by E A Owen
“I agree completely. Every action, every thought brings about its own corresponding consequence.”
“And, according to laws of nature, one must pay for all their actions. Do you think karma is blind chance, pure accident, or do we get what we deserve?”
“Some people may think it could be a little bit of each, but I don’t believe things happen coincidently. I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, whether we understand it at the time or not.”
“I get where you’re coming from, but do you truly believe that the victims of the murder victims—let’s say, for instance, the little boys who Stephen Howard raped—that it happened to them for a reason? Did they deserve it? Or are there things we just don’t understand? Or maybe some people are so corrupt and evil that they defy the laws of nature?”
“Maybe someone close to them is being punished.”
“Why not punish them?”
“Maybe the only way to make them suffer is to hurt or take away someone they love. Some people could care less if you hurt them. They have the attitude of do whatever you want to me, but, if you lay a finger on so-and-so, you’ll pay the price.”
“I get that. I see where you’re coming from. But you still don’t have me convinced.”
“What don’t you understand? Everything happens for a reason, Trevor. Everything!”
Girls Night Out
I walked onto my porch, sat my coffee on the end table, and climbed into my red hanging hammock lounger to peacefully admire the sunrise. It was my favorite seat to read in and, of course, watch the sunrise. I had the same chair on my back patio to enjoy the sunset, except that chair was blue.
A slight breeze caressed my skin as the leaves rustled in the wind, carrying the tantalizing aroma that perfectly captures the calming scent of lilacs and lavender. Studies proved that lavender slowed the heartbeat, relaxed muscles, and reduced stress, as for the reason I had a lavender oil diffuser in my bedroom when I slept. At times like these, it was essential. My anxiety and stress had been through the roof. A night out in town might be in order, to let loose and have some fun. I acted so serious all the time. I needed to defuse before I went bananas. But who should I call?
My only friend had moved across country, and I hadn’t seen her in years. But who was I kidding? She hated me; she wanted nothing to do with me. The girls at the office were always an option. I’d meant to treat them to Happy Hour, with plenty of drinks and appetizers. My favorite was the sampler, with quesadillas, potato skins, mozzarella sticks, and boneless buffalo wings. Just thinking about it made me hungry.
I took a sip of coffee, burning my lips. I laid back and enjoyed the lovely view while I finished my cup of coffee. I meandered to the kitchen and threw together a nice breakfast with two fried eggs over-medium, two slices of crispy bacon, hash browns, and a slice of toast with homemade raspberry jam.
Sitting alone at the table in silence made me feel sad and lonely. I was twenty-three years old; I should be partying and going out to the bar every night. Or settling down in a relationship and talking about having a baby. But, instead, I have a boring life—the same daily routine: go to work, come home to an empty house, and read in my little nook. I don’t hang out with friends. I don’t date. I don’t go to bars. I’m pathetic.
I stood from my tiny kitchen table and brushed the crumbs from my plate into the trash. Being the clean freak that I am, I refused to let dirty dishes sit in the sink. I turned the faucet and filled the sink with the dirty dishes from breakfast.
As much as I enjoyed my time alone, I sometimes wondered what it felt like to wake up every morning next to someone. I gazed out the window, daydreaming. I wondered what it would be like to cook for someone, to have meaningful conversations with, to tease and laugh at each other, that special someone to vent to and have a shoulder to cry on—a best friend and a lover.
I shrieked. Water splashed onto the floor and all over the front of me. I quickly turned off the faucet and drained some water. I shook my head, trying to clear the ridiculous thoughts. I was a loner, always had been, always will be. No use daydreaming and thinking my life would be any different. It was useless.
I enjoyed my time alone. I didn’t answer to anyone but me. And better yet, I didn’t have to listen to someone complain that I read too much and needed to spend more time with them. Maybe, if I was happy, I wouldn’t escape into the depths of these pages and fantasize about an alternate existence, but the reality was, I loved reading.
My mind wandered with disappointment as I pondered the widespread access to videogames and screen time and fewer bookstores nowadays. Reading appealed less to children today, and some might have a negative stereotype of bookworms—a socially isolated loner sitting in a corner and reading while everyone played. I believed people who read a lot were intelligent, and it proved a great way to exercise the brain. Readers constantly followed plots and used vivid imagination. I also believed readers understood empathy by interpreting feelings, emotions, and the mental state of others. Reading could also improve memory. Reading and getting lost in a book held big cognitive benefits. And besides all the other benefits, I thought, most importantly, reading might be a great way to prevent Alzheimer’s disease. But why was I defending my reading habits or love for books? I had no one to answer to but me. If I ever have a child, I’d introduce them to the lovely world of books and the benefits of reading on our brain.
***
After a long ten-hour day and endless appointments, it was finally time to enjoy a night out with my staff to show my appreciation for all their hard work these past few months. I hadn’t anticipated how much business our teeth cleaning promotions would garner. The office was like a revolving door and was great for business and had most definitely built our clientele base. I learned it was all about having reasonable prices and not getting greedy. I still had a business to run, but making a ton of money was not my priority. I pay my staff well, and I still make good money.
We laughed and had a good time, but I hadn’t eaten much and felt a bit tipsy. I wasn’t about to lose my staff’s respect, so I switched to water and ordered another appetizer sampler to share.
I noticed an older gentleman sitting at a table by himself in the corner. He kept glancing in our direction. I tried not to pay much attention, but something didn’t feel right. He gave me the creeps. He was a tall, thin man with beady eyes and greasy hair, probably in his mid-fifties. His clothes were dirty and ratty, like he had worn them for years. He sat with an empty glass, glaring at me. I tried ignoring him, but his glares made me uneasy. I didn’t even want to make eye contact with the him.
“Is everything okay, Isabella?” Monica asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I shot her a fake smile, trying to hide my nerves. I approached the bar. “Could I please have a shot of Crown Royal apple?” I desperately needed something to help calm my nerves. Not sure if it would help, but it was worth a try.
The bartender grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and placed it on the counter then reached for the bottle behind him on the glass shelving against a long mirror. My nerves were written all over my face. No wonder Monica had asked if everything was okay. I raised my hands, covering my face, rubbing my eyebrows outward and down my cheeks, and stopping at my chin. I took a deep breath and exhaled.
The bartender finished pouring the shot, and I raised the glass to my lips and quickly tipped back my head and slammed the shot glass onto the counter. The liquor had a slightly tart, crisp-apple flavor, with notes of caramel and light spice, ending with a smooth finish of refined apple notes—just what I needed. The slight burn stretching from my lips down my throat was delightful as I licked my lips. I closed my eyes as my nerves subsided almost immediately.
I glanced in the corner of my eye and noticed the grungy gentleman no longer sat at the table. I sighed with relief and returned to the table.
“Is everything okay, Isabella?” Erica asked.
“Yeah, of course.” I smiled. “Did any
one see if the gentleman sitting over at that table left?” I pointed toward the table.
“What gentleman?” Sadie asked, scanning the bar.
“He was sitting right over there. He was dirty, had greasy hair and old grungy clothes.”
“I didn’t realize you were into those type of guys.” Sarah chuckled.
“No, no, no!” I rolled my eyes. “He just gave me the creeps. Kept looking over and staring at us, me in particular. Made me feel uneasy.”
“So that’s what was bothering you,” Allison said, slapping her forehead. “I never saw the guy. Did any of you?”
“No,” everyone replied, shaking their heads.
Something wasn’t right. How did no one see him except me? I approached the bartender. “Did the gentleman sitting at that table leave for the night?” I pointed at the empty table.
“No one sat there all night, ma’am.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, positive.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“So, what did the bartender say?”
“No one has been there all night.” I shrugged. “I must be going crazy.”
***
Finally home, I flipped on the switch, closed the door behind me, leaned back against the door and sighed. I swear I saw a man at that table staring at me. I’m not making it up, and I’m not going crazy. Or am I? I covered my face with my hands and took a deep breath.
I dropped my hands and saw the man from the bar standing on the opposite side of the room.
A machete protruded from his skull, blood streaming down his face. His wide and unblinking eyes bore into me.
I rubbed my eyes. He slowly raised his hand, pointing at me. I stood motionless, fear-stricken.
His arm remained extended, pointing at me, while a deep red puddle formed at his feet.
BANG!
Startled, I gasped. I whipped my head toward the sound. I quickly looked back at the man, but he was gone—vanished into thin air.
The Break-In
I hadn’t slept much in weeks. The man in my house had totally freaked me out. I still see him—machete, blood and all—every time I closed my eyes. He haunted my every thought, haunted my dreams. What did he want? What was he telling me, and why could I only see him? I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I didn’t know how else to explain it. Unless it was just my mind playing tricks on me.
I shook my head, vanquishing the disturbing image. I passed a mirror and stopped. My eyes looked tired—a ring of darkness around them, skin pale. I looked awful. At times like this, I wished I had sleeping pills. I’d ruled out therapists; they were all just a bunch of frauds. They pretended to know, but they have no clue. My only option was to buy something over-the-counter. I was desperate—maybe NyQuil?
Dr. Marshall came to mind. I hadn’t thought about him in months. That asshole had kicked me out of his office with no explanation. This no sleep thing allowed me to think more. I wondered if he had kept the recording from my last visit or if he had destroyed it. The only way I could be sure was to sneak in after closing. I needed to know what had been said. It must have been serious enough that he didn’t want to see me anymore. I must figure out a way to break-in. I didn’t want to just wing it and get caught, so I needed to really think this one through before I made a mistake I would regret.
Getting caught would open a can of worms. I needed to be smart about this.
***
The moon shone brightly against the blanket of darkness, casting shadows and an eerie silence. My footsteps echoed with every step. Crickets chirped in the distance. I had always preferred nighttime over the day—quiet and peaceful. The city slept at night, while daytime lured crowds, traffic, and lots of noise. I understood why Mary had loved small-town living. This time of night was the only glimpse of stillness I got.
Wearing only a thin jacket, I shuddered from the cool breeze and quickened my pace to keep warm. The glow from street lamps and traffic lights illuminated my way. Only a few blocks remained.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I gasped, eyes widened as I halted and slowly turned my head—but nothing was there. I continued to walk slowly with caution, glancing back every few steps. Nothing. Maybe I had imagined it; the night tended to play tricks on loners who traveled with nothing but their thoughts.
“Isabella,” a voice whispered.
I whipped around quickly. My gaze darted frantically in the darkness. It had sounded like the whisper had come from right behind me.
“Who’s there?” I hollered, scared.
“Go home,” it whispered louder.
“What do you want?”
“Go home,” the voice repeated.
“Why? I need to do this. I need to know.” A sudden feeling of dread overwhelmed my soul. My chest and stomach twisted and turned into knots.
Someone was warning me. Would something bad happen? Or would the file reveal something better left unknown? I second-guessed my decision to burglarize Dr. Marshall’s office. Would the unknown haunt my thoughts forever, or would the evidence I might uncover haunt me? Regardless, no matter what I decided, one would haunt me.
I needed to tread carefully. The voice was warning me; maybe I should listen. Or maybe the voice was just a figment of my sleep-deprived imagination. I played a tug-o-war with my thoughts. To do, or not to do? That was the real question.
I needed to know, regardless what I might discover. The anxiety overwhelmed me. I inhaled a deep breath and approached the main building door. I pulled the bobby pins from my jacket pocket and picked the lock. I looked behind me in both directions, making sure I was alone and no one was watching. I felt it unlock, and I pushed open the door and reached for my pocket flashlight.
I better be quick. A silent alarm may have already alerted the police. I bounded the stairs to the third floor. I wasn’t about to wait for the slow elevator I had ridden so many times when I was crippled.
I approached Dr. Marshall’s office and turned the doorknob. Locked. “Dammit!” I grabbed for the bobby pins again. My heart pounded in my chest; my hands shook, and I panted from running up two flights of stairs. I stuck the flashlight in my mouth, so I could see the lock better, and I dropped the bobby pins. My nerves got the best of me. Stumbling around, I felt for the pins on the floor.
“You don’t have time for mistakes. Pull yourself together, Isabella,” I said aloud.
I found the pins and tried again, holding my breath this time. I finally unlocked the door. I ran to the filing cabinet in the corner and pulled on the handle with no luck. “It’s locked too!” I let out a frustrated sigh.
I fumbled to unlock the filing cabinet but, with luck, got it immediately. I slid open the drawer, rummaging through the alphabetical files. Of course, mine started with W and was not in this drawer; it only went up to L. I crouched to the bottom drawer and unlocked it within seconds.
I better find it fast and get out of here before the police barge in and charge me with breaking and entering—a felony in the state of Virginia.
I yanked the handle, and it squealed loudly as the wheels gave resistance.
Something was behind me. I gasped, spun and shone the light around the room. I noticed moving feet on the couch behind Dr. Marshall’s desk. My eyes widened with fear. I turned back around and fumbled quickly through the files.
Found it. Isabella Williams. I grabbed it, eased the cabinet shut and stood. I turned around and yelped.
Dr. Marshall stood right in front of me, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing here, Isabella?”
I turned to flee, but he gripped my bicep.
“I can’t let you leave with that.” He ripped the file from my hands.
I clocked him square in the nose. His bone cracked under my knuckles, and warm liquid ran down my wrist.
He screamed, dropping the file as the papers scattered across the floor.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I need these.”
I gathered the papers together quickly. I stoo
d, looked at Dr. Marshall holding his nose in pain and ran out the door. I tripped down the stairs and rolled to the bottom. I clenched the folder to not lose any papers as I hit my head on the tile floor. I grunted and rubbed my head. I stumbled to my feet, trying to regain balance.
I ran down the next flight of stairs and out the front door not looking back, sprinting as fast as I could.
The Visit
It had been five days, and the police and Dr. Marshall had not called or knocked on my door. Maybe since I had stolen my own file, Dr. Marshall decided not to press charges.
I looked through my file, but, of course, I found no tape recording of our last visit nor any useful information. The last page stated that after the hypnotherapy, Dr. Marshall decided it was in his best interest to not see me anymore for personal reasons, due to information he had learned in our session. But, of course, he listed no explanation. It also stated that, in his professional opinion, I had symptoms of dissociative identity disorder. I wasn’t exactly sure what that means. The files also stated that I lost time and didn’t remember anything that happened during these times and why he felt it necessary to use hypnotherapy.
Stealing the file had not answered any of my questions. I needed to find that tape. And why would Dr. Marshall sleep at his office and not at home? Maybe he fought with his girlfriend, and he had decided to go to his office, which made the most logical sense, but I felt bad for breaking his nose, nonetheless. But I hadn’t expected him to be at his office after hours. If he hadn’t been there, I would have never hit him. I had been desperate; I needed that file.
I glanced at my phone—four missed calls from Dad and he had left a voicemail. I checked my voicemail. “Isabella, you need to call me as soon as you get this message. It’s urgent.” Click.
His tone concerned me, so I called him right back. “Hey, Dad. You called?”
“Bella, have you watched the news lately?”
“No. I haven’t turned on the TV in days. Why? What’s going on?”