• artahammer

The Cracker

She had taken her recumbent pose, and owing to his ministrations, appeared as a free-floating head of smiling adorability in a sea of pastel bedding, hovering slightly above the blanket, propped upon a mountain of pillows. He had kissed her gently and they had exchanged their goodnights as he put her to bed, as they always did. He had even closed the mirrored closet door for her, as the crack between the frame and the slider caused her an inexplicable unease.

She read a little, Misery, by Stephen King, having completed her rerereading of Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty Four two nights prior, and it seemed appropriate for Devil’s Night, what the hooligans in the movie The Crow termed the night before Halloween. They had endured the horrid Rob Reiner motion picture recently, and then subsequently discussed a thousand ways the movie could have been made better, the consensus that it would have been better not being made at all, at least until Hollywood grew out of its Disneyfied adolescence and made movies with teeth and not just flared nostrils and gummy bear breath.

Well shagged from the previous night’s debauching, she faded quickly, setting the considerable tome upon the headboard, and shutting off the cute ornate lamp above her contented head. As she drifted off in the blackness she questioned, Did he close the door all the way? She thought about how he always fucked around, pretending to close it and then sliding it open, just a bit, to mess with her shit. Had he closed it? The asshole. It would be just like him to leave a crack, especially when I’m all shagged out, helpless as a drooling, crippled child.

A shifting sound, she definitely heard a shifting sound and it was near the foot of the bed, near the closet. I’m wasted, still feeling the drugs from the night before, that’s all, she thought. That’s all. A scratching sound, a clear scraping against the inside of the fucking closet door. Yep, Fuckballs left the door open. She stiffened, the world around her silent. Too silent. She was in a place that was never quiet, punctuated by moments of rando cacophony. Explosions and shit.

Nothing, she heard nothing and that scared her more than anything. The rumble of the sliding door rollers, moving ever so slightly, caused her increased concern. The low rumble could be felt, the door was so heavy, and she could hear it slowly rolling open. She held her breath, then released it and grabbed the covers instead; it would do her no good in her hands. She fought the urge to cry out, to shake Fuckballs from his masturbatory pursuits, because she knew. She knew if he came in and had to close the closet fucking door a quarter inch because she was freaking out, she knew she would never hear the end of it, the people she worked with, the entire fucking internet as far as she could see would learn of her bedroom cowardice.

Bucking up, she flipped the light switch, but elicited no satisfying results. She trembled as the deep rumble grew more insistent, urgent. What is with this fucking light, she muttered as she sat up trying the switch repeatedly, distressed. The door was assuredly opening, she could hear it, she could feel it. Grabbing the Mag Lite from the headboard, she flipped it on as the closet door flew open revealing Lindsey Graham, a crazed look upon his contorted, grotesque face, “What is with this powder blue bedspread?!”


10/29/20

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