Page 58 of From the Shadows

Frazzled edges soften, but only just. There’s still an underlying discontent that holds my sympathetic nervous system in a chokehold. My heart feels fluttery, my limbs shaky, and my tummy… whew… that’s not on solid ground. I feel like the bottom is about to drop out and there’s nothing down there but a squirming, writhing pit of… worms.

I would love to blame the feeling on something as simple gas station sushi, but I’m smarter than that. There is no trust afforded or earned by gas station fish, vile serpents, or looking for happiness with other people.

While I’ve managed to completely avoid one, the other two slithered into my life, wreaked havoc, and did me dirty. I’d be so much better off if I’d stuck to the fantasy of Eddie. Kept the illusion of him as the main character in my story, in my clit-flick reels. Better to have loved and lost, my ass.

I reach out, extending my arm into the shower, and allow the water to rain down on my palm. The temperature is wrong, the spray pattern not quite right. Any satisfaction I thought I’d find washes down the drain, leaving me barren. Desolate. Forlorn.

Bereft.

Good God, I’m extra dramatic today.

I roll my head along the wall until I see soft terrycloth dotted with little ladybugs and yank it from the towel bar. I dry my hand, climb to my feet, and close the taps.

Enough is enough.

I can call out of work since I’m the boss—landscaping-wise, anyway—and go tootle around in my yard, the sun be damned.

I strip out of my coveralls and pull on shorts instead. My straw hat is hanging on its peg by the back door, and my bright yellow rubber boots sit next to the miniature ladybug versions I bought for Evie.

Even if I threw out everything I bought for her so she’d be comfortable at my house—in my home—there’s no erasing her from my heart.

… Jesus. It’s been one day. One day, and I’ve gone full lamentations and catastrophizations.

I shove my feet into my boots, plop the hat on my head, and open the back door only to stop dead in my tracks.

I don’t know what hits me first, the sight, the sound, or the stink. Musk, oily and dank, sits heavy in the air as factions of vile fucking creatures seemingly set up lines of demarcation outside my house.

These are not friendly species, to me or each other, and they seem really unhappy. Really fucking unhappy.

Slowly, steadily, I swing the door closed only for one of them to coil and strike at the motion. The scream that rushes from my lungs is enough to curdle blood, the blood that very angry fucker’s venom would gladly make into soup.

But I’m safe. The door is closed.

They’re out there, and I’m in here.

I stare at the door expectantly then reach out slowly, carefully, to flip the lock.

A tongue flickers between the door and frame, the motion small, a scaly snoot rocking and pushing through the space near the floor.

My heart…

My house.

I can’t let this thing in here, I fucking can’t. I fight my rising nausea and step back. I reach blindly around the corner, not willing to lose sight of my nemesis, and wrap my fingers around the butcher block. One may not be enough, so I carry the block full of high-end chef’s knives to the scene of what is to become a crime. Because blood is about to be spilled, and I don’t intend for it to be mine.

The knife is perfectly balanced, fits my hand like it was made for me, yet feels completely wrong for this task. I have a sliver of a space, a narrow target to hit that is moving and threatening and wants to exact its revenge on me and claim my domain.

I pull a breath deep into my lungs, hold it for a count of two, and then expel it. It’s just enough to calm the tremble in my hand. I watch the tongue flicker, flicker, flicker and when the bastard pushes his scaly nose through the weatherstripping, I strike.

And miss.

A long gash in the finish of my door marks my failure, but not my shame. It’s not like this is something I do every day. Generally, the blood is done spilling by the time I’m called in.

Another flick of that tongue is marked by a thump on the outside of the door. If I were a brave woman, I’d step up to the window and peer out to assess the situation. Alas… that is not in my bag of tricks today. I select the next knife from the block, this one is smaller than the big chef’s knife because why would I have two of those? There’s never been a need until now, but if I make it out of this alive, I’m buying a gross.

Flicker, flicker… and skoosh comes the nose. I strike again, this time hitting the steel door squarely and breaking the tip off the blade.

Mother fucking wombats doing cartwheels at a rave, I can’t fucking do this. I can’t. How do people have these things for pets? How do they dance with them in a church and call it religion? And I call bullshit on the whole claim of they’re more scared of humans than we are of them. Fucking no.