electric

When the girls went in, they didn't come back out ever again. That was something she'd noticed. When the sun in the sky on the East Coast had sunk below the horizon, all the brilliant oranges and pinks long since having faded into deepest pitch, sometimes the crackle of rubber on asphalt and the soft purr of an engine pulling into the driveway opposite made her peel back a curtain. She'd slip two painted nails between two slats in the blinds and widen them just so, allowing herself only enough room so that her view would be unobstructed. Then, she would watch. Most of the time the act was the same, but sometimes not. He'd get out of the car first. This was the part that never changed. It was always him out first. Always. Next, he'd move to the back of the car, and open the trunk back there, or one of the back doors. This was where it could change. Typically, she would watch as he would lean into the car, and fumble back there for a moment. No, no. Not fumble. There was never fumbling. It was clear he knew what he was doing. A moment later, he'd heave a large, limp mass into his arms, those arms, so capable and so strong. Sometimes the mass would be small instead. Large or small, he'd carry it inside and that would be that. Occasionally, though, when he would lean into the car, he'd pull something out that would wriggle, and writhe, and struggle. His grip did not falter. As well as wriggling, the thing would make noise. Muffled well, but still audible. Shrieks and screams through something that wouldn't let the sound come out properly. Sobs and pleads desperate to fall on any ears but his. They always fell on hers; she was always listening, always watching. It helped them not. Like the limp mass, they too were taken inside by him and that was that. And so it had been a dozen or more so times; the girls went in, and they didn't come back out.

When this had started, she truly couldn't say. If she had to guess, she'd say long before she ever lived there. He was experienced at what he did, that was clear to her. The way the act was always the same, the way he never hesitated told her enough for her to deduce that he had been doing this, and getting away with it for a while. If chance hadn't happened upon her one night, and she didn't end up lucky enough to witness him at work the first time, she doubted she'd even have noticed anything at all. But she did notice, and ever since she first did, she hadn't stopped noticing.

That night, that first ever-important night, she'd been sitting by the window, the curtains drawn back, and the blinds angled wide so she could look out onto the street. It was night, or early morning, the air still throughout the sleepy little suburb that she'd recently come to know as home. The window was cracked open, allowing a gentle breeze, as well as the chirping of a cricket somewhere out there to come through. The cool air felt nice on her flushed face as she nodded and swayed and tapped her foot in her chair. Accompanying the sound of the cricket was the sizzle of a needle on spinning vinyl, an old love song playing quietly in the corner of the room. By this time, she'd already worked her way through a bottle of wine and had decided it was time to start on the stronger stuff. In her hand was a glass of gin, half drank, the alcohol slopping around inside as she moved drunkenly to the music. Her eyes had fluttered closed, and remained that way for some time as she lifted the glass to her lips. No sooner had her lips parted on the edge of the glass did she notice another sound. Beyond the record she'd put on, beyond the chirping of the cricket was the unmistakable sound of a car coming down the street. How curious, she thought, for someone to be driving this street at such a time. It had been a good few hours since she saw a car, now that she thought about it. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand, smudging her mascara, and leaned toward the window, attempting to blink away the drowsiness. Still clutching the glass, she peered out through the blinds, watching for headlights. None came into view. This struck her as odd, and so she kept on looking. The sound got louder as the car neared, and eventually it came into view. To her surprise it pulled into the driveway opposite. It was, in fact, the car belonging to the neighbour who lived across the way. He wasn't familiar to her; they hadn't spoken with each other, waved or even exchanged glances. He had always been viewed through a window. This may have largely been down to the fact that she was averse to the outdoors. Perhaps if she made more of an effort to venture out they'd have crossed paths. But they hadn't. She knew nothing about him, and now she watched curiously as he stopped the car running. What could he have been up to, for him to be returning so late? A late night run to the store? Perhaps returning from a late shift at work? She doubted she would ever get to know him to confirm or disprove these guesses. He sat there in the dark for a while, and though she peered out at him, squinting behind her glasses, she couldn't make out what he was doing. Then, he opened the driver side door and got out. He didn't glance about. He walked with purpose around to the back of the car and popped the trunk open. She saw him lean down and take something in his arms, and then heard a thump as something hit the ground. What had fallen she couldn't tell, as it was obscured by the car. He closed the trunk, and ducked down behind the vehicle. She assumed he was picking up whatever came out of his trunk. He was.