Underage

[1] Thunderstorms and Red Lingerie

Underage

[1] Thunderstorms and Red Lingerie

The night is dark and wet. The rain's steady pattering is the only music for miles. Candles are lit and cast shadows against the walls, every corner seeming to get darker. Faces can be seen in the flickering of fire and they force me back into my bed. I try to sleep but I can't. The creaking of the house seems louder than the rain. The music breaks for the thunder and the lightning strikes close. The covers are up to my chin now. My eyes are darting around the room, looking for something but finding nothing.

My back is up against the wall so nothing can sneak up on me. Suddenly, every scary movie I've ever seen comes rushing into my thoughts. Every scenario that could possibly end with me getting killed has me shrinking behind the comforter. The thunder cracks louder, the lightning strikes closer, and the rain beats harder. There's the sound of scuffling footsteps moving on the hardwood floor, but I'm the only one home. I want to stay in bed but the need to know if somebody is in my home is too strong. I choose a weapon, a book from the top shelf.

I hear it again, the sound of footsteps. My heart is in my stomach. I wish I'd grabbed a better weapon, something that would do more damage. My steps are calculated, light as a feather, toes before heels. I hold my breath as I clear the hallway, suddenly wishing for a guard dog, a roommate, anything that could scare away an intruder. I find nothing but darkness and I realize my mistake in not bringing a flashlight with me. I squint my eyes, trying to see anything. I wish my phone was charged or that I had listened to my mother when she told me to get a landline. I had waved away her concerns. Nobody uses those anymore.

The living room is clear. I triple check the lock on the front door, then check it a fourth time. The wind whistles down the chimney. Can a person fit inside a chimney? I'm too afraid to look. I cast glances over my shoulder, the spine-chilling feeling of being watched setting in. I consider, for only a second, that I could have bought an apartment with a ghost. My skin crawls, like tiny bugs scuttling over every inch. I don't dare look out the window. What if someone is out there and looking in?

With good thoughts, I try the light switch to the kitchen, but any attempts are futile. Lights out. A lighting strike, closer than I would like, sends my heart into a panic and my body three feet higher. Still, nothing here. I trade my book for a bat. I consider grabbing a knife, but I would rather swing at somebody than stab.

Despite every possibility going through my mind, I check each and every room but find nothing. I relax, but only slightly, and retreat back to my room. While I was looking around the house, the bad guy would have had plenty of time to make it to my room. I don't let myself get too close to the bed. He could grab me, kill me. My closet door is shut. I know it was open when I left because I always sleep with my closet door open. I've seen one too many scary movies. The killer is always either in the closet, or under the bed.

With the bat firmly in my hands, I take careful steps. I reluctantly hold the bat in one hand, the other reaching for the wooden doorknob. I silently count to three, before yanking the closet door open. I blindly swing my bat, the aluminum only finding clothes and a few plastic hangers. Still, nothing.

Another strike of lightning and a rumble of thunder. I've always hated thunderstorms. The rain slows down for only a second, barely noticeable. I try to calm my racing heart, but every avid scary movie-watcher would know to never turn your back on the room you're standing in. The killer will always be right behind you.

I feel the breath of air on the back of my neck. My limbs freeze and my breath catches in my throat. The male hands grab me by the hips. I can't move. His lips are by my ear, grazing the skin, his teeth tugging on my earlobe. His breath is hot on my skin, his lips moving down to my neck. My head tilts slightly. I shake my head. He doesn't have a weapon; I do. I turn in his grip, raising my bat. He catches the swing with one hand. He doesn't even flinch.