Tempest

Mar 22, 2008 - 04:30 AM PST

Sheila, where are you?, Ray’s voice booms in Sheila’s head over the sound of the rain falling in driving torrents against the roof of the small house.

Sheila doesn’t answer as she shoves open the door and lurches into the small bedroom. She flips on the light and closes the door behind her with a thud that pounds into the back of her head, making her cringe momentarily. She stumbles across the old wood floor, trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid the planks she knows squeak. She wobbles to a halt in front of the left bedside table, listening for a sound from the room below, but the rain pounding against the roof in time with the overpowering pounding of her heart makes it difficult to hear. She thinks she hears a door bang open somewhere below and grasps the handle on the old wooden stand, pulling the drawer open.

She isn’t surprised by the nudey magazine sitting on top of the pile of items in the drawer and quickly tosses it aside. There are some other items of little interest thrown haphazardly into the drawer; a couple condoms, KY lubricant, Ray’s badge, batteries, and all the other usual junk, but not the one item she needs. She slams the drawer closed in frustration and stops once more, listening for sounds from the rest of the house. She can’t hear a thing; the rain on the roof seems louder and more demanding, emphasized by the thunder that sporadically rumbles behind it.

Sheila suddenly has the uncanny feeling that, while distracted by her search through Ray’s bedside table, he’s sneaked up on her and is simply standing behind her now, waiting for her to turn around. She closes her eyes and tries to swallow down the lump that’s been lodged between the walls of her esophagus. She begins to panic, can’t breathe, can’t move, the room begins to spin around her. Tears well in her eyes and pour over her face, she has to look, can’t. The thunder pounds in her head, behind her eyes, the lights tremble, her hands shake, she feels nauseous. She needs fresh air to calm her, can’t get any, closes her eyes, turns.

She waits, eyes closed, lungs burning, heart throbbing, head pounding, swaying unsteadily on her shaky legs, but nothing happens. Cautiously she opens her eyes. The room is empty. Suddenly the lump in her throat is gone and fresh air floods in. She collapses to the floor in relief and lays there for a long moment sobbing and panting.

Pulling herself together, Sheila attempts to push herself off the floor, but stumbles and falls to her knees. Afraid her panic has cost too much time, realizing she still hasn’t heard a sound from the rooms below, she looks around the small, Spartan room, trying to figure out where he’s hidden the pistol. She spots his dresser against the far wall. Listening once more, but still hearing nothing, she shakes off the feeling of panic that is beginning to rise in her again and begins to crawl across the bedroom floor.

Reaching the dresser, Sheila pulls herself up the wooden façade to her feet. The reflection staring back from the mirror atop Ray’s dresser stops her in her tracks. Her face looks too pale, except the eggplant-colored bruise forming under her left eye, which, like the right, is bloodshot and sunken; her short hair’s a messy array of browns and blondes. She blinks, tearing her eyes away from the phantom glaring at her through the glass.

She pulls the top drawer open and fumbles through socks and underwear feeling for the hard metal of the 9mm Glock. Nothing. She slams the drawer closed, the sound like a gunshot in the night. She pauses, listens, wonders if he heard. She still can’t hear a sound from the rest of the house over the rain. She opens the second drawer and digs her way through t-shirts still unable to locate the gun.

Sheila, you up there? Ray’s voice calls suddenly from the stairwell.

Sheila doesn’t respond. Closes her eyes and leans heavily on the dresser to steady herself. She takes a deep breath and pushes the second drawer closed softly, trying not to alert him of her position anymore than she already has.

Come on down here; don’t make me come up there after you.

A shiver slowly climbs her spine one vertebrate at a time and she pulls the third drawer open with such force that it slides right out of the dresser and lands at her feet with a resounding thud, its contents scattering across the floor. Sheila staggers backwards and almost falls as shorts and pants land in tangled piles. She spots the item she’s been looking for as the Glock slides across the floor and comes to a stop just in front of the door.

Are you making a mess up there? I better not have to come up there and clean up after you.

Sheila can hear the stairs creaking as Ray begins to climb them. Paralyzed for a moment, Sheila almost forgets that the Glock is within easy reach. As she lurches forward to retrieve the gun a clap of thunder shakes the house to its foundations. The lights tremble for a moment before flickering out and painting the room in inky blackness.

Disoriented, Sheila trips over the drawer and falls heavily to the floor. She grits her teeth and swallows down the scream rising in her throat as the corner of the drawer digs into her left thigh.

Sheila? Rays voice booms through the darkness. It seems louder, closer, as if he’s standing right in front of her.

She can hear the creak of the stairs again as he gets closer and closer. She tries to remember where the gun was, but she’s all turned around, not sure which way to go. She feels too tired, doesn’t want to move anymore, but forces herself across the floor. A streak of lightning illuminates the room and Sheila realizes she’s moving in the wrong direction, not towards the gun, but away from it.

Come on Sheila, cut the crap. I’m so sick of this shit.

Sheila reverses her course, still all spun around in the dark bedroom. Ray is closer than ever, almost right outside the door. She tries to move quickly, but doesn’t want to pass the gun in her haste. She reaches, feels the cold metal at the tips of her fingers, wraps them around the barrel of the gun.

The door’s flung open into Sheila’s right shoulder. She slumps to the ground, losing her grip on the gun.

Another flash outside lights up the room and Sheila spots an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in Ray’s hand. She heaves herself forward clumsily, groping for the gun in the dark. She wraps the fingers of her right hand around the handle and falls onto her back, the gun pointed where Ray had been a moment ago.

Suddenly the room fills up with light and Sheila squeezes the trigger on the Glock.

Nothing happens.

I’m so glad I don’t keep that thing loaded, Ray says grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling it out of Sheila’s hand.

Please, Sheila whimpers covering her face with her hands, Please don’t hurt me Johnny.

Ray walks over and places the gun on the dresser kicking his clothes out of the way, the empty bottle still dangling from his hand.

I hope you plan on cleaning up this mess, Ray says indicating the drawer and clothes scattering the floor, and I’m Ray, remember?

Sheila pushes herself up off the floor, stumbles, and falls back to her hands and knees.

God, Sheila, you really need to stop hitting the bottle so hard, he says placing the empty whiskey bottle on the floor in front of her.