ll take me with her this time for sure. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been back for three years; I know she’s watching, even if it’s someone else doing the watching for her. And I’ve been extra good this year. Made sure I didn’t get into any fights with the other kids, did all my homework, helped around the house, I didn’t even cry when Dad was knockin’ me around. That has to be enough for her to come, right? Doin’ all that must of proved that I’m a good kid that deserves to go with her.

So what if she hasn’t come the last three years? That doesn’t mean anything. She was just findin’ some place for us to go. Can’t just up and leave without some place to go, right? She was probably findin’ a nice house that’ll have a big room all for me where we’ll be safe and it’ll be just the two of us. I know she loves me, even if I can’t remember her sayin’ it. She’s comin’, just you wait. If I close my eyes and count to ten, she’ll be here when I open them. There will be a big grin on her face, her arms will open wide, and she’ll give me the hug I’ve been waitin’ ten years for. Everythin’ will be okay because that’s what she’s supposed to do, make everythin’ better. She’ll tell me how sorry she is for bein’ late and that she’s real proud of me. Then we’ll go to that place she found just for us, we’ll forget all about Dad, and nothin’ bad will ever get us again.

It doesn’t matter that the night has gotten late and I’ve been here since dawn. And I don’t care that Dad’s going to beat me raw when I go home tonight for comin’ here. She’s going to come this time because it’s Mother’s Day, and what mother can abandon her son?

The Twinkie Massacre

This was written for a class in college. It's not one of my favorites, but it is an important first try at a different genre.

“I hate my life,” Zeke Porter mutters as he walks down a hill leading away from the campus of the college he attends.

 He isn’t sure how it happened, but someone switched his shampoo with hair dye. Stepping from the shower this morning he discovered wheat blond locks changed to the color of a deranged flamingo pink Easter egg. A man walking up the hill stops dead in his tracks, staring. Ready to rip into the man, Zeke realizes the gawking stare is focused behind him. Curious, he turns. The whirling hum he brushed off as a large insect is actually death, dressed in fuchsia, headed straight for him on a bicycle.

    The whine of the tires grows louder as a man wearing a black ski mask with a fuchsia track suit pedals harder to pick up speed. With a strangled yell Zeke takes a terrified hop-step out of the way, only to be ripped off his feet. Tumbling heels over head down grass and cement, he comes to a hard stop when a tree blocks his path. Head swimming, he distantly registers the sound of footsteps followed by the feel of hands gingerly prodding his body. The biker had missed him but clipped his backpack full force. That explains the burning wrenched feeling in his shoulders. The helping hands of the man that had been staring bring him to a sitting position as his mind begins to clear. Campus security is on its way. The maniac on the bike had stumbled after the hit, but took off again. Zeke turns. The torn remnants of the bag hang off his back, and its contents lie splayed across the cement. Dazed, he realizes this was no accident, someone is trying to hurt him.

Hours later Zeke walks into his living room, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He wishes his roommate, Danny Tate, wasn’t out of town for a week. After going over the incident with campus security, then again for the police, he was stuck making a list of suspects. The cops had grilled him. Was this the first attack? Could he think of any reason someone would want to harm him? Has he been involved in any illegal activity? Questions and theories were thrown about until it felt like his head would burst. Yes, being alone is definitely a bad thing.  Has the apartment always been so big? Shivering, Zeke makes his way through the apartment, flicking on lights in every room until he’s satisfied there is no one else. He tells himself there’s no need to worry, it’s not like someone’s trying to kill him, but he’s not fully convinced. Sinking onto the couch, all of the lights still on, he falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Zeke nervously watches his surroundings for any sign of fuchsia. As the day passes he starts to relax, save the occasional flinch every time a bike comes near. Yesterday was just a freaky fluke. It’s ridiculous to think someone would actually be trying to hurt a harmless nobody like him. He steps onto the stairs just as something hard slams into his back. One arm swings out trying to brace for the impact as the other grips the railing. His knees slam into the stairs with a thud. Zeke catches himself, barely stopping before his face hits the concrete steps. He turns in time to see a flash of pink disappearing on the second floor.

That night he locks the door and checks and rechecks the windows, the lights stay on, and it takes longer for sleep to come.

“Hot damn, Zeke. You look like a three day old corpse,” Alice Edwards, a friend of his, comments the next afternoon as she meets him for lunch in a grassy quad on campus.

“If I look that good just imagine how wonderful I feel.”

“What happened?”

“Some guy in fuchsia has decided I’m on his hit list.”

Nibbling on a cookie Alice stares at him, taking in his tired face. Then she bursts out laughing. He takes a vicious bite from his sandwich, willing her head to catch fire.

Crunch!

The laughter has stopped. Alice and Zeke stare at each other, horrified. Very slowly he puts the sandwich down, opens his mouth and carefully spits the half chewed food out onto his napkin. Nestled in the gooey mush is a glistening shard of glass. Then the taste of copper burns his tongue.

The attacks become more frequent, more deadly, and Zeke grows more terrified. No one can be trusted. Nothing is safe. The man in fuchsia could be anywhere.

Shuffling through the halls on his way to class, Zeke looks at his watch—there’s still an hour before it begins. Funny how no sleep and very little food can mess with a person’s sense of time. His wary eyes scour the hallway for anything suspicious or pink. He sits on a bench lining the wall, waiting for class. Eyes shift left then right, roving over every inch of the space in sight. The quiet seems loud to Zeke, even though it is undisturbed save the steady ticking of his watch and the sound of his labored breath. His lids lower over eyes, his shoulders sag, his chin meets his chest before his head snaps up, sleepy but alert. It’s not safe to sleep.

The darkness is nice, soothing for reasons that can’t be remembered. How easy to just slip away in the darkness. Except…for the burning. No. Not just burning, stinging too. And the pressure. Better to fall back into the cool dark and forget. But the burning is worse. Burning, stinging pressure. Just take a deep breath and sink into oblivion. Zeke can’t breath. He needs air, can’t…

Zeke forces teary eyes open to find the masked face of the man in fuchsia. Thrashing, he wraps his trembling hands around the wrists of his attacker. Fingers dig in with desperation, trying to pry the vice like grip from his throat.

He mumbles in a strangled gasp trying to yell.

Voices from the classroom echo into the hall as the door opens and the hands release. Sputtering for air, Zeke can only watch helpless as the man trying to kill him gets away. That’s it. This has gone on for to long. The police aren’t doing anything if that maniac can get so close. Time to call Danny, tell him what’s been going on, and beg him to come home. If anyone would know how to help, it would be Danny. With this in mind, Zeke rises from the bench and leaves.

Back in his apartment, he calls Danny.  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” he tells him.

 “What?” There is a pause. “That’s really funny man.”

“I’m serious. Someone tried to strangle me when I was napping on a bench.”

“Why the hell were you napping on a bench?”

“Shut up,” Zeke says. “Someone tried to kill me!”

“Was it the hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?”

“It was a man in fuchsia.”

“A fuchsia wearing cross-dressing hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?” Danny asks, unable to contain his laughter.

“Fuck it, Danny. I was at school in the hallway. This nut job has been after me all week.”

“Zeke, Zeke. Calm down. I get it, you’re really freaked out.”

“I need you to come home early, Danny. I’m not safe alone.”

“This had better not be a prank.”

“No!” Zeke interrupts. He takes a shuttering breath before he continues. “I’m serious. If only this was some stupid joke.”

“Calm down. I believe you. It’ll be a day, two tops, and I’ll be home.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Just listen to me, okay? Skip the rest of your classes until I get back, stay in the house and keep safe. It’s not like you have to worry about a bike if your ass is pressed to the couch.  You hear me? Just stay in the house. I’ll be home soon as I can.”

Hanging up, Zeke does another sweep of the apartment. Door and windows are locked; lights are on, nothing unusual. Shuddering and tense he walks into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Movement in the mirror catches his eye. Whirling around, his knees give way and he collapses to the tile floor. Terrified, heart a sharp staccato, he searches for the intruder. Minutes pass, nothing happens, and Zeke realizes the movement was his reflection in the mirror.

 With a shaky breath he uses the toilet for support as he stands. He takes in the pale haggard face staring back at him in the mirror. Frightened hazel eyes ringed in purple bruises from lack of sleep. Rough spots of stubble where his hand trembled and missed while shaving. Matted, and tangled flamingo-pink hair that hasn’t been washed or brushed since the bike incident. Hard to believe that happened just a few days ago. At least Danny was right; nobody can attack with a bike so long as the apartment is locked tight. Wait. Zeke tries to recall the conversation with Danny.

He stumbles from the bathroom into Danny’s bedroom. It looks the same as every other time Zeke came through to check for the man in fuchsia. Danny couldn’t be. It all started with the bike, but Danny had left for the airport that morning. Running a hand through his hair, giving a tug, flamingo-pink catches the edge of his peripheral vision. No. It didn’t start with the bike, it started with the hair. That morning the shampoo was switched with flamingo bloody pink permanent hair dye. But that’s ridiculous.

Feeling boneless Zeke sinks to the floor. His heart hammers harder, breath coming in short gasps. Lying on the floor he tries to keep from hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy and light-headed he slowly opens his eyes. Something is poking out from underneath Danny’s bed. Picking it up he stares, blinks, and drops it. He reaches under the bed and comes in contact with smooth material.  Holding it to the light, his numb fingers lose their grasp.

“It’s really rude to snoop in someone else’s room, Zeke.”

He turns and stares at Danny standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit. The suit is lying on the floor. The fuchsia track suit. The pained betrayal in his eyes is clear when he turns back.

“I don’t understand,” Zeke mutters.

“Don’t you?”

“Why, Danny?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you trying to kill me? Why the hell did you choose fuchsia?”

“Who would ever believe you? A man in fuchsia is trying to kill me. Oh no!” he mocks laughing. “You’ve been losing it all over the place, Zeke. People have noticed. They think you’re headed to a nervous breakdown.”

“Witnesses! There were witnesses for the bike.”

“Eye witnesses aren’t as reliable as they used to be. Memory is a faulty thing, and suggestion is so powerful.”

“People will suspect you.”

“Why? Everyone thinks I’m out of town for a week. It’s the perfect alibi to give the cops when I pretend to be the distraught roommate.”

“But where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the apartment everyday.”

“I’ve been staying in a sleazy motel about an hour away. When all my other plans failed I decided it was time for a face to face. After strangling you, I came here, planted the costume, and waited.”

“You rat bastard.”

Furious, Zeke rises only to stop cold. With a patronizing smile Danny casually pulls a gun from his pocket. Aiming at the man crouched on the floor, he pulls back the hammer. Terrified, pleading, Zeke tries to understand.

“Why are you doing this?”

Danny’s face twists into a mask of venomous hatred. With a snarl he pulls the trigger. Padding spews from the mattress next to Zeke’s head.

“You ate the last twinkie, you bastard!”

“Wait? What! Twinkie?”

“Yes, the last twinkie. I was saving it as a victory snack for passing my midterms.”

“When did we have twinkies?”

“As if you don’t remember. It was three and a half weeks, two days, six hours, and I don’t care how many minutes ago. I just got back to the apartment after torturous hours of stressful exams and found you sitting on the couch, in your undies, defiling my twinkie!”

“How do you defile a twinkie?”

“I don’t—I—you just did.”

“You’ve been trying to kill me over twinkies?”

“Not twinkies, just the one. My twinkie.”

“I’ll buy you more twinkies. Hell, I’ll give you a twinkie everyday for the rest of my life if you put the gun down.”

“Too late, Zeke. I didn’t go through all this trouble just to let you go.”

A thunderous crack fills the air as Danny pulls the trigger ending the life of his terrified roommate. With a satisfied sigh he leaves the bedroom, planning to watch a movie before disposing of the fuchsia track suit and gun. Tomorrow he’ll call the police pretending to have just found Zeke’s body. Entering the kitchen, he opens a cabinet to grab a bag of microwave popcorn when something catches his eye in the dark corner of the shelf. Reaching in, he pulls out the item, stares, and begins to laugh.

In his hand is the last twinkie. 

Shadow's Betrayal

I wrote this many moons ago in high school, and it's got a fond place in my heart. Currently, I'm working on a bigger story revolving around these two that will one day hold this scene. =D

She was running through the woods, lungs burning, branches scratching her skin, watching the sun sink into the horizon. If she wasn’t indoors by the time darkness fell, she would never see the light of day again. He was coming, he had been since she left and he was sure to be angry. Perhaps it was stupid of her to leave, to try and escape that man…that thing. He had been so sweet and she had begun to fall under his charm. It was then that she knew she had to escape. He had taken her, pulled her from her glorious home and brought her to his hell. She was his prize, his possession, and she hated every moment of it.

She could feel her knees going weak and prayed her body would hold out just a little longer. With horror filled eyes she watched the sun disappear, and night unfurled ebon wings blanketing the world in darkness. Then she sensed him, gaining on her, inches away from taking her back and overflowing with malice. Up ahead she saw the end of the forest and the edge of town lit by a streetlight. With a desperate yell she lunged forward and landed hard on the ground, scraping her arms and legs, safe in the circle of light. Then he was there, just on the edge of the light. He could not enter it, but she saw him stalking around the perimeter, amber eyes ablaze with barely held fury. If she could just stay in this little patch of light, he wouldn’t be able to get her.

She watched petrified as a long nailed hand entered the light. As he reached for her his skin began to smoke and sizzle and he withdrew his hand with a frustrated snarl. If she stayed in the center of the light until daybreak she would have a chance to escape, yet uncertainty filled her. He was plotting something and even if she did run, he would surely follow. The futility of her efforts pained her, but she refused to give in.

Watching him, she lifted her chin in a show of defiance. To her surprise he chuckled and his eyes lit with merriment. Wary of his reaction, she saw his eyes become smug and she knew something was terribly wrong. Clawed hands and tendrils of darkness began to wrap around her and she looked frantically for their source. And there it was; her shadow. Even in the light she could not escape that bit of darkness. Before she could begin to struggle the shadow hands pulled her into his darkness and out of her light. He was looming above her and she felt his hands clasp her wrists in an iron grip. She looked up at him with large lost eyes as he gently lifted her into his arms. They sped through the night, embraced by darkness back to his home, her prison. Heart filled with angst, she knew she would never see her precious light again