Ohshitohshitohshit-URK!" Meg cried as she ran, slamming full tilt into the doorjamb with such force that it spun her sideways into her room. The white-hot pain that knifed through her shoulder was sharp enough to take away her wind even before she hit, but the impact still sent stars streaking through her vision. The expensive carpet was just springy enough to dull the impact so that she bounced twice on her face before coming to rest and watch the world spin wildly around her. The only sounds were her heartbeat and breathing and they sounded like the thunder and wind of a storm raging just beneath her breastbone.
It was him. It was his voice, b-but he was dead. She had seen him die.
Wincing, Meg crawled forward and made her good arm work, rising to her knees and slamming the door shut before she sagged against it. Her hand was trembling too much for her to throw the latch, so she rested with her back against it instead. There was a metallic taste in her mouth and she knew she had bitten into her tongue.
This wasn't happening. Not again. Not here.
She put the palms of her hands over her face and pushed, trying to numb the pain and put the brakes on the room's rotation. Meanwhile the past few minute's events kept coming back at her, matching pace with the pounding of her heart. She was sure that the voice on the phone had been her Mother, busting with holiday cheer but it had quickly changed into something from her nightmares. In her mind, she could still hear the infernal jingling of bells and the ho-ho-ho's from the phone's receiver and her blood turned into ice water.
What if it was all in her head? What if she was insane and the therapy had failed?
Her hands came away from her eyes and she cried in earnest, the spasms rocking her frame and making her shoulder pound more. There was no way that she was crazy -no way, and she couldn't let herself believe it was possible. If she were, that would mean that this SLA-mas season was all in her head and it would never, ever end. The ultimate gifting season that keeps giving, and giving, and.
.and he had said he was coming for her. Him and his elves and the deer and those godawful killer toys. "Gonna get you this time bitch!" he had crooned and she knew he had meant it. The tears came harder and she heard Marie's voice in the distance calling her name and coming closer. It couldn't have just been her imagination.
"Why me? What did I do?" she asked, thankful that none of the doobries on the shelf were activated. She didn't want a conversation now, but she desperately wanted comfort and climbed to her feet to pick up Sour Blood. He was all she had and she held him gently as she stood up and turned, taking in her room.
Her private little sanctuary was pristine and clean, with everything carefully chosen that would fit with her tastes. Unfortunately it was the sort of tastes that she had a few years ago, but she couldn't blame her Mother for not keeping current. It wasn't like they had seen each other that much in the past five years, thanks to the competitive wrangling in the divorce. At least the walls didn't have paintings of dancing clowns and teddy bears like they did the last time she came to stay.
The snow had picked up considerably, tapping the window in earnest and drawing her attention to the misty bands of white forming across the glass. The distant street and rooftops were already coated and flakes feel from above in the darkness in soft powdery streams. Out there in the darkness, "He" was coming to kill her. Meg shuddered and breathed out, turning her back to the frosting window. Her brow furrowed when something didn't seem right, but then she gasped and threw her back into the wall.
Something had moved and she knew it wasn't her imagination.
She was sure of it as she felt the goosebumps run down her spine. Stifling a scream, she held her breath and tried to watch everything at once. Nothing moved and the room was deathly silent with the exception of the distant tapping snow.
Holding the Sour Blood doobrie in a deathgrip, she slowly slid across the wall towards the door. Something could be in here - anywhere and she wouldn' t be able to see it unless she got down to look it in its eyes or it got close. She was too afraid to try and wanted a weapon, anything to defend herself, and that meant the closet on the other side of the room. Slowly changing direction, she began inching back the other direction but nothing moved to intercept her. Her eyes kept going back to the bed, because it was the only place she absolutely couldn't see. Isn't that where the monsters always hide? She was terrified that the skirt was going to fly up and something small, jingly, and evil with blades would dive out. She knew that she'd never see it until it was too late and picked up the pace. Only a few more feet.
It took what felt like hours to get to the closet and she was hit with another wave of panic that made her freeze before she could open it. This was the only place an overweight red-clad psycho could hide. Biting her lip, she reached out for the handle with trembling fingertips.
"Ohgodohgodohgod," she mumbled as her fingers probed the handle. "P-please don't let there be- not here, not here, not here-"
She grasped the handle carefully without turning it and risked a glance back at the bed's skirt. It hadn't moved, but a little voice told her that SOMETHING was under it, waiting and watching. She could almost imagine one of those evil little elves with its coal-black eyes, crouched down and licking the blade of a pair of scissors or a razor as it eyed her Achilles tendon.
With a burst of speed and a scream, she threw the closet door open and dove in. The wall of designer clothes took her charge and engulfed her, wrapping her like a forest. Immediately she felt relief and embarrassment, her scream turning into an off-key giggle. With this many things hanging, there was no way a fat man in a red suit could have hidden here. How stupid could she have been? That was when she heard something moving behind her, coming from the bed.
She lunged for a tennis racket, spinning around and charging out of the closet with another scream. The skirt of the bed pushed out as something made its way around and she stepped in front of it, swinging so low that the racket brushed the carpet on its way. The racket cracked into the bed frame and the intruder yelped before doubling back and heading for the other side. Meg dove onto the bed, bounced off, and landed in front of it with her best tennis stance. A split second later, the skirt exploded outward on her side and she let go with her best backhand with a triumphant war cry. "Remember to follow through," her instructor would have said and Meg gave it her best, slicing the racket through the full swing.
The racked connected hard and Meg felt the weight of the intruder as it went airborne from her stroke. There was a panicked bark as the skirt flew up and a ball of curly gray fur tumbled through the air to thump against the wall and plop face first into a trashcan. The rear feet kicked and clawed as the can wobbled and she could hear muffled yelps and growls.
"OH BLOODY HELL" Meg yelled. She had just knocked the holly shit out of Mom' s 10k credit designer DAC.
Suddenly, the door flew open and in ran Marie, probably terrified by the noises she had heard. She took in the entire scene - Meg holding a tennis racket, a dog-shaped dent in the stucco'd wall, and poor little Archibald's ass sticking out of a trashcan and figured it out instantly. Her face clouded over with what had to be anger and Meg knew she was going to really get it this time. She had never seen the maid mad until now.
"It's not what you-" Meg started, but this time Marie was the one yelling.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Marie yelled, completely having lost her composure. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!"
Meg stuttered and was unable to speak, but knew if she could have enunciated, she would have said that she had just accidentally back-handed the little table-leg fucker into next year. Instead she just stood there open-mouthed and waved the racket as she tried to talk with her hands and failed.
"HOW DARE YOU?!?" Marie continued, her face only getting redder and her voice reaching the level needed to shatter glass. "DO YOU KNOW HOW FRAGILE ARCHIBALD IS!? HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR YOUR MOTHER'S PROPERTY? HOW DARE YOU?!!"
Marie halted for a moment, probably pausing just to prevent a coronary, and glared at Meg for a good ten seconds in silence. Angrily, she strode forward, snatched the racket out of Meg's hands, and went over to extract the dog from the trashcan. He whimpered pitifully as Marie cradled him, but Meg was sure she saw a snide "gotcha" look on his face as the maid carried him out of the room. With a slam of the door, Meg was left alone to take in the carnage.
"I am SO screwed," she said as she dropped heavily onto her bed. Her Mother would hear about this little incident inside the next few minutes and she knew that there wasn't any holiday cheer anywhere in her future. The one thing for sure was that both Archibald and Marie would milk it for everything it was worth. What had the conniving little bastard been doing in her room anyway?
"Oh, God," she started when she realized it. "That little fucker!"
She followed the faint smell downward and crinkled her nose before looking under the skirt. That 10k credit vat-bastard had left a stinking pile of SLA-mas cheer for her right on the expensive carpet. She cursed silently and leaned her head back to look at the ceiling.
The one thing about asking if things can get worse is that you always know they will.
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