Rabbit Hole

Part Two: Robert

The obnoxious ticking of the clock is all I can concentrate on. It’s like beats. Beat, I pick at my jagged nails. Beat, I tap my work boot on the floor of the kitchen. Beat, I pull at my thin arm hairs. It has been exactly six minutes and 33 seconds...34 seconds….35 seconds. I bang my hand hard on the white, stained counter. The instant my palm connects with the Formica surface I hear a loud crack and pain shoots up from my left hand. I look down only to discover that the force of my hit has caused my skin to split. I wipe the blood on my pants, causing the blood to smear across my palm. Why won’t she call me back? I've done nothing wrong, I've left her a few voicemails, that’s it. No harm no foul, but she is making me angry now. With swift, anger filled movements I rip my jacket from the hook. I stomp out, my gawky work boots slam on the ground loudly as I walk. Although, I only have my permit, I get into my parents car, look up Elise’s address, and drive.  

Once I’m there I make it a point to keep quiet. Her house is fairly large compared to mine, it is grey with white furnishings. I vacillate on going to the front door, eventually I decided not to. For fear someone may see me. Why am I fearful? I only want to speak with her. I open the car door and run through the rain to her back deck. I sprint up the three small steps and then walk carefully from here on out, I don’t want to startle her. I tip-toe my way to the door and peek through the glass, dammit the door is locked. I then lift my fist and give the door a solid knock. I wait for a few seconds, craning my neck so that I look deeper into the kitchen. It is then that I spot Elise crawling across the floor in all black. I knock again on the door, a bit more impatiently this time. Calm your anger Robert, you just want to talk. This time she looks up at me, I smile and point to the locked door, signaling her to let me in. She is obviously embarrassed, she averts her eyes then lifts her body from the floor, using the wall for support. She looks as if she’s unstable, I wonder what she could possibly be upset over. Once she finally reaches the door she doesn't even open it. I find this rude, she simply yells through the glass.

“What do you want?” She yells, she is acting upset, when I should be the one who is angry. First she doesn't answer my calls and now she wont even let me in from the pouring rain. Anger flares up inside of me.

“Why are you getting angry, Elise?” I yell back at her, with calmness in my voice.

“I will repeat myself again, what do you want?” She snarls at me, her words offensive. I’m the one who has been done wrong, not her.

“Why are you mad?” I ask, which seems like a very logical question at this point.

“Because you're harassing me!” Now she is simply making up things, I am not harassing her. I have texted her and called her a few times. I thought we were very close so I don’t see the problem. She is ignoring me because something else is wrong. I need to help her, we need to talk, we need to fix this. She then does the unimaginable, she grins at me, unlocks the door and opens it wide. I smile back at her, she just stands there staring at the wide space, that has been freshly opened between us. Her eyes are wide and I know she is happy that we can finally talk. I smile, a wide smile at her and in the most charming voice I can conjure up I ask her,

“Can I come in, Elise?”

She looks dumbfounded by my politeness, she keeps her eyes on me the whole time and then nods slowly. Although, when I look at her more closely in the light she really doesn't look very good.

“Thank you for agreeing to this.” I flash her an empathetic smile. “You should sit, you don’t seem...uh… stable.” She glares at me and then plops down in one of the kitchen chairs. I try to be comforting to her by caressing her arm. Her skin feels so smooth, so warm and dry. She left me outside in the rain, didn't answer my phone calls or my texts. She used to be so nice to me, she did this to lead me on. I place both my hands on her back and grip her so tightly in my arms. I squeeze her, hard, hoping to hurt her. She is doing this to hurt me, all girls act like this in an attempt to hurt me. She shifts her head in my grasp as I squeeze her tighter. She squirms and slips limply out of my embrace. She falls to the floor like a dead fish and then attempts to crawl away from me. Why does she keep trying to run away from me? I just want to help, why can’t she see that? I scoop her up from under her armpits. She’s so small and fragile. I want to see how far I can push her. I throw her bird like body onto the kitchen table. Her head slams with a loud crack against the wood. Blood trickles from her broken skull and pools around her head and body. She reaches her hand up and touches her blood drenched hair and then examines her stained hand. I looked at my own blood smeared palm and it reminds me of her. I look from my hand to her body and although there is certain beauty in her calmness, I scream.