August 10th 1994

Paris, Tennessee

4:10 AM

Pamela Argens loved the way the air condition felt after a long night. She would set under it for hours on end, her own little luxury spa, and envision a ship setting to sea that was hers and hers alone. It was an odd vision because it roughing it consisted of a deck and straws and yet was positioned a raft, perhaps taking both a portion of dread she had and a portion of want kept inside and mingling it in her mind. She often thought this was what her friends talked about when they mentioned the joy of taking baths but she wasn't exactly sure; she had never been one of those people that chased frivolous things. Buying bubblebath and collecting lotions from places like Bath and Body seemed to set her teeth on edge. Still, the temperature at 65 and the cool hum blocking out all other sounds - THAT was something she looked forward to. Her body understood and it thanked her.

Pamela stretched out, trying to get as comfortable as she possibly could, allowing her body a much needed break from the grind her job demanded. Her sectional sleeper had been an impulse by but she loved it and its bright trim, allowing her to both feel comfortable and proud because she had done something both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

As she moved and wormed in the seat she often told herself that the sore straining of her legs and back were something that she imagined as well, like her life on the raft was not perfect all the time. There were the elements and the seas to contend with, and the sea spray had to be problematic. It all had something to do with the love of the sea, which oftentimes conspired against people. Reality-wise, some things were more of a burden that others and, honestly, she could use more relaxation and a fewer 12 hour shifts.

Being a factory line worker had its pros and cons, and sometimes the cons seemed to outweigh everything else in her life. She worked and she worked, both weekdays and weekends pressing parts for the automotive industry, and the end of those shifts saw her practically begging her maker for a few more days off. going home, that sometimes changed her mind. She never imagined herself here, sitting in a house with the sound of neon humming against the ever-cooling backdrop, but here she was and here she planned on staying. It only took that word, home, to remind her of why she did it all and why it was worth the fuss. Just driving up to her newly renovated townhouse spoke to her in ways all the other so-called Success Stories could not and said things like "see, it really does lead somewhere." There was her huge bed in the next room, the impulse items she loved looking at all around, and all of the trimmings she had EVER hoped for sitting in a home. Even her sink had a detachable end for quick use - how awesome was that?

Granted, everything was not always so grandeur. Pamela still watched Infomercials as sleep strode across her body and she sometimes dreamed really big dreams. There were the freedoms in the minds, the ones outside of this place, wher money grew on trees and heaven was just another word for living. It might not have been original but tit was always hers and hers alone.

There were other things in her life as well, relationships and failures and this relaunch of the "S.S. Emboldened," but all of that was out of her control. At the end of the day she couldn't honestly say why her boyfriend had chosen another lover and she didn't know why she couldn't get hitched or have kids. Maybe that was just her lot in life.

A yawn broke through the silence and Pamela stretched, rubbing her eyelids. A little rumble followed immediately afterward and Pamela laughed quite loudly, noting the call to arms saying, "you MUST invade the refrigerator!" She liked feeling that way, the laughter part, when you bubbled up enough that you felt like you were going to burst. The eating part - that was something else.

Pamela looked to her side and wondered if the tropical fruit she had been dreaming was real but, no, she hadn't had a thing since she got home. If it were up to her she would keep it that way, with thoughts constantly calling and saying she needed to diet.

Diet.

Damned infomercials.

Still, the stomach called.

Yawning, she pushed herslef from her comfort and moved, trying to adjust her sight so the floor would stop moving. One foot dropped after the other, carving a weary trail through the plush carpeting that felt so good on her feet, and she smiled, thinking of what would come next. There were leftovers in the fridge from her favorite eatery and, at the end of a long day, who wouldn't want a rib sandwich?

She had no idea that she had just smiled her last smile, dreamt her last dream, and had tasted her last bit of tropical paradise. She had no idea that her last thought would be on that closet and that noise and the horrible stench that seemed to come when madness called.

She did hear the jingling sound and the snapping sound and even tried to do something before fate came calling but it would have been like stopping a bullet train in a nightgown.

Nothing worked, it never did.

Screams filled the night.