3:47. 3:47. 3:48. It’s the early hours of the morning and standing in the dimly lit kitchen staring at the clock on the microwave, repeating the time in my head as it slowly moves forward. Each minute feels like an eternity, how long have I been standing here?
I don’t feel the cold of the tile floor on my bare feet anymore, instead I feel the slight burn you get when you stand in one spot for too long. I ignore it and try not to break my focus. 3:53. 3:53. 3:53. I’m staring straight ahead, repeating the time and desperately trying to avoid what’s in my peripheral vision.
To my right is a wooden knife block, a house warming gift from my mother. It’s a light brown block with 6 black and silver knives placed in their respective slots. The front says “Rachael Ray” on a silver plaque, which is reflecting the light peaking in the window from the neighbors back porch.
I’ve thought about this knife set non stop for two months. Staring at the shiny silver blade of the cutting knife while I prep dinner. Peering over my laptop at the tips of the handles while I try to work in the kitchen. I’ve been haunted by this mundane kitchen accessory, but to my left is something much more sinister than a TV chefs cheaply made merchandise.
I cant see him but I can hear him. “Do it, do it, do it” is coming from a low familiar voice next to the refrigerator. I can tell by the inflection in his voice that he’s talking through that wide mouthed grin I hate. Why is he always so pleased with himself? I’m not looking in his direction, but the image of his smug smile is burned into my brain.
I can see those crooked yellow teeth in my eyes somehow, despite the numbers on the microwave clock being all that’s in front of me. 4:12 4:13 4:13, don’t look. Ignore him and he will go away, right? But the voice gets louder, and my hands start to sweat. I break. I glance to my left and see the black dress shoes he always wears slowly swinging in front of me.
He’s sitting on top of the refrigerator looking down at me. Hes about 6’7 so his head is bent to the left and pressed uncomfortably up against the ceiling, squishing one side of his face so hard that his eye is shut.
He’s wearing his signature black suit without a thread out of order. Guess he can afford a tailor but not a dentist. His mouth is wide with joy and he doesn’t break his smile while his voice continues. “do it, do it, do it”. I start to cry.
I quickly turn my head back to the clock, 4:20, but its too late. I hear the sound of his shoes hitting the floor and feel the air shift as he walks towards me. I’m standing in the same spot, crying, sweating, rocking back and forth to ease the pressure on my feet. I feel his hand touch my shoulder and it’s almost comforting until I smell the distinct scent of rotting flesh and decay coming from his mouth.
I hear his voice in my left ear whispering to me “do it, do it, do it.” I know exactly what he wants.
I get a sudden rush of adrenaline and lunge forward to grab the knife block off the counter. I cradle it in my arms as I turn around to look at him. He’s jumped on top of the kitchen island behind me in a squatting position. Feet on the counter but legs bent completely at the knees so hes not towering over me. Hes bouncing up and down like a toddler who was just told he could open one birthday present early. If he started to clap his hands it would almost be funny… but it isn’t and im not laughing.
He has his hands on his knees, bouncing with excitement and his smile now takes up over half of his face. I can see every rotten to the gum tooth in his mouth and I swear he has 600 of them. “Do it, do it, do it” hes saying from behind his smile so fast that I almost can’t understand him. Hes drooling with excitement and its collecting in a small puddle at his feet but he doesn’t seem to notice.
We are staring at each other, his disgusting puddle of spit is now flowing off the island onto the kitchen floor. Hes drooling like a dog begging for a treat. I know exactly what he wants. But not today. I turn around and fling the back door open so hard it bounces off the wall and back into my arm. I throw the knife set into the backyard and watch them scatter across the grass, scaring the rats back into the alley.
The air from outside feels good on my sweaty skin and the smell of grass eases the stench stuck in my nose from his breath. I don’t want to turn around, I know he isn’t happy. That isn’t what he wanted. There’s silence in the kitchen now, I don’t hear his voice or the dripping sound of his ever-accumulating collection of saliva. Hes angry and I know it. Fuck it. I cant stand here staring at the chipping paint on the door all night. I turn around.
Hes inches from my face, and hes not smiling. Hes wearing an almost theatrical frown. I can’t see his teeth anymore but seeing him angry might be worse. His lips are turned all the way down his face and his eyebrows are so crossed it looks like the skin on his forehead might rip. Hes breathing rapidly through his nose and I can feel the air on my face. I’m waiting for him to reach out and grab me by the throat. I can feel how badly he wants to hurt me.
We are standing there staring at each other for what feels like an hour when the hall light upstairs turns on. “What are you doing” a voice from upstairs calls down to me. I can hear the cats jump off the bed ready to investigate the commotion. “Nothing, just grabbing some water”. I slowly walk around the man as his head follows me the whole way, keeping the frown on his face and clenching his fists in anger. He lost tonight. But ill see him again.