She hummed, tunelessly, turning the knife over in her sweaty palms.
Selena sat alone, in the dim living room, crouched in a corner. The clock over the mantle ticked-and-tocked, telling her that time hadn't actually stopped. Of course, she couldn't make out the exact time, so she had no idea if she'd been hiding in the corner an hour, or a few minutes. Either way, time felt irrelevant.
Simon's truck roared up to the front of the house. She swore under her breath, amping herself up. The clock kept ticking away; after a while, she started to think she'd imagined the lights, and the diesel engine. She poked her head up, like a meerkat, over the arm of the couch. Nothing; no sign of life. She scooted to the window, keeping low; keeping the knife ready.
After a week of nights like this, she was surprised to see the truck, empty. Usually, if Simon stalled, it was for a joint, in the cab of his 4x4. Usually, he'd be calmer, after that kind of thing. Less likely to throw her about the rooms, breaking what little she had left from her family. Simon had driven off her daughters, both in their late teens; Shirley and Annette had fled to their father's, accusing Simon of leering at them, and pawning their shit. “Mom,” they always said. “Why do you let this asshole run your life?”
I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW...
“Mom, why don't you just leave? He won't find you, if you go live with Grammy,” Annette had said, during her last check-up phone call. All that Selena could muster was a weak, “But, I love him.” “That's not enough, and you know it; the dude fucking wails on you, if you don't make him meatloaf on Tuesdays, for fuck's sake,” Annette hissed, on the verge of hanging up.
“Why do you love him, anyway? The guy is a total creep, Mom,” Shirley had asked, on the day that she'd packed up and left. Selena had shrugged, holding the door, while she watched Shirley labor her way to Thom's awaiting car. He didn't come out; he didn't need to. His presence seemed enough. He watched her, in the front seat, saying nothing, not helping Shirley; he just waited, and watched. The most movement he made was adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. “I'd never have done this to you, Sel,” his gaze seemed to say. Ah, yes. But, you never loved me, Thom; you loved the idea of me.
Away they went, her daughters. Her mother passed away, shortly after Simon had demanded that she cut off contact; her mother had developed cervical cancer, and had withered away, without her. She thought of her mother, alone in a bed; still, she couldn't spot Simon, out in the yard. Her eyes darted up and down the quiet street. Finally, she saw him, coming out of Paulie's house. Paulie, the drug dealer. Ah, what would he want her to take with him, tonight?
She shuffled back to her position behind the couch.
Tonight, things were going to change. It was either her, or him; one of them had to die, in order for the other to move on. She was hoping that the odds were in her favor; maybe Simon'd be drunk, imbalanced. Maybe he'd be disoriented by her, popping out of the dark.
After a week of hiding behind the couch, this was the first time she'd taken one of Simon's skookum kitchen knives in to her niche. It felt too-light. Sure, it was sharp, and long, but would it work?
A few footfalls began making their way up the small entryway staircase. The door clicked, as the lock turned. Tick, tick, tick. The clock refused to give in to the timelessness she felt. The door swung open, and Simon stepped in, without a pause. He flicked on the light, and spotted her, huddling behind the couch.
“Well now,” he cooed. “Ain't that a mighty odd place for you to be?”
