***~~~***
The Light in Her Eyes
By A R Shane
Copyright 2012 A R Shane
Eiso Publishing
*
This
is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real people, living or dead or otherwise, is purely
coincidental.
***~~~***
I walk up the stairs to the door. The
aroma of six sprays of cologne lingers in my nose. She's supposed to be waiting
inside. I knock once and stand back. The building is made of wood, and in this heated
hallway a smell like a sauna permeates the air. I stamp my feet and knock
again, giving the knob an extra twist incase she left it open to surprise me.
H e l p .
I cock my head. Did I just hear
something?
I jiggle the door and kick it with
my foot.
Jenny? I say.
Help.
I hear that cry as it tickles my
gut. It's her, all right, but she sounds weak, as if she's being smothered.
Jenny? Give me a second.
I kick the door, but it's made of
solid oak and doesn't budge one inch. I step back and kick again. The door makes
to sneer at me by not moving an inch. Instead, vibrations travel through my
body. It's painful. I broke both ankles in a car accident, so I decide not to
kick the door again.
The neighbors, maybe they keep a
spare key. I run over and knock. Nothing. I knock again and yell. Nothing.
Back at Jenny's door I smell wood
burning.
Help, fire.
I have no time. I know I can't call
the fire department because they are more than an hour away. I'd always said it
was stupid to live someplace so far away from civilization. Now she's paying.
I think back to my days as a
teenager, and pull out a paper clip. I run outside the building. Gray skies
sulk down on my head. The cold air attacks my lungs and skin. I find a rock and
head back to the warmth of the building.
Help. Her voice is louder now.
I stretch the paper clip out and
slam one end with the rock until the paper clip is flattened. I hurry back to
the door. The smell of something burning is distinct now. I jiggle the keyhole
with the clip. Nothing. Five minutes later, nothing. I have to get in. I wonder
if I can climb through her window.
I run outside, hugging my coat as
the air surprises me again with its ferocity; a wind has picked up. Beneath her
window, I check and see that there's no way to climb up. Nor do I have rope to
rappel from the roof. I check out the trunk of my car. Still nothing. Why don't
I have anything of use here?
The tool shed. The building
maintenance man keeps a toolshed stock full of goodies. I run over to the small
red shack. It's bolted shut. I jiggle the lock a few times. There's no opening
it. I rap my knuckles against the wood side. I give it a soft kick, wary of my
ill-fused bones.
My heart is trying to break out of
my ribcage now, and even though it's cold, I'm sweating. I can taste something
like blood in my mouth. The side of the shed is strong. I can't kick through
it.
The car.
I sprint over, slipping on ice and
falling on my knee. I limp-run over, start the car, and pop it into first gear.
I grip the steering wheel and steady myself. Yes, this has to be done, and you
can ask for forgiveness later. I slam the gas. The car takes off, the backend
wiggling. I aim for a corner of the shed and slam into it. The car shatters the
corner. I back it out.
Half of my car is destroyed or
scratched to death. I step inside the shed. An ax.
I run back up and hack at the door.
I don't hear anything from inside when I pull the ax out and slam it into the
door. The sound of wood giving way is very comforting. Soon I have a hole and I
stick my hand through it and open the door.
Inside her place nothing has been
moved and the air is clean.
I hear faint clapping. I turn from
the hallway to the living room. She's standing in the middle giving a mock golf
clap.
Bravo.
I shake my head and drop the ax.
She jumps in the air and claps her
hands more fervently. Perhaps she's pantomiming a child, or perhaps this latest
stunt of hers has her so excited that a child inside her psyche
The Light in Her Eyes
By A R Shane
Copyright 2012 A R Shane
Eiso Publishing
*
This
is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real people, living or dead or otherwise, is purely
coincidental.
***~~~***
I walk up the stairs to the door. The
aroma of six sprays of cologne lingers in my nose. She's supposed to be waiting
inside. I knock once and stand back. The building is made of wood, and in this heated
hallway a smell like a sauna permeates the air. I stamp my feet and knock
again, giving the knob an extra twist incase she left it open to surprise me.
H e l p .
I cock my head. Did I just hear
something?
I jiggle the door and kick it with
my foot.
Jenny? I say.
Help.
I hear that cry as it tickles my
gut. It's her, all right, but she sounds weak, as if she's being smothered.
Jenny? Give me a second.
I kick the door, but it's made of
solid oak and doesn't budge one inch. I step back and kick again. The door makes
to sneer at me by not moving an inch. Instead, vibrations travel through my
body. It's painful. I broke both ankles in a car accident, so I decide not to
kick the door again.
The neighbors, maybe they keep a
spare key. I run over and knock. Nothing. I knock again and yell. Nothing.
Back at Jenny's door I smell wood
burning.
Help, fire.
I have no time. I know I can't call
the fire department because they are more than an hour away. I'd always said it
was stupid to live someplace so far away from civilization. Now she's paying.
I think back to my days as a
teenager, and pull out a paper clip. I run outside the building. Gray skies
sulk down on my head. The cold air attacks my lungs and skin. I find a rock and
head back to the warmth of the building.
Help. Her voice is louder now.
I stretch the paper clip out and
slam one end with the rock until the paper clip is flattened. I hurry back to
the door. The smell of something burning is distinct now. I jiggle the keyhole
with the clip. Nothing. Five minutes later, nothing. I have to get in. I wonder
if I can climb through her window.
I run outside, hugging my coat as
the air surprises me again with its ferocity; a wind has picked up. Beneath her
window, I check and see that there's no way to climb up. Nor do I have rope to
rappel from the roof. I check out the trunk of my car. Still nothing. Why don't
I have anything of use here?
The tool shed. The building
maintenance man keeps a toolshed stock full of goodies. I run over to the small
red shack. It's bolted shut. I jiggle the lock a few times. There's no opening
it. I rap my knuckles against the wood side. I give it a soft kick, wary of my
ill-fused bones.
My heart is trying to break out of
my ribcage now, and even though it's cold, I'm sweating. I can taste something
like blood in my mouth. The side of the shed is strong. I can't kick through
it.
The car.
I sprint over, slipping on ice and
falling on my knee. I limp-run over, start the car, and pop it into first gear.
I grip the steering wheel and steady myself. Yes, this has to be done, and you
can ask for forgiveness later. I slam the gas. The car takes off, the backend
wiggling. I aim for a corner of the shed and slam into it. The car shatters the
corner. I back it out.
Half of my car is destroyed or
scratched to death. I step inside the shed. An ax.
I run back up and hack at the door.
I don't hear anything from inside when I pull the ax out and slam it into the
door. The sound of wood giving way is very comforting. Soon I have a hole and I
stick my hand through it and open the door.
Inside her place nothing has been
moved and the air is clean.
I hear faint clapping. I turn from
the hallway to the living room. She's standing in the middle giving a mock golf
clap.
Bravo.
I shake my head and drop the ax.
She jumps in the air and claps her
hands more fervently. Perhaps she's pantomiming a child, or perhaps this latest
stunt of hers has her so excited that a child inside her psyche
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