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Amara stirred after eight, judging from the glowing blue-green numbers of the nightstand clock. She wasn't sure whether it was eight a.m. or eight at night. At times like this, she wished she’d been born with an internal clock and a normal circadian rhythm. Hers had stopped ticking about twenty years ago.
What am I doing down here? I came down to start a load of laundry and... She ran a hand through her hair and tried to tousle it back into place, but her fingers became caught in an unusual number of tangles. She flinched and tugged the ends of her hair until she could finger-comb through it. I must have gotten tired again and conked out in the guest room. Ugh! I’m always doing that. How long have I been asleep?
She sat up and stretched, unable to fight back a grin. Normally, the first few minutes after waking were her least favorite of any day, full of taut muscles and brain fog. But not this time. Her nap had left her more alive than she’d felt in weeks—maybe months. The only problem was that she couldn’t recall choosing to take a nap, lying down, or doing other activities resulting in body parts being slightly sore in ways that typically involved her husband. Perhaps she’d had an erotic dream.
IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE CRAZY, AMARA. YOUR MIND DOESN’T WORK PROPERLY. YOU HAVE A SPLIT PERSONALITY. YOU KNOW YOU’RE SCHITZO.
Shut up shut up shut up.
Had she spent the entire night in the basement? And why hadn’t Thom woken her up? He’d have left for work about half an hour ago if it was morning. If it was late, he should’ve been home for well over an hour. Either way, she should’ve heard from him. Thom wasn’t a doting husband, but he always told her when he arrived home. His silence was odd. Thom was typically a little overbearing, often more like a father than a husband. Not her adopted father, thank God. That guy had been positively creepy. More like the way a regular father behaved, she supposed. That was part of why she cared about Thom—at least he acted concerned, even if his interest was more out of a need to be aware of where she was at all times. As long as he knew where she was, she was free to do what she wanted, for the most part.
In too good a mood to ponder it, she rose and noted that once again, she’d splattered her shirt with paint. Rust-colored stains covered the top of her white peasant blouse. What was she working on again? Oh yes, the portrait. Her dream men on canvas—the one that looked like a cheesy romance book cover. Thom hated it.
Another shirt ruined. It’s white—bleach might do the job. Maybe I can save it.
She headed for the laundry room alongside the basement guest room, started the water, added the detergent and bleach, stripped her shirt off, daubed it with stain remover, and noted with disappointment the paint had seeped through and stained her brassiere as well. Her fifty-dollar brassiere. Her white fifty-dollar brassiere. Great. Now I have to add that to the wash, too. And I’m not walking around the house naked.
Looking around for a top to wear, she noted one of Thom’s sweaters drying on the wooden fold-out rack. She removed the bra, treated the stains, and threw it in the wash with the rest of a load of whites. Then she slipped Thom’s green cable-knit sweater over her slim, brown shoulders and headed up the staircase.
The door creaked as she pushed it open, but apart from that, pale shadows and silence loomed—no sign of Thom. The kitchen was as dark as she’d left it. The television was silent. No footsteps, no greeting from Thom as she made her way into the living room.
She caught herself tiptoeing and stopped. Why was she sneaking around in her own home? Why did the air smell contaminated—heavy, foul, wrong? A metallic taste tanged in the back of her dry throat, and her eyes scanned the rooms, but for whom, or what, she did not know. Her irrational fear made no sense. Logically, she grasped she was alone, but it didn’t feel that way.
It never felt that way.
It must be daytime. The sun is up, and Thom’s gone to work. If it was p.m. the sun would already be down.
ARE YOU SURE? WHAT MAKES YOU AN EXPERT ON WHAT TIME THE SUN RISES AND SETS IN SOUTH CAROLINA?
I’m sure, she thought, flushing as she argued with one of the never-silent voices that plagued her mind. I woke up when Thom did before he went to work last week. The sun was up then.
BUT THAT WAS LAST WEEK, another voice taunted. MAYBE IT SETS EARLIER NOW.
Which it would; the days were getting shorter this time of year, but that wasn’t the point. The sun came through the windows in the mornings. She wanted to tell the voices to shut up—what did they care about such asinine details as sunrises and sunsets?—but she didn’t. Arguing was too much like admitting she heard them. It seemed the voices took constant steps to whittle away her self-confidence, which made no sense. The voices were part of her—why would she sabotage her sanity?
Part of her supposed it had to do with her adopted father. The years of “accidentally” caressed breasts and blatant brushes against her bottom with his pelvis as he passed by her in their galley kitchen. How well she recognized that confidence made a woman attractive and desirable. Exactly what Amara strove to avoid. Male gazes made her queasy—except when she craved them.
That’s me—the living, breathing contradiction.
She turned her head; no one was there. Right. I’m alone. So why didn’t she believe it?
Thom usually spent a few moments before work in his living room recliner with one hand on the remote and the other on a folded newspaper, but the chair was empty. What was on the television at this time of day? His morning news shows, probably. Thom loved to start his day with a dose of daily news bulletins and ink-black coffee. The screen was black, and the television was off, not muted. The open drapes let in the faint light of the breaking sun, enough for Amara to see that the living room was empty.
Why didn’t she feel alone?
Maybe Thom called in sick. Right. Thom, workaholic extraordinaire, avoider of spouses, and nearly all social occasions, had called in sick. That was about as likely as... well, as likely as the voices in her head being real.
“Thom?”
The emptiness swallowed her voice. A lump of fear rose in her throat, and Amara tried to push it down, but she only succeeded in bringing up the taste of blood.
The drapes are open, and the sun isn’t high. The neighbors will see inside as soon as you turn on the lights. Anyone who wants to know what you’re doing will be able to see.
SHUT THE CURTAINS. SHUT THEM SHUT THEM SHUT THEM.
Not bothering to hit the light switch—if she did, the entire neighborhood could watch—Amara scampered into the living room, set on closing the drapes, protecting her privacy, and keeping those pesky, nosy folks from seeing what she was doing.
Her foot hit a slick spot on the hardwood floor past the recliner, and she fell hard onto her hip and elbow. Her mouth opened in pain, but no sound came out, just a sharp exhale of surprise and hurt. She pulled her elbow out of the sticky mess and noted woefully that a thick coat of red paint coated her slacks and Thom’s sweater.
Not again. Wait... paint? I never paint in the living room.
She looked down and found herself face-to-face with the unseeing eyes of her husband, whose body had been carelessly tossed into a heap and whose throat had been brutally removed by an animal. It had to be an animal; no human could’ve torn it out so savagely.
DON’T BE STUPID, AMARA. HOW COULD AN ANIMAL GET INTO THE HOUSE? DO YOU SEE ANY BROKEN WINDOWS OR ANIMAL TRACKS? HEAR ANY NOISE COMING THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR? YOU DID IT. YOU.
Amara let out panicked whimpers of disgust and fear, fumbling to her feet in the slippery, sticky, gory mess. The back of her throat burned as she choked back vomit. Not thinking of her safety, not wondering for a second if Thom’s killer was still in the house, she raced to the phone and lifted it with a bloodstained hand, punching 9-1-1 with trembling fingers before she thought too long and screamed.
