Old Timer

A frail old woman is afraid of a killer on the loose in her hometown.

Paranoia grew in her, starting as a pit in her stomach and blossoming into an all-consuming fear. There was nothing explicitly irrational about her fear, but the magnitude of her precaution only served to underscore her lunacy.

She often sat on her couch, squarely in front of the television, surfing from local news channels to national broadcasts with the touch of her shaky fingers to the preset buttons on the remote controller.

The room was usually soaked with tension, heavy with the limitless slew of sad stories. Over the past few days, local attentions were aimed at a murderer at large; “violently murdered in their own home early Friday morning. The suspect is not yet identified…”

Her heart was drumming. Pulling her cardigan close to her chest, she rose from her spot and adjusted the blinds to better partition the light of her home from the darkness of the outside world.

She tested the strength of the locks on each entry point of her home, pulling on the knob of each door and heaving the frame of each window. This was the night-time ritual she’d adopted since her husband passed away 4 years prior.

Shuffling to bed, she strategically turned on external and internal lights to allude to full occupancy and alertness.

She laid in bed, reflecting on the news of the day. As a frail, widowed old woman, she knew awareness was her best protection and her only preventative strategy against the evils of the world. So, she analyzed the news daily; swallowing every morsel of vile crime she could stomach, hoping to use a stranger’s misfortune to improve her own undecided fate.

She knew who qualified as the victims; those who were unsuspecting and supposed themselves invincible.

… and she knew the suspects; those ex-convicts, those dirty men who sullied her pure town. She knew what they used to implement their crimes: crowbars, knives, baseball bats, those black leather gloves to hide identities and ski masks to conceal their menacing expressions, sometimes guns- or, worse yet- their penises.

Pulling her knitted blankets close to her chin, those reflections eventually subsided from waking terrors to imagined nightmares.

She woke in complete darkness with a start, unaware she dozed off. Her heart seized in her chest as alertness captivated it with worry.

Hadn’t she left the hall light on to cast a modicum of security on her sleeping face as she passed the dangers of ordinary night?

Thunder replied to her just then, condescendingly.

Branches scratched at her windows from the strong winds brought on by a sudden and violent storm. They threatened entry, feignined criminal hands.

She grew suspicious of the deep and dark corners of her room. Could the killer from the news be standing and waiting for her, let in by the darkness of her home-haven? Windows opened invitingly by the fingers of scratching branches?

Convinced the unknown killer would pounce as soon as she moved even a fraction of a millimeter, she laid still in paralyzed fear.

She listened closely, straining to hear the intruder over the whipping and howling of trees. Any creak of the old house swaying in the storm was perceived as the predator encroaching on her (the prey) under the cover of darkness and masked by the loud sounds outside.

Ever. Closer. He. Crept. With the shuttering of window panes, the settling of floorboards, he patiently stealthed toward her bed… Solitary and deliberate steps, pausing movements in sync with nature, lurching moments of limbs stilled and started in time to the tune of the storm’s orchestra; a creature birthed of its own darkness to serve its own perverse agenda.

She pictured the whites of his eyes suddenly hovering over her, his face then illuminated by the moon emerging from the clouds. But, when the light from the moon shone into her room, she saw nothing above her.

The next howl of wind, though, he was surely at the base of the stairs, hand on the railing to take his weight off the squeaky step he planted his foot onto, his head cocked up to where her bed would be positioned through the walls and floors. He must be able to smell her the way he could look in her exact direction without knowing the layout of her home. Yes- surely he must’ve just been deeper in the house, more patient than she could even imagine. Surely, he would be there soon.

She laid like a bound lamb in bed, eyes wide and flitting about to see any movement in the dark. She stayed perfectly still, awaiting her demise. Her alertness weaned with the abatement of the mal weather, until her breathing regulated to a steady, slow sleep-state.

Daylight crept up to her eyes from the window and pried them open.

Gasping, she shot up in bed, feeling her chest and body for sustained injuries over the passing night.

She survived.

No intruder had entered her home… or at least had spared her for now..

Peering out the window, she saw that the tree fingers had been severed from the branches, likely snapped from chafing against the window panes all night.

Her haven stood tall and proclaimed victory over the terrible night things.

She inspected her house following the storm. The lights wouldn’t turn on. Flipped on and off in frustration, it didn't appear they would come on again anytime soon.

The fridge light was out, but her food appeared to be okay for now. It could keep her food unspoiled for some time with the door closed.

In vain, she clicked the power button on the TV. Blankness stared back at her. Her once informing cyclops eye only now projecting her own murky shape back at her.

Thankfully, her stovetop was gas-range, and she was able to boil a pot of water for tea.

She sat and sparingly sipped her hot tea, stalling in deep thought with the cup hovering in the air until its contents became cold.

She had been such a coward. She couldn’t protect herself, couldn’t even fend for her own life!

Just laid there, lame and sad, inviting someone to violently steal away her life. Pathetic!

Muttering, she got up, pulled her shawl tight to herself, and went to gather the materials she needed in waiting for the power to return.

The basement ground was cool, even against her slippers. She swung her flashlight around the dimly lit, musty space. No pale faces reflected back at her. No glinting eyes shined from the flashlight beam like an animal’s would, like she half-expected to see.

There was a workbench to the left of the stairs, a remnant of her late husband. The benchtop was a collection of misplaced tools and, potentially, had items suitable for this dilemma.

She didn’t need to look too deeply, as the woodtop was covered with loose nails, hammers, screw drivers, batteries, paint brushes, and rusted oil lanterns. Her arsenal grew by a few batteries, flashlights, candles, and a hammer after her basement exploration. She even found a few old puzzles tucked into boxes near the workbench- another remnant of her husband. She never really got around to cleaning his things. She was hoping she wouldn't be too far behind him.

Alas, she outlived him longer than she could have imagined and much longer than she’d hoped. She was waiting out her natural oblivion, defensive of her rightful passage to a peaceful end. Hadn’t she earned precisely that as a practicing Christian her whole life?

She ascended the stairs on her final trip from the basement, bringing the puzzles to the other materials she gathered on the dining room table. It was like a poorly built pigeon nest the way these objects were strewn about the table top, no rhyme to the reasonable sprawl.

She spent the morning and part of the afternoon working on a puzzle at one end of the dining room table. She thought of her dear husband’s hands touching these very same pieces her frail fingers picked up now, echoing their correct placement on the picture board years apart.

Acquirement of all her needed materials had sopped her menial physical strength and the puzzle drained her mental stamina (not that either were faring particularly well after a poor night’s sleep). Leaning over the table while standing from her chair, she looked over her collection again with motherly pride, feeling as though she was securing her own survival. She, after all, had more agency than she displayed the previous night. Surely.

The sunlight was returning her bravery, and some food would restore more. Resolved to eat something and perhaps make another tea, she left the dining room.

Her jaw became as agape as the fridge door upon entering the kitchen.

How long was all the food left to spoil? A few hours?

She rummaged through the pantry which lacked items to comprise a meal: an expired can of soup at the very back of the shelf, nearly empty peanut butter jars, a few cans of beans and carrots.

She smeared some peanut butter on the end piece of a loaf of bread and drafted up her grocery list.

The pen trembled with her unsteady hand, already anxious about having to leave her home. Her home was safe.

She was inside and all else was out. At home, she controlled the locks, whether the doors were opened or closed, who was welcome and who was outcast…

She had no jurisdiction outside.

The only way she let the outside world see into her home was through her television set. Now everything she was projecting through the screen would exist around her. The news would be real.

What about the escaped murderer? Would she be able to spot him among a crowd of people? Would he be a zebra in a herd, dipping his head low in a mass of black and white; one giant organism, indistinguishable from one another; not so black-and-white as good and evil, but an amassed pattern of morally ambiguous meat shuffling together through society?

She couldn't trust anyone, not until the news identified a suspect.

In her frail state, she knew she would succumb to any intruder that entered her home tonight, swept in through the windows by the trees and welcomed by the darkness extended from the outside into her home. There was no landline to call for help. No lights to banish criminals from the corners of her blackened house.

A siren sounded in the distance.

She needed to eat.

She had to be prepared for tonight so she did not become a victim, even if only to her own mind. So, she needed to leave the house and guard herself against a mile-and-a-half walk to the grocery store.

Awareness was her first line of defense. But, she had limitations- wholly biological faults that made her even less prepared for the wild than a sheep.

If someone snuck up on her, would she hear them with her back turned? Would she see their bleary form from a distance with her poor eyesight? Could she outrun them?

Darwin would eat her up; she was an easy target to sink teeth into.

She felt a gust of hope as she recalled seeing her husband’s old bike helmet at the base of his work station in the basement. It was the kind with those rounded mirrors protruding out the front like a feeble ants’ antenna.

Even after all these years buried in the ground, her husband was still taking care of her. She was suddenly grateful for all those temporary hobbies her husband attempted in life. She sent him a small “Thank you” with her eyes closed.

She procured the helmet from the basement and wiped it down with a damp cloth. She inspected it carefully for spiders before donning the helmet to check how it fit.

She wobbled her head, rolling onto her toes to test the straps’ agility.

Although a little loose, it was a fine apparatus! Perfect for her venture to the store. She adjusted the mirrors, affixing her viewpoint to see a picture of herself and her husband hanging on the wall to her back.

A smile snuck up the corners of her mouth.

She was pleased with herself again, a new confidence brimming her blood and pouring over her old, beating heart. She would get through this. She was teeming with a resolute strength, powered by sunlight.

However, even the sun was approaching limited usefulness. It was 2 pm, meaning daylight would illuminate the bleak winter outside for only a couple more hours.

She made haste.

Undoing the chin strap of her late husbands’ helmet, she placed it among the safety of her table nest and collected her winter wear: gloves, a scarf, her coat, and a hat.

She fashioned her scarf around her neck. “Tight as a noose,” she remarked, before fitting her jacket over her clothes. She breathed a wavy sigh, attempting to summon a laugh with a shaking chest.

She shoved her head into her hat in hopes it would stabilize the helmet.

She saved the mittens for last so that she could adorn the helmet and clasp the buckle. Her fingers stretched and recoiled in the space above the grocery list just before snatching it up and putting the folded paper in her coat pocket.

With one glove on, she stood before the closed door with her free hand clasped on the doorknob. She used the mirrors affixed to her helmet to assess the space behind her, to drink up the warming safety of her home.

Taking one last glance at the portrait of her husband on the wall, she fumbled to unlock the doorknob and twisted it.

The air was brisk. Her eyes immediately welled with tears from the cold breeze, obstructing her view.

She couldn't perceive any potential threats, but pushed forward for this necessary task, blinking to shed the build-up of tears from her eyes. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined the killer would appear. With every blink he would creep closer, moving at each interval of momentary blackness like he was in her head and knew when she would take her next blink; like they were destined to meet in space and time, his body meant to mangle hers with her matter bleeding onto him as he punctured her with his weapon of choice; like this was as certain as much as she needed to blink.

Panic was rising. Ever closer, she imagined, he crept.

A montage of the recent news played through her mind. “Brutally murdered… Senseless violence… Careful… Ongoing investigations,” etc., etc.

The news was always spouting steaming hot fear. It would routinely play through her mind like her own life flashing by in her dying moments.

The news was warming her with fear now.

She walked quickly across her lawn to the sidewalk, shuddered breaths emanating from her tightened, anxious chest. Wide-eyed, she drank in her surroundings, trying to detect any threats, frequently checking behind herself in the mirror with staggering steps forward.

Her mania was inconsolable, unable to be reeled in. Her heart was pounding and threatening to explode in her chest. Her blood thrummed in her ears. She imagined what those sick fucks would do to her, any passerby the killer on the loose.

Guilty until proven innocent if she wanted to stay alive.

With flushed ears, she thought she heard the unzipping of a fly.

She stumbled forward faster. She saw no one in either mirror behind her.

She continued her quick pace down backroads, approaching the main road that would take her to the grocery store, growing more frenzied and frantic with the anticipation of an attack.

The sweat was trapped in her head by her hat and helmet. It felt like her brain was cooking from the inside out. She couldn’t form words in her head.

She checked behind herself with the helmet mirrors and noticed someone stalking about 40 yards behind her. When did they get there? Did they walk out from the tall bushes? Fresh off the lawn of another home invasion and homicide?

Her safety mirrors were steaming up with the heat of her head.

Taking a turn, she checked to see if the stranger was following.

Yes!- and steadily gaining on her fatigued pace.

Oh GOD was that the sound of him brandishing a knife? She couldn't see anything! She thought she saw a shiny flash break up the muddled greys and browns of the fogged mirrors.

The mirrors were obstructed by her own hot fear. Dear God PLEASE, she managed to think.

Mustering the last energy she had, as he closed to a mere ten yards away from her as a garbled blur in her mirror, she hobbled into a sprint.

Not peeling her eyes from the vague reflection of a human form made in her helmet mirrors, she ran straight and stumbled over uneven sidewalk.

Her body was ripped from the ground and launched back to the pavement with a thud.

There was a screeching sound in the distance, a metallic shattering and hissing that felt miles away, like she was listening through the same dense fog clinging to her helmet mirrors.

She felt stiff, a gurgling rising in her throat involuntarily.

Her eyes were closing. Opening. Trying to see- to blink out the debris.

She felt a simultaneous pain and numbness.

Her eyes traced the sky in quick little abstract patterns, searching for something to focus on in the blinding light.

Would the killer’s face finally eclipse the gray sky with a dark silhouette as he callously took her life?

In her periphery, she saw something move and take shape.

It wasn't the perpetrator. No murderer approaching in the mirrors, her back against the pavement.

In a daze, she watched the blood pool around her head in a halo, steadily filling her failing vision with consuming darkness.