“He was there.” I told Sheriff Alvarez, pointing to the small window in the bedroom. “Every night for the past week he’s been there. Watching us.”
My son Dylan and I had been sharing a bedroom for the past few weeks, not out of want, but out of necessity, and now he sat at the foot of his bed with a blank look in his eyes. He was frightened.
“I’ve told you before, Cutter, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Alvarez urged. He turned to his Deputy (Turner, I believe?) and shook his head in a pitiful way.
“That’s it? There’s nothing you can do?!” I yelled. The fact that the Sheriff’s Office could turn a blind eye to something like this over and over again made me irate. “What happens if next time he doesn’t just watch? What happens if he tries to get in?” The scenarios ran through my head like some grotesque slideshow now, each bloodier than the last. I was beginning to hyperventilate. “And if he does get in, what if he tries to—“
Sheriff Alvarez, who must have noticed the growing tone of resentment and fear in my voice, cut me off. “Alright, Cutter. Alright,” He sighed, “next time you see him, give us a call right away. Don’t wait until morning like you have been. I’m sure we can figure everything out from there.”
“Chief, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Deputy Turner asked Alvarez. He’d been quiet almost the entire time he’d been in the room. Of course he spoke up when some semblance of help was offered. Fucking cops.
Alavarez nodded and put his hand on Turner’s shoulder before standing up. The pair scanned the room briefly one more time and then disappeared through the bedroom door.
Fuck them. If the police weren’t going to protect us, I would.
Dylan left for breakfast shortly after. He’d be gone most of the day, so I had ample time to get ready. I didn’t want him to see what I’d have prepared for the man if he came back. Well, if he tried to get in. I thought that would’ve scared Dylan even more.
I couldn’t think of anything in my home that I could use as a weapon without some sort of modification, or materials which I didn’t have on hand, so I grabbed a few wooden #2 pencils from the desk in the corner of our bedroom. I worried that Dylan would see me sharpen them and understand exactly what they were for, so instead of using the pencil sharpener downstairs I ground them each to a point on the post of my bed frame.
Soon there were 5 dagger-tipped pencils in my possession. I hid 3 under my mattress and 2 under Dylans.
And then I waited.
I spent the rest of the day locked away in our bedroom, planning what I would do if the man did this or that. How I’d open him up if he tried to touch Dylan or myself.
Dylan came back just after sundown. He didn’t speak much, just hopped into his bed and pulled the covers up to his neck. Within half an hour I could hear him snoring softly.
I sat up, reached quietly under the mattress of my bed, and pulled out one of my pencils, gripping it tightly but also holding it out of Dylan’s view in case he woke up. For three hours I sat there, staring out the bedroom window, until I heard it.
Footsteps outside.
There would be a few—maybe eight or ten—and then silence. Each interval growing louder as he got closer.
Tonight felt different. The man wasn’t just going to watch us. I could feel it.
The footsteps boomed now. He was close. In moments he would be staring in through the window at us. And then he would—
Instinctively I jumped from my bed to Dylan’s, sharpened pencil still in hand, and grabbed him protectively. The abruptness scared him awake and he began to scream, torn somewhere between nightmare and waking. He wiggled against me, trying to break my grip on him, but I refused to let him go.
The footsteps outside quickened and then the man was at the window. He saw me and I saw him and, just as I suspected, he opened the door and came in.
I brandished the pencil at him with one hand while my other arm held the writhing, struggling body of Dylan.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I yelled at him, “leave us alone.”
“Whoa, whoa,” The man said in almost a whisper. He kept moving toward us slowly, one arm outstretched with an open palm on the end.
He was within striking distance now. If he took one more step I’d bury this #2 in his neck.
And he did just that.
I lurched from my position on the bed and stabbed at the man. He tried to catch my wrist but missed. The pencil buried itself right at the crook of his shoulder and neck. Blood spurted out, painting a deep red line on the white walls of our bedroom.
The man fell onto my bed, gurgling and grasping at the yellow-painted pencil jutting from his neck.
Dylan took the opportunity to run, but only to the corner of the room where he huddled into a ball and screamed.
I took another pencil from under Dylan’s mattress and began to poke holes in the man’s abdomen as fast and as I could, until the gurgling stopped and the man lay still.
And then Sheriff Alavarez and Deputy Turner were in the doorway. Alvarez in his set of white scrubs and Turner in his light blue, both wearing name tags where Sheriff’s badges should be, and both donning walkie-talkies around their hips.
I backed into the corner and tossed the pencil across the room, indicating I wasn’t a threat to them.
Turner checked on the man while Alvarez fastened a zip tie around my wrists.
“We need an ambulance and two more orderlies in 4B,” Alvarez shouted over the walkie, his voice trembling.
“Roger,” The crackle came back.
Alavarez got behind me and faced me in the direction of the wall. My nose touched the cool, white-painted cinderblock. He turned to Dylan, still huddled in the corner but no longer screaming, and said, “You okay, Mike?”
And then I heard Turner from somewhere behind me.
“I knew it wasn’t a good idea to play along, Chief.”