The first thing I notice is my neck.
Gosh, it’s killing me. I swear it audibly creaks as I slowly come to, the darkness enveloping me in a way that scares me. Where am I? What am I doing here? It’s so black, so dark. My heart catches a little. It’s too dark.
It takes me more than a moment to remember. The older you get, the longer it takes.
That’s right. The pie. Number 312 Bristol Lane. The long walk. The resting on the recliner.
I slowly sit up, my neck reminding me that sleeping on the chair is never a good idea. I take a deep breath before forcing myself to my aching feet. How long have I been asleep?
Amos meows at my feet as I stumble to the light switch in the living room and then the one in the kitchen. I flip it on and study the clock on the wall. It’s seven p.m. I don’t even remember what time I sat down on the chair. I don’t really feel rested, though. Just groggy. That walk wasn’t very long. How depressing that a single walk across the street exhausted me like that.
Suddenly, I worry that I missed everything. I stumble towards the window, ignoring my growling stomach. Their lights are on. I slump into the rocking chair, staring, trying to appraise the situation.
I don’t see them at the table, but I’ve missed dinnertime. I glance to the porch. It’s really dark and with this angle, I can’t tell if the pie is still there. They must’ve gotten it, taken it in. I’m sure. But I didn’t get a thank you. Maybe she doesn’t know it was from me.
Then again, maybe I slept through her knocking. Who knows what happened. It’s out of my hands now.
I still feel like maybe it was pointless. I exhausted myself for nothing … and now I’ve missed so much. What a terrible plan.
Still, at least I tried. I study the empty room now, worrying and wondering. Where are they? What are they doing? Is she feeling better?
And that’s when it happens.
Like an out-of-control freight train, I see him appear in the window, his hands waving fiercely as he stops by the table, leaning on it. His posture is tense, like he can’t rest. He looks different. I can’t figure it out. He’s yelling, his mouth angry and wide.
And then she appears. She’s talking – no, she’s screaming with her hands. I can’t make out the words. I try to read her lips, but it’s all happening so, so fast. She’s yelling, articulating with those hands. Her gestures are stabbing and pointed.
Their voices increase. She stomps towards him, and then she shoves him.
I cover my mouth, shaking my head. What is she doing?
At first, I think I’m mistaken. The shove I thought I saw can’t be. That’s not how they do things. That’s not who they are. She’s not like that. Sure, she has her issues, but she’s not a physical person. This isn’t her, not really. Yes, things have been changing, but I still don’t think that’s who they are. This isn’t the woman who makes me tea and chats about soap operas. This isn’t the woman in the sunshine-yellow dress. That’s not her.
Is it?
But then it happens again. She shoves him a little harder this time. He’s a small man, some would even call him frail. Sure, he’s bigger than her, but there’s this energy about her that makes her a force. Even from here, the way she rages like a rabid animal is terrifying. I can’t imagine being up close.
He feels that force. He backs away. It looks like he’s begging her to stop.
But she’s out of control. Screaming, shrieking, clawing at him. Hitting him now. Punching him. More screams. More shrieks. More wild flailing, slamming him against the wall suddenly and violently throttling him. I bite my lip, feeling so helpless, as my fingers curl around the rocking chair handles. I want her to stop. I want all of this to stop. But what can I do? What can I really do? The devastating reality creeps into my veins, crawls under my skin, and settles in my chest.
I can’t do anything.
He grabs her wrists and tries to contain her, but how do you contain someone so lost?
It’s hard to watch, really. My stomach turns and churns, and I think I might be sick. I feel tears welling. What’s going on with her? Why is she doing this?
She keeps screaming, and he no longer looks tense. He looks beaten. He looks broken. When he finally lets go of her wrists, she wildly thrashes a candlestick from the table at him before stomping off, the candlestick tossed to the ground.
And then it’s quiet, just him, alone, standing for a long moment where he was. Eventually, his hands ruffling his hair, he moves dejectedly towards the window and stares out. His eyes peer off into the distance, at what, I don’t know. He looks changed somehow, aged. My soul breaks for him. I hurt for him, almost as if I can feel his hurt through the window. Maybe I can, in some ways.
My heart’s racing. What have I just witnessed? What’s going on with them? Why is she so mad?
Questions, questions, questions, but never any answers. The window frustrates me today. It’s not a place of solace or excitement or love. Today, it’s a place of evil. It suffocates me, makes me think about how exasperating life is. The smiles have faded, and the sweet moments at 312 Bristol Lane have vanished without a trace.
They can get them back, I think to myself, breathing through the fear. I convince myself it’s one fight. It’s one bad, bad fight. She’ll come to her senses. They’ll work it out. There will be some profuse apologies tomorrow, a warm embrace, and they’ll put this behind them. We all have things we need to put behind us.
Soon, they’ll be back at that table, dancing to soft music and eating pot roast, laughing. She’ll put on that sunshine-yellow dress and mosey over, thank me for the pie, laughing because she didn’t realise it was from me. She’ll tell me some ludicrous story about how they thought the pie was poison. She’ll talk about losing her temper with him over a misunderstanding. An apology will ensue. She’ll find her smile again. All will be well at 312 Bristol Lane, and I’ll sip my tea, rocking and watching their love story continue.
This is just a rough patch. It is. I’m sure of it.
I watch for another moment, his miserable face threatening to waver my resolve, my confidence in their ability to fix things.
But I decide he deserves his privacy. He doesn’t want someone watching this intimate moment; it can’t be easy. I decide to give him that right, to let it go, to let him lick his wounds. He needs some space from her, from everyone. I can give him that. I might not be able to do much, but I can at least do that.
‘Come on, Amos. Want some food?’ I ask the cat. I know it’s late and not really time to eat, but sometimes you just have to break the rules, you know? I open a second can of tuna delight for Amos, glopping it into the dish.
I usually don’t have tea this late – it makes me have to pee in the middle of the night, plus the caffeine sometimes stirs me awake, tossing and turning in bed. It doesn’t do for an old woman to be awake in the middle of the lonely night. It’s hard on the mind, on the heart, thinking about the loneliness. There’s no window-watching then. There’s just me and the darkness. I prefer to sleep right through.
Something tells me, though, I’ll be awake tonight anyway, lost in my thoughts and worries about those kids across the street – after all, they’re still kids to me.
They need to work it out. She needs to find herself. I thought the pie would help, but it didn’t.
I look at the stove and think to heck with it. I put on some water for tea, and then saunter over to the kitchen chair and stare at the blackness outside as I think about what this could all mean for 312 Bristol Lane – and for me as my daily watching has taken quite a turn for the worse.
After the screeching kettle alerts me that the water is hot enough, I make my tea, careful to only fill it halfway, before trudging back to the rocking chair, deciding I need to take inventory before bed.
He’s gone now, no longer staring into the blackness of the night, no longer visibly lost in thoughts and fears. I take a deep breath, feeling better.
The lights are out in the dining room and there’s nothing to see. It’s sort of a blessing to not have to stare at the dining room table devoid of a candlestick, or to peer at the wall where she had him pinned not very long ago. The darkness suits the dining room, covering up the hostile crimes committed there. It’s blacking them out, allowing me to hang on to the tiny thread of hope I have that all can be fixed.
But then I see it.
The teacup in my two hands, the hot steam warming my face, I do a double take, almost not believing my eyes.
A figure in the darkness coming towards the dining room window at 312 Bristol Lane. Closer, closer, the frame comes into view. My heart thuds, my fingers chilled despite the steaming mug between them.
Jane stands, emotionless, staring out the window.
No, that’s not quite right. She’s not just staring out the window. She’s glaring, her eyes burning wild with a rage only present in monsters of the darkest kind. And she’s not just glaring at anything. She’s not just aimlessly looking out the window, seething with whatever anger is inside her. It’s scarier than that. Because, as I look out the window, I realise I’m not crazy. I’m not imagining things. She’s glaring out the window and staring right at me.
She’s mouthing something to me, but I can’t make out the words.
Panic grips at my heart, and I think about calling the police. But what will they say? Who will they believe? I’ll be locked away for sure, Jane convincing them I’m a mad old lady. Checkout lane three will certainly back that statement up. And then where will we all be? Where will he be, with no witness in this dusky house to keep an eye out?
I slowly stand, my pulse beating crazily as I turn my back on the window, my breathing rapid. I rush towards the counter to place my mug near the sink, spilling some tea on the way but not caring. There are bigger problems now. I breathe in and out, calming myself, telling myself there’s nothing to fear.
But that’s the thing about fear. Even when you try to tell yourself it’s not there, it is, lurking in the corners of your being, playing on every worry and doubt you’ve ever had.
The tea keeps me up all night, but it’s so much more than that.
Because, over and over, I replay the scene I witnessed. I replay the fear I felt. Most of all, I think about the sight of her glaring out that window, like she wanted to kill me. And over and over, all night, I try to decipher the words she mouthed to me, no answer coming to light.
Sleep doesn’t come, only fits of questioning, periods of doubt, and endless nightmares, both fantasy and real.
In many ways, I suppose life has been a waking nightmare for me, and with this turn of events at 312 Bristol Lane, I shudder with the realisation that maybe the nightmare’s just beginning.