Crazy but Sweet, Sweet but Crazy

1: A routine

"It must be a welcome gift, Ms. Horan." The red-bearded security guard beamed, handing over a bouquet of flowers and a delicately packaged box. "Good evening, and welcome to the Dela Heights residences."

"Thank you, Mr..." I glanced at the amicable guard's name tag, and smiled. "Mr. Saunders."

After Mr. Saunders returned to his post, I walked back into my house, and set down the box on the dining table. On the sofa in front of the TV, our housekeeper Sonia was fast asleep, light snores escaping her parted lips.

The box, just about the size of a mug cup, was encased in a creamy blue wrapping paper and a delicate crimson ribbon.

Even a palm-sized envelope wasn't allowed to pass through the residences without a check for bombs or weapons. At least this won't blow up.

I tore apart the ribbon and the blue wrapping paper, and lifted the lid of the box underneath.

For the next few moments, I looked into the contents of the box, and slowly lifted my hands off it.

PLEASE DIE, ALL OF YOU HORANS.

In blood red paint, the words were written in a neat, cursive hand on a white paper. Scattered in the box were parts of what used to be a doll.

The limbs, the parts of a doll were cut up into pieces. Surrounding the cut up pieces, were white pills.

"Must've been a chore, cutting this all up," I muttered, closing the lid of the box.

Fortunately, Sonia was fast asleep. If she'd seen the contents, she would look at me with her big, blue eyes, her mouth covered. "Oh, Clare", she would dramatically sigh, and try to pull me into a hug.

The portions of meals on my plate and the number of vitamin pills on my table would increase, again. As if eating more and becoming healthier would do away with the now-numbed shock of receiving these packages.

After stuffing the ribbon and wrapping paper into the box and pulling out a lighter from Sonia's make-up pouch, I walked over to my car outside the house and strapped myself into the driver's seat.

The box occupied itself in the passenger's seat, sitting innocently in its pleasing aesthetics.

I drove out of the Dela Residences, and reached a small park far from any area of residence. After pulling my car over in the adjacent parking lot, I walked over to a 7-11, purchased a bottle of water, and then seated myself on the sidewalk next to my car, the box set next to my feet.

It was slightly past eleven oh-clock, and the park was completely empty. The only people in sight were three delivery men pulling out items from the truck in front of the 7-11.

The start of a fucking routine.

With a smile of almost amusement at this situation, I lit the pieces of paper, parts of the doll, wrapping paper and ribbon on fire. They burned slowly but surely encased in the box, the small flames licking up the painted-on paper first.

When the ribbon and paper had turned to ashes and the doll was charred, I poured water into the box, putting out the fire. The smell of burning and the stuffy summer air hit my nose.

Just as I closed the lid back, I saw a foot. And then two.

Two feet- one in a blue running shoe and the other in a Converse sneaker, stuck out from the bushes right behind me.

For a few seconds, I simply stared at the two feet, unmoving. Judging from the size, the feet of a man.

Then, feeling all the blood in my body turn to ice, I jumped up from the sidewalk, unable to even scream.

Like I had slowly re-opened my eyes to witness the exorcism scene in Conjuring, I slowly, very slowly, went forward, and peered over the bushes to take in the man lying on the warm pavement.

He was young, maybe my age. Even in a black zipped up hoodie pulled over his head and a cap halfway covering his face, I could tell he was young, around eighteen, nineteen.

His eyes were closed. One arm was resting on his forehead, and the other arm, over his stomach. Hearing the pounding of my own heart loud in my ears, I inched just a little closer. Was he dead?

No smell of alcohol from this distance.

With a silent, big swallow, I stretched out my fingers, and lifted the cap off his face.

It was only when I looked at his face that my doubt turned to fear. Was he really dead?

Almost the entirety of his face was covered in splotches of purple, crimson, green and blue-blue bruises. His right eye was swollen shut, and his lip, torn and caked with dried blood.

Faintly visible on his neck, was a clear mark of strangulation, the mark of fingers on his throat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I had to stay calm. Call the cops, police- no, both. I pulled out my phone from my pocket and was about to dial, when I saw a movement.

The young man shifted slightly, his fingers resting on his belly, shifting. His torn lips parted, and a groan, a groan of pain escaped them.

"Hey, are you okay?" I asked, finding myself almost whisper, like I was afraid speaking too loud would hurt him more.

He opened his eyes, with apparent effort. Light brown eyes, a kind of an almost translucent, transfixing blue eyes stared up at me.

"Are you.." His face contorted into pain, and his fingers gripped his stomach, as he shakily exhaled. "Are you from this area?" His voice was broken and coarse.

"Yeah, I just moved in. I'll call the ambulance. You're-"

"What's your name?"

I hesitated. He was so defenceless in this state. Telling him my name wasn't going to hurt. "Clare."

"Clare..." He closed his eyes, sighing. "Clare Horan?"

"...Yeah." So he read the news.

His voice was soft, gentle. "You call the cops...or the ambulance...or breathe a word about this...Horan Holdings will cease to exist. You understand?"

I looked down staring at him, wondering if I'd misheard. "What?"

"You heard me." He opened his eyes, and jerked his chin towards me. "Get lost."

"Well. I've heard these kinds of threats too many times. But at this rate, I think you will cease to exist before Horan Holdings does," I said drily. "Stay here, I'll get medicine from the drug store and drive you to the hospital."

Over the past few years, our family had received numerous creative variations of death threats.

I thought I'd seen enough of a variety and was growing disappointed in the lack of ingenuity. And my first day in a new house, I was faced with an interesting new kind of a threat.

I returned to the sidewalk with ointment in hand, but only my box of burned things looked back at me.

He was already gone, leaving behind a faint trail of blood on the pavement, and the lingering smell of a sharp peppermint cologne.