Narratives of the Phantom: Just A Glass

Just A Glass

He gives you a call at two in the morning. You can't help but think why this late—or even early. He invites you just for a glass of champagne, but you know for yourself it won't be just a glass, or even champagne. He was persistent and so you obliged. You already knew what to wear, a black satin nightgown underneath a beige, leather bomber jacket with cold, steel-plated buttons all over it.
You tiptoed through the dark, from your room, to the kitchen, to the main door of your house. You slid under the lights of the lampposts across the street, afraid that someone might see you other than him—hesitant but eager. You know that it's wrong, like you've always known, but you try to convince yourself each and every time that you were just doing him a favor.
And so you came, without a need to knock as the door has been unlocked, with a gap where you can freely sneak into without a sound. You have done this before, that is for sure, but what's not sure now is how you want it like before. You have always had second thoughts, but you do it anyway.
You tiptoed again, now on his floor, following the only lit portion of the house. You'd recognized all these, you knew where things were. You've been here before. As you gazed, you've planted your feet flat to the floor, seeing a familiar face once again. You took off your jacket and folded it firmly onto the kitchen countertop, all while making eye contact with him.
He let out a grin and signalled you to come closer with his four fingers pressed together. He welcomed you with a glass of champagne, too sweet and sparkling to celebrate. You took a sip and the next thing you knew, he was breathing right behind your ear. It was electric. It was fun. The silence could not justify the enjoyment you're in. You decided to finish the glass and take all of it upstairs—not the glass, not even the champagne.
You felt cozy with him behind you, his arms wrapped around yours as you entered his room. It feels wonderful just like the first time, you thought. And so, you decided to push down the thin straps of your black, satin nightgown to free yourself from any clothing. As you turned, he pushed you gently to his bed filled with soft cotton linen, unscented as he preferred it to be. He undressed on his own, his eyes locked in to your naked body. He was ready to dive in.
And as soon as he was on you, and in you, you felt cozy again, but this time with a tingling feeling. You never felt this before. For the first time, you felt afraid. But you shrugged it off. You're young and single, what could be wrong?
It was getting harder for you to move, and he was in deeper, and suddenly, you felt unhappy with all of this. "What is wrong with you?" you said. But then, there was heavy breathing. It was neither yours nor his.
Tension was already building up, you felt more uncomfortable now. You told him to stop and gently pushed his shoulders away. You asked him if he's able to hear it, the heavy breathing. He said not to bother, it was probably the air-conditioning. But then you suddenly heard weeping. What could it be? Who could it be?
And from the corner of the room, a creaking wheelchair emerged in the dark. Only a silhouette of a woman can be seen with one hand holding a trolley of an oxygen tank and the other with a machete, glaring its reflection with the light outside the open window.
The kiss distracted her, it was too sweet and too hard to resist, and it was only too late for her to see a raised machete up in the air, ready to strike its victim.
His eyes welled up, not able to say a single word. He only groaned for the machete that struck his back right in the middle. He was hit again, and again, and again, until his legs and thighs fell to the floor.
She was there, shaking and petrified. Her tears were flowing, and only the eyeballs could move. She heard it again, the gasp that took in air. The air for survival. The air for freedom from this infidelity. She knew there was nowhere she could go, with the rest of his weight on her and the shock that froze her on his bed. She could still feel him inside her, but she was not enjoying it anymore. The next thing she knew, she couldn't feel her hand. It's all because it was chopped off. And as she opened her eyes, there was blood everywhere. The wheelchair rolled closer with that slow, creaking sound again. There was a need to get a closer look. For you, she was the suspect to all of this, but for her, she was the victim. You looked straight at her direction, trying to find her eyes and talk her through it. You'd love to be spared from this slaughter. You'd thought to say that you didn't know he had a wife, but everyone in that room knew it's a lie. And just when you decided to open your mouth and say your proposition, you just couldn't say the words out right. The only sound left in the room was a gurgling flow of blood coming out of your slit throat.