Unhinged

8

Oliver

After narrowly escaping what I can only imagine to be a brutal death at the hands of a barbie doll, I think it's safe to say, one may have nightmares. It would be understandable--normal even, to wake up in a cold sweat, thinking about the calamity, the fate that was nearly yours. What may be a little less normal are the types of dreams I'm having.

Her hands touching me softly, her smile, those eyes. As if this were romantic comedy instead of a fucking horror story. But I don't just see her at night in my dreams. No, she doesn't have the decency to leave me be in the daytime. I look at myself in the mirror, trying not to notice the visage of her behind me, her hands on my shoulders, nails long and pink. I pick up my razor, poising to shave the dense stubble that's accumulated from my sleepless nights.

"So handsome," she whispers in my ears, her hands around my neck, lips dusting my ear. "Don't you miss me?"

I don't answer. I'm afraid she'll be real, tangible if I acknowledge her, this specter. Instead, I shake my head, shake her off, and turn away.

I try to be normal, I really do. Try to ignore her, the thought of her the sweet, beckoning lull of her whispering in my ear.

Didn't you like how I felt? Don't you like how I taste? Come back. You know where I am.

It's only a 10-minute drive. 10 minutes between a regular day and being her captive once more. 10 minutes? I contemplate over it, as I head into work. The investment firm I work for is small enough that they bring donuts in the morning but large enough that if I take a lunch and don't clock out, no one would notice.

A friendly hello to the receptionist, a kind goodbye. The king of American dream that show in movies. I'm not sure exactly what I do at work. I answer emails, respond, sign papers. I don't pry. As long as my check comes back the right amount, I don't much care.

My cubicle's silence is prime real estate for her tantalizing voice.

I open my computer and begin reading my copious emails, attempting to silence her.

Mr. Jackson,
Please respond to this email and confirm the two o'clock meeting —

I'll probably try again. Kill this time. I wonder if you could be held accountable.

I confirm the meeting.

You could be sure. Ease your guilty conscience. You just have to see me.

I return another email, confirm more meetings, and the day blurs by, as it always does. I can't let myself be convinced to head back into the fire. That woman is crazy, a menace to society and it's not my duty to get her off the streets.

"Mr. Jackson. I didn't get a chance to introduce myself?" A woman enters my office with a card in her hand.

"I'm Paula I handle the Mail. This just came for you,"

She sets a blank white card in my desk and begins rambling in her own accord. I frown and open it. There is no signature; no writing. I expected a cheesy welcome card. Paula had skirted off, no doubt appealed by my wall of silence. In this card there is one singular thing:

A kiss mark.

It's her. Who else would it be. I close the card and look around. Where the fuck is she? Is she watching me? Could she be...?

I run after Paula who moves at a jaunty pace in her hot pink almost red suit. She stops and looks up at me.

I huff and put my hand on her shoulder.

"Who...who sent that card? Is she here? Which way did she go?"

"She? I'm sorry but the mailman hand delivered it!"

I frown. Mailman. Maybe she lured him in and killed him. Maybe she fucked him just so he would deliver it to me. Which thought do I hate more, I'm unsure. That crazy fucking bitch. I thought I was imagining her, but how much of my imagination has been real? How long has she been trailing me? Watching me?

But she's gone. Like a ghost. No, not like a ghost. I know where she lives. But I'll damned if she lured me back into that creepy suburban house of nightmares ever again.

And that's what she's trying to do I know. I run out of the building, looking around the street. And then I hear it. A hum behind me. I turn around, the crack of my neck echoing.

She cocks her hand smiles. "Oh I'm just passin' by stranger—"

"Cut the shit you little stepford wife!" I back away. I underestimated her before, but never again. I may be an idiot but I learn from my mistakes.

"You're stalking me aren't you? I told you I'd keep my mouth shut—"

She's dressed in a tight pink dresss that stops around her mid thigh, with leg warmers and some platforms. Like she stepped straight out of some edge teen magazine. She cocks her head and grins.

"It isn't stalking. I'm just walking sorta close behind you, that's all." She grins, stepping forward, her arms behind her. "You get my note...Oliver?"

What's with that voice? That face. It's seriously misleading! I hate it! Why does she look like that, why does she smile like that, smell like that, sound like that?

"Listen I don't know what's going on in that fucked up omelette of a brain ya got but hear me well: whatever you think is between us? It doesn't exist," I shout slowly. "So leave me the fuck alone, Maurya."

She edges closer. "Oh...you don't look good, Oliver. Not sleeping well?" She smiled softly, reaching her hand out to me. It's perfectly manicured of course just a little pink polish on those long claw like nails.

Pretty and sharp.
Just like her.

"I don't like you, Maurya. I regret having ever met you. Do you understand? I—"

I swallow the words. I hate you. Leave me alone. Die. Disappear. She cocks her head, patiently waiting for the rest of my sentence.

I turn around. Turn my back to her, put my hands in my pockets. Why the fuck didn't I buy a gun?

Oh yeah...I'm a felon. I can't have one.

"Just...leave me alone okay?" I murmur helplessly. "I just wanna live a normal life. Have a job, a...a reason for being or something. And that don't include you okay? Get lost. Get help."

I get a few steps away.

"You keep saying that. Get help. But I don't want help. I want to kill. I like to kill. It's the only help I need."

I freeze. Just keep your head down. Not like it's anything you can do about it. I'm starting over no more bullshit. No cop is gonna take a felon serious. One look at my rap sheet and I'm going back in regardless, especially with that pretty face. She'll spin a tale and get me locked up for life. Fuck it.

Not worth it.

"Whatever gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

"But you can't can you. Every day you walk into that office you're gonna think: I wonder if I let Maurya get away with murder again?"

I swallow. One thing you learn: sometimes you just gotta mind your business. You can stop people getting hurt—someone's always gonna get hurt. But you can make sure it isn't you.

"I'm not gonna wonder anything, Maurya. So...goodbye, okay?"

She's silent, and I keep walking. I'll tell my boss my mom died suddenly take a couple days off work, see if I can find another job. I'm really off the grid, which is why I took a greyhound. I don't use socials, don't leave a trail.

I guess we're both ghosts.
So hopefully, this time she'll just pass on by me.

"I like you, Oliver. You're my first. A girl never forgets her first."

And then she's gone. Walking away into the sunset like some fucking Disney princess. And I just close my eyes, and go the other way.