Saving Grace

13

That was the only time in the following months that Grace ever considered calling me. From what I recall, she spent that time drinking and partying and ticking things off in her notebook, all with the expressed intention of forgetting all about me. Yes, more gifts came – many more. They were left on the porch, by the pool, at the French windows, on the balcony. They scared the living daylights out of her, perhaps even more than the phone calls, which now came at least twice an hour, and never stopped until she answered. Her online presence was also tormented with emails that blew up with empty messages and social media spamming with pictures of blackness or whiteness. Blank statuses on her wall, captionless Snapchat messages, empty text messages... Just quiet, sneering acknowledgements – reminders, as if He were saying to her, "I'm still here."

I think the worst part of it all, however, was how everyone left. Fiona, Shelley, all her other companions who had dined at her table and drank at her bar, scattered, as if even looking at Grace was an act equivalent to drawing a target on their backs. Soon, she was alone – physically, mentally, emotionally alone, and terrified.

And that's when He struck.

It was midnight. Grace was in her bedroom, dressing up for another night on the town. With steady hands, she leaned in close to the mirror, oval-shaped and as tall as her, while she painted her lips bright red. The room hummed with the latest trending pop song, complete with simple, computer-generated melodies and some bigot rapper spitting into a microphone. She swung her hips to the beat, breathed in the smoky air.

"Something else," she whispered, tilting her head at her reflection. "Oh, I know."

She sauntered across the room, passing by her marvellous balcony which overlooked her entire backyard, giving view to the royal blue pool rippling below, the luscious green grass growing beside it, the empty bar, overshadowed by the maple trees lining the tall, oak fence. She looked at none of this, however, and focused on the Bonaparte French armchair facing her bed, cradling her handbag on its soft white seat. She rummaged through the bag impatiently and found a delicate, diamond bracelet inside, freshly bought. Absentmindedly, she paced backwards, standing in front of the balcony as she fumbled with the clasp. The trees outside suddenly rustled strangely, as if a gust of foreign wind had swept by, and instinctively, Grace's lovely sapphire eyes flicked up for a single heartbeat. There, at the edge of her pool, staring up into her window, was the gift-giver, the phone-caller, the man she feared the most.

Her eyes went wide. Her breath caught. The bracelet fell from her trembling hands, hitting the carpeted floor with a quiet thump. No, no, she thought. He can't be here. He can't be real. She couldn't see His face in the shadows, only His body – five-ten, slumped, with a pudgy belly and a hoodie over His head. The two were locked in the moment, eyes fixed on one another, waiting for somebody to make a move – and He did. The shadow broke out into a terrifying sprint towards the house, feet hitting the pavement so hard Grace could hear the faint beating of his boots through her window. She sucked in a breath, stumbled backwards. Her frantic eyes searched the room for a phone, a weapon, a place to hide, and then she lost sight of him.

Grace leapt across the room, grabbing her phone from the nightstand and falling into her bathroom ensuite, where she locked the door and curled up in a corner. There, in the darkness, her shaking hands dialled my number.

"Hello?"

"Richie, Richie, it's me. Grace. Please. You have to help me. Someone is in my house."

"What?"

I dropped my pen, stood up from my desk, and looked around my cluttered bedroom.

"Where are you?"

"In the ensuite."

"Is the door locked?"

"Yes."

"Have you called the cops?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I-I don't know."

"Alright. I'm going to hang up and you have to call triple zero."

"No, no. Please. Please don't go."

"I'm on my way there right now," I said, shrugging on my jacket. "Please. Call the police."

"O-okay. Richie?"

"What?"

Grace paused, hung on a trembling breath.

"Thank you."

I gulped.

"If he finds you," I whispered. "Kill him."

I hung up.

© A.G. Travers 2018