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Slapping the phone down, I go to the window. But then I realize that if Jennifer’s out there, she can see me with the light on. Sprinting to the studio’s front door, I hit the switch, and the room goes dark. Other than the firelight that comes from the wood stove and the radiance from my cell phone and my laptop, the room is pitch dark.
My eyes can’t adjust fast enough. My reading/work glasses are set on the desk. About-facing, I make my way to them, but not without tripping on the wood stove and going down hard onto my chest.
“Can I possibly get out of my own way?” I bark.
I feel a sharp pain in my ribs. But I have no choice other than to jump back up, grab my horn-rim eyeglasses, and slip them on. Making my way back to the window now that I can see, I make out the sound of a car starting outside my property’s front fence line. Whoever is operating the vehicle hasn’t turned on the headlamps. It’s early morning. It’s still dark. He or she purposely isn’t turning the lamps on. But then who am I kidding?
It's Jennifer. She knows I’m presently in my studio, writing her fucking book. That’s what she wants to think. She’s watching me, stalking me. Maybe it has something to do with the whiskey, or something to do with the burst of energy that always comes with writing new pages and knowing precisely where the story is going tomorrow when I continue it, no outline, no plan, just writing into the darkness, as they say. But I can’t wait for Sunday to come when I can finally enact my vengeance on Jennifer. I need to get her now when I have the chance.
Drawing my semi-automatic, I make my way out the studio door and sprint across the lawn toward the dark car. The driver spots me, or so I’m guessing, because she immediately punches the gas and pulls onto the road, her tires spitting gravel. I aim, however awkwardly at the car, and fire two back-to-back shots that go nowhere other than the woods across the street.
The sound of the car speeding fades quickly away, and the silence resumes. Only, it’s not a perfect silence, but the kind of still, early morning silence that’s filled with frogs coughing, bugs buzzing, and dogs barking. I might not have a whole lot of neighbors yet, but two gunshots ringing out at two thirty in the morning will likely not go ignored. I wonder if the police or the state troopers will be alerted. My guess is they will be but will do nothing about it. Half of Millbrook law enforcement was disbanded and defunded years ago. Things aren’t as safe as they used to be.
I head back to my studio and lock up. Note to self: fill the wood box first thing in the morning and get some sleep, why don’t you? I cross the lawn for the last time on this very long and eventful day. I insert my PIN into the back door lock on the farmhouse. The door unlocks. Opening it, I step inside. The place is quieter than the outside. All that can be heard are the old floorboards squeaking and cracking under my footsteps.
Turning the stove nightlight on, I head across the kitchen floor, then into the dining room and go for the vestibule staircase. I take the stairs one at a time and feel the soreness in my right ribcage. Did I break a rib when I fell, or merely just bruise a couple? What the hell does it matter? Not a hell of a lot you can do for damaged ribs other than allow them to heal.
Heading into the bedroom, I see the mess I’ve left behind, and all that broken glass that litters some of the bedspread and the wood floor.
“Can’t sleep here,” I whisper to myself. “Too wiped out to clean it up now.”
For a split second, I consider heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.
“Screw it,” I say as I drag exhausted bones back out into the corridor and head for the first of two guest bedrooms.
I make my way inside and faceplant on the bed, fully clothed. I’m even still wearing my leather coat and carrying my semi-automatic. Before I know it, I feel myself falling into a deep dark nothing.