THEY SAY IDLE hands are the devil’s workshop. For me, it is not my hands, it is my mind. Without distraction, it dives into dark places it shouldn’t go. Places that make little boys scream and psychopaths celebrate. I’ve spent years avoiding those places. But now, as I sit in the dark and wait for this man? I open the cage and let my idle mind wander free.
Butt on the ground, my back against a box of Jenny Craig cardboard entrees, I run my mind over the plan and hope that I am not wrong. Hope that he is on his way, and that I can act out this stockpile of fantasies. The law says that if my home is entered, that I have the right to defend myself. Self-defense. A beautiful word that opens a world of possibilities. Yeah, let’s call this self-defense. Not that a defense will be needed. I don’t plan on getting cops involved.
I sit and wait. Work through the worst-case scenarios in my mind. He may be a hulk of a man. Might walk in covered in tactical gear. Might open an automatic weapon in the middle of my loft and destroy my well-crafted plan in the course of seconds. I frown, my palms sweating despite the cold room. Whoa. I came up with three disastrous scenarios without even thinking hard. Give me another hour and I’ll have a hundred more possibilities. My confidence plummets, my brilliant plan suddenly full of holes. I bite at my nails and wonder how long before he arrives. Try, for the third or fourth time, Mike’s number. I haven’t talked to MysteryBarbie again, my calls ringing through to voice mail. According to her story, he didn’t answer my calls before because he was tied up. That should no longer be an issue. I don’t like that he is not answering. Maybe she took my advice and chopped his fucking hands off in an attempt to remove the handcuffs. Homegirl didn’t seem real bright.
Now that my anger has subsided, I really need to talk to him. He could tell me if this brilliant plan of mine is for naught—my killer instincts celebrating an event that will never occur. I did kinda jump the gun a bit. Embraced MysteryBarbie’s words and created the perfect scenario in my head. Someone coming for me. Someone I can kill without guilt. I let out a sigh and continue the waiting game. Hope that my badass self doesn’t fall asleep against two weeks’ worth of herb-roasted turkey breasts.
Maybe I should walk away. Now that I’ve gone through the motions, made the plan, outfitted my apartment to the hilt. I could still walk away. Call the police and have them come here, sit in the dark with me. Let them arrest the man should he break through the door. It is the right thing to do.
I should be stronger, I should be able to fight off the blood rush that holds my veins hostage and takes over my body. Maybe I should try to handle this the normal way. Curl into a ball, hold my body tight, shut my eyes and let my mind play out a sick, twisted fantasy. As sick as I want it, as blood-filled as I want to take it. I can be and do anything I want to do in the confines of my mind, with my eyes closed and body controlled. Because I am being good. I am doing the right thing.
Okay, so a new plan. I’ll mentally act out my fantasy and then, in the brief moment of sanity after a fantasy exploration, call the cops. Quickly, before I lose my fortitude. It is a good plan. The right thing to do. Safe for all involved parties. I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to give up this opportunity. Mourn, for a brief moment, the death of what was going to be a kick-ass takedown. Then I curl into a tight ball, my arms gripping my legs tightly, my head dropping, eyes scrunched close and imagine the elevator, its announcement of this asshole’s arrival.
For the thirty-first time since I stepped back into this apartment, my arsenal in hand, the elevator suddenly moves, wheezing and screeching its way up the tower of our building. I stop breathing, my tight ball loosening as I raise my head and tense. Wait to see if I am imagining this or if it is real. It is. It’s real and my good intentions are too fucking late.
I tried. I really did try. I had a plan and a goal to be good. I said good-bye to my opportunity and wrapped myself into a ball. I was walking away, was going to let the police handle this. I tried. I failed. Fate intervened and kicked my good intentions’ ass.
I wait, my head up, ears straining. The lights are off. When I first turned them off, it was a shock, my eyes blind in the dark. But now, three hours later, they have adjusted. Even if they hadn’t adjusted, even if I were blind—I know every inch of this apartment, my familiarity a by-product of three and a half years spent in nine hundred square feet. I can jump, crawl, or handstand my way through this space blindfolded. He does not know this space. He will not have any idea of what he is walking into. I hear the elevator shudder to a stop. The sixth floor. Jackpot. This might be it, the chances one in fourteen that he is headed to me. I stand, my back leaving the boxes, and listen. Strain for footsteps, wish that we had a hardwood hall as opposed to silent carpet. Move to the peephole, see a stranger move closer, closer. See his pause at my door.
Then, I see the soft motion of the knob. It’s a new one, swapped out two hours ago for the crappiest one Home Depot carries. It moves gently. Quietly. And I know that he is here.
I ignore the knock when it arrives. I am too busy.
He thinks I am unaware. He thinks I am helpless. He has no idea who he is dealing with.