Though I grew up under the roof of thrill-seeking, violence-loving, horror film fans, jump scares never flopped. All, and I mean all, of those saw-them-coming-from-a-mile-away pop-ups got me. The on-screen debut of the alien in the late-seventies, groundbreaking, sci-fi flick Aliens, damn near sent me into cardiac arrest! I was nine…and my live-in uncle had pointed out the scare beforehand. To this day, that same bastard won't let me live it down!
From observations, I gathered that the general audience fears not what's on the screen, but rather what's off it. It's a mental thing. It's visualizing this acid-dripping alien silently lurking in your own shadow, it's the mutated reptile that keeps evading your radar, it an axe-wielding lunatic that's tip-toeing up your stairs while you're sleeping. The simple image is what sends shivers up and down your spine and blotches your body with goosebumps because you're building up what you fear.
That's just it. What I cannot see is what's holding me back: has me sweating out a weave I don't even have, has me chattering my teeth so much that my gums are crying out, and makes all the limbs my body contains spasm like parts of a malfunctioning robot. This is called fear, and I'll be damned, it's strong.
Fear alone is all that separates me from certain chaos. The rusty, embossed numbers on the vandalized door hang loose; they create a rhythm from the vibrations my hands are giving by just holding the knob.
"Get a grip, Marleene. It's safe. Open the door; you can do this." It's like I'm potty training again except this time around, I'm my own cheerleader, "Come on, jump over this hurtle." And…I've cramped up, like, my hand is brain-wave challenged, for brevity.
Literally, this damned shit is egging on an up-and-coming anxiety attack. My knees have all but toppled me over and I have to remind myself to breathe every other whimper. God is probably having the time of his life. I brought this upon myself. I'm a born sinner. Satan must be banally coming up with new ways to tantalize me. What my father wouldn't say. Oh, I know what exactly he'd say…it's what he'd do! My lung has probably deflated, I forgot to breathe!'
Then, if there was ever a moment to gain courage, I muster all the power my hundred and twenty-six pound body will allow and fling the door open. My hands won't allow sight but my hearing is perfect and all that fills my over-worked brain a seismic thump.
A single cough forces my eyes open and holy fucking shit. What planet have I been transported to and how do I go back? Where's the alt-control+delete button on this? No word in my extensive vocab, perhaps even the dictionary, can describe what lies before me. Havoc, if there's a meaning, a word appropriate or close enough. Pure fucking havoc.
Lockport hasn't ever really seen harsh weather, but my apartment appears to have been smackdab in the middle of Tornado Alley. This could be a backdrop for the weather channel's Stormchasers.
No need to scavenge, wander aimlessly and there will be destruction.
Upholstery piles out of gashes made on the overturned futon. My cherished coffee table, the one Pops hand-me-downed as to keep it in the family for generations to come, is but a remnant of its former self. Chairs and the lone table, same ones that were bought with money from my college savings account, are damage in one way or another. Fake flower stems stick out of the TVs' shattered screen. My personal belongings sure as hell haven't been spared; they lay strewn about the perimeter like fallen soldiers.
This is all materialistic shit, replaceable. These things, they made up what I called a home.
Soon as my eyes flounder around my prized possessions, I crumple to the floor. Irreplaceable, indispensable, survived decades of birthdays, Christmases, Easters – Abuelita Dolores' priceless china. The set was like my Holy Grail! Once priceless and proudly displayed behind a case is now nothing but worthless bits and pieces of ceramic.
Flabbergasted but I can't even cry. My tear ducts have run dry like the Sahara. This is surreal…it has to be.
There's evidence, physical, that this is reality though. It's dried up but so, so distinguishable against the beige carpeting. With its' poppy crimson now browned tinge: blood. It occupies a good amount of surface area.
Scampering over, I rip off the plain white tee Emmy lent me and begin to scrub furiously at the stain, desperately pleading for this to be easier than throwing something under a rug. Yeah…no. The stain simply multiplies! The faint odor only intensifies; intoxicating perfume but far from pleasant. Morbid would be better wording.
Yet, through all of this, I don't deter from my motive. I'm working out some intense core exercise. Sweat drips consistently, running down the tip of nose. Tears gather in the mix. It's literal: blood, sweat, and tears. He can't win, not this time – I refuse to hail another white flag.
"This is just making it more difficult for you, ya' know?" Instant fibro dysplasia: every nerve ending stiffens.
As I said, jump scares never flopped for me, even cheap ones. Difference is I could cover my eyes with a pillow because it was a damn movie and nothing more. Here, in real time, no pillow could effectively save me from harm's way.
Survival instincts dive in and I snatch up the quickest defense in reach, a glass shard. Somehow, I evade gravity and swivel around – on my feet – and shriek, "Back the fuck up!"
To my grand relief and utter abhorrence, it's just a bewildered stranger. Still horrifying as there's a fucking stranger – someone unknown to me – in the disaster that used to be my living room. It's a man, a Sasquatch of a man, except less hair and less mythical. His hands held up in defense still vibe off intimidation.
Looking at him, looking at me, look at him, I manage to spit, "Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Phil. I helped bail you out. You don't remember, considering the situation, but I did," he makes to inch forward, "so if you could put that do-" I strike, missing skin by a thread. He reels back, "Okay, easy there. I just…"
Unaware to the fact that he's under heavy observation, this character talks my ear off. It's like he's talking me out of jumping off a ledge! I'm not crazy! I am a woman, abused and unsettled, ticked at even a drop of a hat.
Have I mentioned how off-putting his mere presence is? His head is a foot away from touching the ceiling! This is an apartment for ants, like me. I'm five-four, how in the blue hell am I supposed to throw the motherfucker off if he comes at me? While he's not exactly built like a tank, he's got something going on under his worse for wear crew-neck, including some ink. Ten times out of ten, I'm so fucked…and without a shirt.
"…and since you're checking me out, you clearly see that I'm not a deranged, killer clown. I got some tattoos but, seriously, I'm a guy with bleached hair, pierced lip, some makeup, and a Pepsi logo tattoo!"
My eyes shoot straight up to meet his gaze; he's working towards a smirk. I see it in his eyes, a convoluted mixture of mossy green and liquid good, and through the twitch of his lips. This is the wrestling, drug addicted, non-homosexual that Emmy was going on and on about!
A weak hiss whistles through my teeth as the shard between my hands drops and shatters. Blood, and all its' warmth, streams down as well separating like my fingers are deltas.
"Jebus," mutters the lad. The searches the ground for something and comes back with panties – my fucking panties – dangling between his fingers. He motions for my hand and makes said panty into a poor-man's bandage, "Sorry I'm gonna ruin some such a nice pair."
-ΔΔΔΔ-
Drop us in an abandoned Western set and there'll for sure be a shrub rolling by in the synthetic breeze. If you wanna be more elaborate, give us a warning shot and stream a b-roll of ravens flying into the sunset. This is the calm before the storm. This is the infamous showdown. This…
Cut!
To be honest, we're rooted inside a room that's been flipped upside down. I'm boring holes into the soiled carpeting, pretending that my undergarments aren't near Sasquatch's feet (and every other inch of this shit hole) whilst pretending that there isn't a goddamn panty soaked in blood wrapped around my hand. Opposite me, the new neighbor vacantly stares off into whatever space isn't filled with garments or my semi-exposed torso. If awkward took over in the form of liquid, we'd be drowning in it.
"Your aim isn't that shitty, right?" the question opens up my sinuses; I stare up the length of him to find a solid look of hope.
Snorting, however unladylike, I respond, "If I'd been gifted with any ounce of dexterity, you can bet your ass you'd be convulsing on a hospital cot." Icy, it must sound so but I'm bugged. This could've been a potential homicide!
Merely raising an eyebrow, he crosses his arms, "Well shit…what a nice welcoming committee." The lightheartedness soothes me; I relax a bit, "In all seriousness, I didn't mean to give you a heart attack. I'd just come in from a jog and did a double take. Your door was open," he shrugs slightly; "I donned my dusty vigilante cape and dropped by to inspect. That scumbag hasn't any business around here after the shit he pulled."
"Dios todo poderoso!" the hairs on the back of neck stand upright. My eyes turn their focal point to a shell shocked Rosa. She heaves, her dainty hand clutching her chest, "Did that rat bastard sneak right under our noses last night and do this?"
An eerie, uncomfortable shiver undulates through my body at the thought. I've no recollection of anything other than the whirlwind blow that sent me into blackness.
Then it hits me, I didn't check anywhere else other than the kitchen, dining area, and living room which is all pretty much connected. If he came in, if he came back…? This is no luxury penthouse that I speak of. This is a one bedroom type deal. There isn't much space to play hide-and-seek but there's always a possibility.
Gulping, I catch Phil's reflective eyes and see the abhorrent terror in my own, "Ladies, I'm going to do a round, stay outside."
And I'm partially dragged out of my own home.
"Why are you half naked, muchacha?" asks my caretaker, her tone reprimanding almost.
In a time like this, the least of my worries, and hers, should be this! Words usually stream fluidly from my mouth but right now, I've worked up some sort of speech impediment, "Noah, he…happened! Noah fuck…fucked me over! He destroyed Abuelita's dishes!" My voice reaching levels unknown to man, "He…he broke…me! Mama, he left me! I can't think, I can't move, I can't breathe…it hurts."
And every time after the alien's reveal, I'd tell myself that I wouldn't cringe or shake or jump when it'd pop up again: what a lie that was. I'd duck under a blanket, behind a pillow, slap a hand over my eyes every damn time. No matter how many times that damned alien snuck on screen, it didn't make it less horrifying. It was still cornering the crew members. It was still slicing and dicing them left and right. It was fear but also a sense of helplessness wafted through me when that poor woman was cornered.
Unlike that woman though, I loved and love the monster. He's kept me alive to live in fear and that's worse than dying. He's lurking in my shadow, waiting to catch me unexpectedly. The bastard tore down my safe haven to instill fear and a message that I'd be safe nowhere. He knows my weaknesses, my fears.
Her arms engulf my entire being, like she's hearing my inner thoughts. I struggle and I fight, "Why the fuck should my tits half being out matter when I'm a fucked bitch?"
After a couple of the most grueling moments, the bleach blonde appears in the hall with no sign of seeing evil. I'm sedated enough; I manage to say, "I am so very thankful for all that you've done, considering you don't even know me. I'm also sorry about earlier. I'm just…" I exhale, "I'm just shaken up."
He acknowledges, almost bashfully, it with a simple nod, his unkempt hair falling around his eyes, "It wasn't anything, really. Anybody who has some morals wouldn't stand by."
"I can't thank you enough either. This is my little girl," Rosa squeezes me, but all I'm fiending for is a rock to crawl under. She sends a tight lipped smile at the boy, "How about you come over to my little, humble abode and share a meal with Marleene and me before I ship her away? You look like you could use a good plate of Caldo de Camaron."
To my relief, the boy with the Pepsi tattoo declines. Something about it being late and how he still has to search for his sister's house. According to him, he's from around here but hasn't visited in a long minute. Bullshit to my ears! Then again, I'm not feeling for a conversation filled meal.
But, God be damned, my surrogate mother pushes on! Fucking Mexicans and their hospitality…, "I'm not even trying to be that guy, but I'm gonna be driving around without GPS or a map. Plus, I'm trying to surprise my sister, Mackenzie, before somebody opens their mouth about me."
"Brooks, Schiller, or Jones?" I blurt out before my brain can catch on.
There's only three girls with that name around the area, one of them happens to be my best friend…who happens to have a brother…who always phones her in the middle of our nightly talks…who also hasn't been in the picture for years.
"Come again?"
My nails scratch my palms; this annoyance of having to repeat myself is like an itch. I didn't stutter but whatever, "Is your sister the pregnant one, a lesbian, or a coke head?" I hiss as Rosa whacks my shoulder, "What? If his sister is Micks, I'm flying there anyway," I nearly bite Mama's head off. Understand me, I'm surviving and if I don't abandon this infested spaceship, I'm as good as dead. I turn back to Phil, "If she's a merry little pregnant girl with a kid, Dominick, and a husband who's deployed overseas, I will help you get there in exchange for a ticket to ride."
As if my desperation wasn't enough, he scours the clusterfuck of shit around him, and back at me, "I'll help you pack."
"Wait...is that a calson tied around your hand? Why is it caked in blood?" again with these irrelevant questions...,"Is that blood on Emmy's shirt too?" I facepalm as my new - ex - neighbor looks on with a ghostly little smirk on his face, "Marleene, dame una respuesta!
-ΔΔΔΔ-
Teetering the skids, often, when it comes to making decision, I find that it's like a rare disposition. Most of the time, I make up my mind on the spot without further consideration which always leads to resentment. I mean, if I'd used at least a fourth of my brain, instead of thinking out of my ass, I'd easily evaded this burdened affliction!
The pinnacle of my ass-hattery might have been at the very beginning of forever: three years ago.
Before the residential contract was set in stone, I'd been rummaging through the last of my belongings. Such a feeling of euphoria withered throughout my body. On some serious shit, my lips were stuck in a perpetual smile for the past seven weeks.
Any who, the old man had come around, cared not much for small talk though, which wasn't much of a surprise. He'd gotten straight to the nitty-gritty: was this move towards independence with Noah really my endgame? The question didn't need spoken words, we both knew it. And you know, Pops didn't rage out, throw a curveball my way, or even try to implement doubt in me. With a candid blessing and hug, he dropped the news that he was uprooting his life and planting it out in Maryland: taking the fam-bam with of course.
"Ya sabes, mija, my house will always be a refuge when you need one," he'd pinched my cheek, like he would when I was a kid, "Siempre seras my little borreguita." In that moment, my beer-bellied Pop's acceptance made it seem worth it, like I was ready.
But showing up in Maryland with my tail between my legs would be a fatal stab to my pride. Perhaps my dad would expect it. Hell, he's been expecting it, but he'd go on a witch hunt once news of the three-hit fight catches wind and I can't have that.
If only this epiphany had come sooner…
Correlating with ass-hattery and being a dumbass, it has dawned upon me that I'm about to spend twenty minutes with a complete stranger. Sure we're on a first name basis and shared some small talk whilst fumbling around my apartment but that's it. My memory is a blank slate: no recollections, no sense of familiarity, or nothing. He doesn't even sound like the brother that always calls This cat could be en route to pulling a Ted Bundy!
It's not polite to assume but…holy shit! Why didn't I think of that before? This heroic act, gentleman schtick…Ted fucking Bundy. This is some movie shit, "Holy shit!" I squeak, halfway stumbling over my two feet.
The man under heavy suspicion twists around, "Trouble?" the hairpin curve of his lips looking every bit the word.
Cringing, "Yeah," I tug the collar of my burly, borrowed sweater and pass off a cool laugh, "I'm good, no worries."
The quirk of his shaped brow sends me something that reads like, 'Yeah, right'. Another fleeting second passes before he relieves me of my rolling luggage, "For being 'good', you don't half as hot," the singe creeping up my neck has already touched base with my cheeks. "At least you have some color now. You've been carrying a shade of pale. You aren't seconds away from passing out, are ya'?"
Back in grade school, I made it a goal to weasel my way into the nurse's whenever and however I could. I'm no Grand Master of Deceit but I gained a set of adequate acting skills. So, this is my time to put them to work, "Actually I am…" but he seems so genuine. Those eyes, God, they couldn't deceive anybody. Seriously, there's a certain thing about them and how expressive they are.
"Okay, hold on. Let me put some of this down. You're 'bout to face plant, I can tell," Did I mention, he's juggling a couple boxes of my shit?
"No!" I boom. He blinks, bewildered by my outburst, "I'm peachy. Its cold, maybe a little dense, and the shock…it's still if full effect. I'm fine, really," I add a toothy smile for an extra measure.
Another weary stare before swiveling around, "Sure."
A variety of grunts and murmured cuss words float around in the background as the man's busies himself with the loading and I poise myself against this rusty, four-door sedan, per his orders.
The run of the mill building was a place where I built my entire life around. Between Noah and me, we'd daydream of the many afternoons our kids would spend raising hell at the park just across the street. One of us would attempt to go down the slide as the other would push another kid as high as the swing set would permit. Noah would race our kid to the front door and I'd carry the drained one. Our ridiculously curly-haired girls would sit atop a bed sheet and play tea party in the grassy front of the building as our all Mexican-American boys wrestled around over their shared soccer ball.
Shoulders drooped, I sigh. All that remains is a barren wasteland free of rascals, but littered with autumnal colored leaves and men's undergarments.
A hand deftly clamps down on my shoulder riling up a frivolous squeal. My soul, oh my poor soul, damn near propels itself somewhere out into the heavens. I glare at Phil, half as embittered, "You spaced, damn." I shimmy, his hand falls, "You're shaking, girl. What's up with you?" well shit, he's gone from Ted Bundy to playing Dr. Phil!
"I'm just thinking…" and boy, it kills.
He scratches his chin, "Yeah, you women tend to do that…a lot." I scoff, "It's true!" I roll my eyes. He chuckles, "Denial!" he taps the top of the sedan, for a second I fear it'll fall apart, and says, "C'mon, let's get a move on." he opens the passenger door for me.
"Are you really Mackenzie's brother?" I blurt.
Time and space halt. My saliva dissolves; my fingers start to clam up. What if I've caught him up? He's reaching into his pocket, what if he's gonna shank me? That shit would hurt like a bitch! Check out the number on my back, he'd have to resort to some frontal action. I'd definitely be visiting the ER. Fuck, why? Why did I ask? I'm so dead, so, so dead.
Oh my god, he's pulling out…his wallet, "Un-bunch your little panties, get some color 'cus I am her brother," he flips open his tattered wallet and streams through various pictures of Micks and her kiddo, "I left like a decade…? Yeah, a decade ago and came back for a few hours back in '02, I believe."
Color me embarrassed and proclaim me the feminized Kool-aid Man. All along, he knew… I slap my hands, a tad too hard, on my face. Through slits, I can make out another smirk; I swear they're like a trademark.
"I am so sorry, Phil." A quirky, wheezy laugh blows through my lips, "It's just, I'm like a face detector…yours, I don't… and then Noah…I'm kinda weary," can I, please, shut my face? I'm blubbering on like I'm brainwave-challenged, "I'm just going to get into this car and we're going to pretend like I didn't put any feet in my mouth, okay? Okay."
This is cringey-gold and he's gonna be laughing all the way to the bank.