But Too Well

II : Improv

I'M NOT EXACTLY proud of what I do next. Maybe you would expect a kind, upstanding citizen like me to actually do something about it all, maybe call the cops, or tell my landlord or something.

Maybe you expect me to move out immediately, unable to be the unconscionable accessory to a violent crime in the making. But what does brave, honorable little me do?

Exactly.

Nothing.

Okay, yes, that might be wrong. Ignoring a problem may not make it go away, but I sure as hell try. I hope that by morning, I'll forget all about it, and that I can spend the rest of my lazy weekend in an innocent state of oblivious bliss.

And actually, it seems like it might work.

For about half an hour.

Trying to let the oh-so mysterious Mr Darcy transport me into pre-Victorian England isn't easy with the angry, scared voices screaming at me from my sore brain. My head starts to pound with a horrible headache.

Just as the tension becomes almost too much to bear, I come to a heroic decision, one that would make Austen proud. I pick up my phone, completely prepared to call someone and tell them about it.

I finger the numbered keys of my iPhone, trying to decide who to dial. Of course, the police are the obvious choice. I try to imagine how that would go:

"Sorry to bother you, officer, but I think my next-door neighbour is a murderer. Um, why, you ask? Did I happen to hear any gunshots or blood-curdling screams? Actually, no. Then why? Well, I heard him yelling at a guy named Angelo, mostly in Italian, and I really think..."

Needless to say, I'm not in love with the idea. But I have to do something, right?

Wrong.

I don't have to do anything at all.

Of course, I don't know that yet. Just as I'm staring at my screen, willing the perfect idea into my head, I nearly jump out of my skin at the loud knock on my door.

Oh god.

Shit.

I just know. I know it's him; I know he knows that I know what happened, and that he's ready to punish me for it.

Shit.

My mind frantic and racing, I decide to ignore him, trying to remain absolutely still and completely silent. I will the shadows of his dark shoes to recede from beneath my door, but they don't. They stay for what seems like forever, and still they don't make even a small move to leave.

I cringe as he knocks again, harder, more insistently. How do I know that it's him, and not Al or Shauna or the mailman? I just do.

Even after meeting him just once, I can tell. He has this energy to him that's unique and unsettling, and it's the same dark, magnetic pull that I feel emanating through the locked, solid wood door, which is currently the only thing saving me from him.

"Rosalina," he calls, making my blood freeze. His voice is impatient and heavy, yet somehow teasing. He knows I'm in here, hiding.

"Rosalina, I know you can hear me."

Truth be told, I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

He goes silent again, letting out an audible sigh. I swallow deeply in relief as I hear the small shuffle of footsteps, thinking he's gone.

I jump as he knocks again, louder, more impatiently. I curse, my panic rising to record levels. Take a deep breath, I think, don't freak out. It'll be fine. A lie, I'm sure you've guessed.