The Schemer

Good

That evening Clara came home with a relatively merry mood. Destroyed house of cards was like a mental click, a symbol of something. The finality gave her peace, allowing enjoyment and satisfaction with life bubble inside. Open windows, light gusts of wind blowing inside, a fast car and raging music. What else would she wish for at this moment?

Nearing her house, Clara noticed a large truck with a man-boy sitting in it. A pile of logs laid behind. After stopping next to it, she got out of the Mustang, getting closer to the youngster in a slow, calculated pace. 

"Excuse me, sir?" Her addressing met deaf ears. She waved with her hand, trying to get his attention. "Blind? Huh?" No, she doubted he was blind. After all, the boy did drive a car. His eyes were closed, and headphones plugged inside his ears. "I will do either something stupid or horrific if you don't answer me right now." Not waiting for his response, she pulled out the tiny devices. The man immediately opened his eyes and with unpleasant surprise watched the tall creature in front of him rip the cords of his headphones. "Now we can talk."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?! Do you know how much money did it..."

"No, but I don't mind paying you. Now, why those logs are not split?" He stayed silent, staring at Clara, not exactly getting what she just said. "Am I talking in a foreign language? Should I repeat myself in French? Dutch? Russian? Sorry, don't speak German. Although you don't look like one."

"American. And stay away from me, psycho." His eyes narrowed, keeping an alert watch on her.

"I asked you a question."

"You didn't ask for chopped wood."

"I haven't asked for any in the first place, boy." She met his confused gaze, lifting one eyebrow. "You dropped it in the wrong location."

"C'mon, seriously? I have to stack it all back now?!" Disappointment overtook his irritation, the dread of failure greater than the anger of the destroyed device. Those logs were huge, after all, and the boy seemed just out of his teens, still lanky and slim, a baggy t-shirt freely flowing in gusts of wind.

"When I think about it... I actually might need some firewood for my fireplace. How much does this whole pile cost, again?" Clara saw him staring at her, like seeing a ghost. Or a mad person.

"You're crazy, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the number?"

"Two hundred fifty bucks. And thirty for earphones." Rolling her eyes, the woman gave him his desired number. She got tired of this child, wanting nothing more but to get rid of him. Clara didn't even question the sum, not trying to guess whether she overpays him. The surgeon rarely cared about money nowadays. As a war volunteer, she was funded throughout her whole time in Israel, allowing her to save up a rather significant, round sum of money in her account. The self-murderers were paid well. Enough to allow the woman to get through her life without the need to work. Combining that with her monthly salary as a surgeon, and Clara found herself in a place where she didn't need to care for her expenses. That's where the quality chops of meat came, and not exactly seasonal vegetables. That and the Belgian chocolate that she enjoyed so much.

He packed up quickly, throwing one last, weird look her way as she gave back his torn headphones. He was followed by cold, grey eyes until the empty truck was hidden by forest. 

"Now what? Do I have to split the wood myself?" Clara was sure she had an axe somewhere inside the house. It wasn't dark yet, and won't be for a couple more hours, so the woman decided to take care of this unexpected little problem immediately. And she did find it in the basement indeed, exactly where it had been put when Clara's garage gym was set up. Taking it with her, the woman went towards a huge pillar, almost of her own height, of soon-to-be firewood, chose a particularly large log as a base to put the wood on, and started chopping.