#31

Maybe the police were right… but maybe not. My fear had been replaced by rage. Boil the pet bunny rage. Off-with-his-dick rage. Murderous rage. Or maybe I’m just being melodramatic. Still, if I really want to do what I really feel like doing, now’s the perfect opportunity… because I wasn’t here. 

[Author’s note: I’m sorry to disappoint those readers who were hoping for a bloody massacre: Clare wasn’t actually concealing a chainsaw under her coat.]

#30

It was the police. A neighbour had complained about the noise. I guess enough of Hurricane Clare’s aftermath was visible from the door that one cop asked Clare and David to go outside with him. Ken told the other one everything, although by everything, I mean his lying shit of a version of everything: he had an affair, separated from his wife, they went to counselling, he broke it off with me and was planning to move back home, Clare had come tonight looking for me. He didn’t know why she thought I would be here. Our split had been amicable, and he hadn’t seen me in over three weeks. Clare’s and Ken’s stories must have agreed enough that the police didn’t think anyone was in danger, and eventually they left.

[Author's note: I am also borrowing against tomorrow's allotment of words for this one.]

#29

“I told you I wasn’t seeing her anymore Clare. How are we going to make this work if you won’t believe me?”

“I know, I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to  trust you after everything that’s happened.”

“Remember what Sheila…” 

Someone knocked on the front door. 

#28

Failing to look up is an oversight shared by many, it seems. Maybe it’s some ancient fear about exposing our throats, like animals won’t roll over on their backs and expose their bellies unless they feel safe. Or maybe Clare did look up but dismissed the notion that anyone would choose such an inaccessible hiding place. Regardless, I heard her say, quietly in comparison to her previous rants, “Shit.”

[Author's note: Hostile readers are kindly requested to refrain from issuing death threats, or from attempting to browbeat the author by cancelling lunch dates, etc.]

#27

The mayhem seemed to go on and on, but cowering in a dark place may distort one’s perception of time. And then suddenly time stopped—at the same instant my adrenal glands and heart went into overdrive—when [Author’s interjection: drum roll please] the closet door opened and I heard the swoosh of hangers sliding on the rack. 

#26

It sounded like, from the sounds of slamming and banging and breaking and swearing below, that the bag holding Clare’s anger had been ripped open and the contents were spilling out everywhere. I pictured Ken and David standing back like my friend and I that day, helpless to do anything but watch until the force had spent itself.

#25

I once helped a friend to install a clothesline in her backyard. It was one of those ones that has a central pole. To secure it, she wanted to dig a hole in the ground for a block, put the pole in the block, and then fill the hole with concrete. At the store it was suggested we buy “instant” concrete... basically a product where you add water and pour the mix from the bag. The instructions failed to mention—or maybe they mentioned, but failed to emphasize—how aggressively the product would expand once the water had been added. We managed to pour the amount we needed into the hole, but there was no way to confine the remaining product to the bag. Because we hadn’t made a contingency “dump the relentlessly expanding excess concrete here” plan, we had to abandon the bag on the lawn and stand well back as a temporary patio formed around it.  

#24

David started crying—caterwauling was more like it—a split second after Clare’s outburst. I assumed that masked the sound of the glass breaking, because Clare continued to shout, “Where is she? Where the fuck is she?” 

[Author’s note: Readers are kindly requested to refrain from posting inflammatory or defamatory comments.]

#23

“Four David, four!” Clare shouted, so loudly that it caused my muscles to spasm. I dropped the glass of wine.

#22

“David, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t ‘member what comes after three.”

#21

“Yeah! ‘kay, close your eyes.” David started counting, enunciating each syllable.

“One al-li-ga-tor… two al-li-ga-tor… three al-li-ga-tor…”

Then he stopped.

Author's note: The seemingly astute reader may suspect the author at this point of dragging out the story in a desperate attempt to make it to January 31. If so, you’d be DEAD (possibly due to a chainsaw-wielding wronged wife) wrong.This pacing is a crucial plot device. 

#20

“Alright, but be quick. We want to start looking, right?”

#19

“I wanna count to 10.” David’s voice had increased in pitch and it trembled. I pictured his face crumpling in that way that children’s faces do when they’re about to cry, or at least when they want any adults in the vicinity to think they’re about to cry.

#18

“But I wanna count!” David said.

“OK, but how about just to 5 then?”

#17

After which she added, although silently to herself out of respect for David’s tender age, That’s no lady - that's daddy's whore!

[Author’s note: The astute reader will notice a potentially troubling shift in point of view here. If you do have trouble with this, please direct your complaint to Sabine. She “suggested” I insert this, which I took as a threat to “disappear” me, as she has done to Mark, if I didn’t.]

#16

“No David, remember I told you we’re looking for a lady? She’s already hiding, so we don’t need to count. Daddy can help us look for her too.”

#15

“Yay! Daddy you hide. Mommy and me will count to 10.”

#14

I heard more footsteps going down the hallway. “OK David, it’s time to play hide and seek like I promised. You and I are going to be it."

#13

Daddy? 

Sometimes I hear people say they’re speechless, which makes me feel they're prone to hyperbole and melodrama. But in this case I really did feel that if I were to try to speak no words would emerge, I was that gobsmacked. 

#12

I heard another door open, although this time the sound was muffled.

“Daddy!” 

#11

I told myself I was being ridiculous. What was the worst that could happen? Even if Clare did find me, there was no way she was going to kill me… this was real life, not a story with a twisted plot. 

[Author’s note: Did I mention that Clare is concealing a chainsaw under her coat?]

#10

In high school we had to read a short story called the “The Most Dangerous Game.” It’s about someone who falls off a boat and swims to an island owned by a man who hunts and kills the unfortunate people who somehow end up there. While reading the story I remember feeling a terror similar to what I imagine someone would actually experience in that situation. I felt the same way now. 

[Author’s note: Writing this on the fly may not be the best strategy. I just realized that the person in the attic shouldn’t know who David is either, so I added something to #7. There may be more of these notes in future.]

#9

I could hear someone going down the hallway. It must have been Ken, for Clare sounded like she was standing right below me when she said, “He’s going to help me look for her. I know she’s here.”

#8

“What? What the fuck, Clare… why? Are you crazy?”

#7

“Took you long enough… hmm, I wonder why. David’s at the back door,” Clare said.

Who’s David? I thought.

#6

The slow inhales and exhales helped, briefly, but then I heard the front door open. 

#5

I closed the hatch. This had been part of the drills, but afterwards I would open it immediately and life would get back to normal. This time I would be confined up here for who knows how long. I took a few deep breaths to try and counteract the feeling of being trapped in an avalanche of darkness.

#4

By this time the knocking had become pounding. “Open the goddamn door, Ken.”

“I’m coming,” he yelled.

#3

I opened the door to the hallway closet and pushed the coats to one side while Ken got the stepladder from the back bedroom. Once he had it in place I climbed to the top rung, pushed the hatch up and back, pressed my forearms down on either side of the opening, swung my left foot back and braced it against the top of the door frame, and hoisted myself into the attic. Before I closed the hatch Ken climbed the ladder and handed me my glass of wine.

“You could have topped it up,” I whispered.

[Author’s note: I have no idea if this manoeuvre would have the desired effect. Unfortunately, I don’t have an attic hatch in a closet to try it out on.]

#2

He jerked his head toward the ceiling. I understood the signal, we had gone through the drill several times. I wasn’t convinced of the need for it, but Ken kept stressing how unpredictable Clare could be. 

A melodrama in 31—or possibly fewer—parts (#1)

Someone was knocking on the front door. Ken dimmed the lights and parted the curtains slightly. It wasn’t a vacuum cleaner salesman, a Jehovah’s Witness, or a dead person whose mangled corpse had been reanimated through the magic of a mummified monkey’s paw. Any of those would have been preferable to the person whose name he silently mouthed when he turned to face me: Clare.