Tightrope

This Is Not What It Looks Like

There was a pregnant pause. Dead silence. A momentary stillness.

Then Hartley screamed like he was in the I Knew You Were Trouble goat video. It was a loud shriek, overtly feminine, and it was the most glorious thing I'd ever heard. It elicited a pang of joy that spiralled from my dark soul through the rest of my vindictive body. It cleared my skin and brightened my day. I would prefer to deprive myself of oxygen for an entire day than to miss out on that delightful noise.

Hartley, probably, did not share the same sentiment, based on the violent rattle of the bathroom doorknob.

"Lena? Lena?" Another scream. "I thought rich people were supposed to have spider-free houses!" It was a proclamation tinted with hysteria.

I giggled slightly.

"C'mon, Lena," he said. "Let me out. There's... oh shit, there's seven of them."

Well, they weren't poisonous. Hartley was just a drama queen. He was going to be fine, right?

My phone buzzed. It was from Daria: Hey, did I just hear a scream? Are you guys both okay?

For a fleeting second, a hint of doubt crept into my mind. Daria had the capacity to make anyone feel guilty, though she hated that power, given she held a complete aversion toward all negative emotions. Her innate goodness made me feel like a swamp witch in comparison. Should I feel bad? Maybe I should adopt a new philosophy: WWDD. What would Daria do? Not this cruel trick; she would never. I felt bad, I realised, really, really bad. 

Then I remembered the goat scream and was absolved of all guilt.

I texted back: Alive. Don't stress girlie, he's fine.

He squealed again. Evidence he was alive and therefore was, you know, fine. I applied the term loosely.

After thirty seconds of shameless flailing from Jace, which involved the death of his dignity through begging, banging at the door and appeals to higher powers for safety from the harmless little creepy crawlies (though he called them harbingers of death in his prayers), Hartley fell silent.

Perhaps the gods had granted his wish for safety by sending him to heaven? Or maybe his bestie in the underworld had invited him for a visit. It was wishful thinking, I know. I was going to have to put up with Jace Hartley again.

Still, the silence was less fun than the screaming. "You alright, Hartley?" I called through the door. Concern did not motivate the question. It was purely a consequence of boredom. I was hoping he'd say no, really. I didn't want him to say he was alright, not one bit.

"Can you let me out, please, Elle?" he said quietly.

It was the name that did it. It was one that had marked our relationship for years. I had called him every foul name under the sun, and yet he'd really only ever called me Elle. And despite all the foul things he'd ever said in return, of which there were many, that name was never one he'd used with malice or aggression.

Elle was his olive branch, in a way.

It was not one either of us really wanted me to take.

I crept up the door, disguising my footsteps with plush carpet. I didn't know why I bothered to move silently; he could see the shadow of my feet from behind the door. For some reason, I didn't make a sound.

I paused for a moment, contemplative. I could continue my prank; I could send in Austin's snake (it was non-venomous; I wasn't going to kill him in my house. As he had so helpfully pointed out, he would haunt me forever), and let the panic continue.