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melodrama-ticcc · 1 year ago

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— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐰

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦��’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ, ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵈᵉᵖⁱᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵈᵉᶜᵉᵃˢᵉᵈ ᵃⁿⁱᵐᵃˡˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ⁿᵘᵈⁱᵗʸ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ, ˢᵘᵇˢᵗᵃⁿᶜᵉ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ.

—

The dining table is silent apart from the gentle clanking of silver cutlery against glassware. Gazes wide in stupefaction and nonplus, as the table awaits an answer to the strange encounter they’d just bared witness to. Disconcerted, they watch as she finishes the final bite, scarlet gathering at the corners of her stained lips. The flatware clatters against the plate as she brings the linen napkin to her mouth, patting away the golden crumbs and sticky syrup and blood. She returns the linen to her lap, still wet with the crimson that transudes from the wound on her palm. Finally, Rebecca brings her gaze to meet the guests at her table, a content smile rested on those pretty lips as she finishes chewing her dessert.

The swallow is loud and uncouth, though not nearly as concerning as her current state of mind. She clears her throat as she places a delicate hand over her chest, as if to do so in a defensive manner. There is an uncomfortable silence that fuels the growing tension in the room. Exchanged glances and raised brows only allude to the natural discernment that follows such a plebeian act. In order to cut through the cumbersome silence, Rebecca finds herself attempting to speak up once more, her mouth opening only to be cut off by Johnny, who now rises from his seat. He smiles to the group before his stare befalls her, this time with the necessary intent to oblige her and draw away from the sensitivity of the dining table.

“A lil’ blood never hurt nobody, mind cuttin’ me a slice, doll face?” He plays into her game of make believe, the fantasy that this was some perfect little storybook. That she was the faultless trophy wife of some backwoods redneck neighborhood, or the cover-girl of Good Housekeeping. Whatever game she wanted to play, he’d play it, for she’d piqued his interest. “Sides, I like my sweets a lil’ messy.”

What a blissful thing silence is. That is until it is disturbed by primitive savages like Johnny Sawyer, she thinks. Having had enough of his trivial pissing matches, she too decides to indulge him. She serves him a slice of that sanguinary pie, paired with her chesire leer and a disdainful glare. She leans forward, over the table (an obscenity against basic table manners), and slams the porcelain platter at his place across the table.

“Enjoy.” Her tone is anything but pleasant, it’s mocking, scornful. Evidence that her unsettling grin is nothing but a facade masking her antipathy for the young man.

As he takes the plate she adjusts her posture to stand upright, knife gripped in her good hand as her eyes flicker to the remainder of her guests, and most importantly to her father. “Anyone else?” They’ve all sat back down, and her father, a little skeptical, gives her a knowing look. A warning of sorts. An indicator her show of make belief is drawing to a close, that it is time to face the dire reality and the consequences of her little episode. “Well then, sorry ‘bout the mess folks. I’ll just get this cleaned up.”

The silence is anything but blissful, nothing but the sound of the running faucet and dishes clanking. Any attempt to strike up a conversation is short lived, the table awkward as they share questioning glances and worrisome countenances. Even Raymond, who watches his daughter from behind. His hands clasp together in front of his mouth, elbows resting at the wood table. Before she’s finished, she says something in regard to her temper tantrum, blaming it on some sort of mismanaged anger inherited from her absent mother. Shrugging it off, she offers to try at this spontaneous dinner party another time, with promises to better control her temper the next time around. As if she had something to prove, a redemption of sorts. You’ll have to excuse me, you’ll find I can be quite the model hostess. Just like those women in the magazines!

He sees through her lies and false claims, knowing well the darkness that pools in the wells of her ocean eyes. They glimmer with something sinister, malicious, he knows it. Knows it in the way they lack genuineness when she smiles, or the way they stare daggers at him when she becomes antagonized. It’s amusing really, to toy with her like this. It’s all the sort of confirmation he needs to satisfy his theory.

The remainder of the evening picks up slowly on account of Drayton and Nancy’s small talk. Only before Raymond and Rebecca escort their newfound neighbors out for the night. Good wishes and farewells are exchanged as they wave goodbye. As that front door shuts Rebecca knows she’s in for it, her father turning to watch her with a disapproving utterance.

“You aughtta give me one good reason not to lock you inside this here farmhouse for good girl.”

“Daddy, please,” Rebecca looks frightened, shaking her head fervently as she follows her father into the kitchen like a duckling it’s mother. “It’s just an accident, it ain’t gon’ happen ‘gain.” She pleads with him, the habitual feeling of buried emotions surfacing all in an instant. She never took well to being scolded, it made her manic. Disappointment had not been something she could live with nor fathom, not from her father at least.

“Accident my ass, you ain’t even try to hold back on that boy Becca, goin’ on about a starin’ problem, you’ll get this family torn apart and we’ll have to move out all over again, you want that?”

“Now just what the hell were you thinkin’, boy?” Drayton smacks his palm against the upside of Johnny’s head, a hiss befalling the younger man’s lips as he shoots him a sharp glare. “Eggin’ on that girl — you gon’ get us in trouble just like the last time, not watchin’ that attitude of yours, you snot-nosed brat!”

“You best watch your tongue ‘round my boy cook, ‘lest I do away with you like I did with my husband.” Nancy mocks pointedly, raising her voice in a defensive manner. “Johnny it’s alright, accidents happen, we’ll get anythin’ we need cleaned up.”

“You’ll be in tomorrows stew if you ain’t get that boy of yours in check, he’s lucky her daddy ain’t raise no fit!”

“Get it together, I know damn well you ain’t wanna be the reason we pack up shop a second time.”

“Daddy, I swear it I’ll fix it just, I ain’t like that boy! He don’t mean well not one bit.”

“That girl, she ain’t right, in the head. I can see it. I feel it.”

“You keep that big mouth of yours shut ya’ heard me boy? Goin’ on about a young filly like her bein’ crazy or sum’, all cause you got trigger happy and fiddled with her temper.”

“Shut the damn hell up cook, you ain’t know shit.”

“Why you shithead,” Drayton groans, pulling on Johnny’s ear to bring him down to his level. “You listen to me boy, I ain’t wanna hear ‘bout this again! You apologize to that girl and that’s that. Don’t go causin’ anymore trouble, stay away from ‘er after that. Dumbass.”

“Hey! Get ya’ hands off my boy!” Nancy thwacks Drayton against the head, “I told you my Johnny ain’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“She ain’t right, y’all just don’t see it yet.” Yet.

“That boy ain’t do nothin’ to you, you makin’ up stories again girl. Ignore ‘em if he bothers you so bad. But you owe him and those Sawyer’s an apology, I ain’t about to loose some good ole’ fashioned neighbors over this drama of yours. You’s an adult, act like it young lady!” His voice is loud and angry, enough to quell her incessant arguing and disdainful thoughts.

“Yes, daddy. Anythin’ you say.” But he just ain’t all that nice.

Growing up in rural Oklahoma wasn’t all that much different than Texas. You had your farms; cattle, dairy, poultry, sheep and goats, and crops; mostly wheats and hays, corn, cotton, oftentimes sweet potatoes. They were fairly similar geographically, grasslands and flat plaines with the occasional hillside. Their people each had a certain southern charm to them, hospitality and benevolence at the heart of their every interaction. Texas was considerably more sizable than Oklahoma, though. And their people often outfaced one another on account of petty rivalries.

For Rebecca, much of the same had been true. Her father was a cattle farmer in the small sub district of Skiatook, settled right up on the outskirts of Tulsa. She was born on that farm and raised an only child with a hard working father and a transient mother.

Maggie Payne had an influence on her daughter that would far outlive her. Both negative and positive ascendencies, though the bad far outweigh the good. Rebecca remembers how as a young girl it was expected that she be the prim and proper southern woman, like something out of Gone with the Wind or Oklahoma!. Free of scandal or transgressions. A perfectly polite little lady with impeccable manners and a faultless smile. One wrong move would be met with the smack of her backhand across the cheek. A painful sting a young Rebecca would become accustomed to in her adolescence. Despite an ever longing curiosity for playing in the dirt and aiding her father in tending to the farmland and it’s animals, she remained indoors. A prime example of what a young woman should become. Maggie would teach her daughter how to be the picture perfect housewife, ensuring that one day, she’d make one lucky man the happiest alive.

Yet, Maggie would become the prime example of what an abysmal wife would look like. Haunted by the notion that she had been destined for a life of stardom and limelight, she resented her daughter for her beauty and grace, condemning her to a life of servitude as a homemaker, wed to a man to dictate her livelihood just as she had been. As time would pass and Rebecca’s beauty would continue to burgeon, Maggie’s treatment would only grow worse, as would her addiction to heroine.

Rebecca remembers watching her mother spiral into a life of despair and forlornness. Watching as she would bring home some backwoods tramp and fuck him in her own marital bed. She remembers watching the same man beat the shit out of her for stealing his dope. Remembers how her mother would sob something ugly and blame Rebecca, only so that she would get her ass beat in the same fashion. She remembers how her mother would cry when she’d catch those men with another woman, when they’d leave her for that other woman. She remembers watching her mother asphyxiate on her own vomit, multiple times. Remembers how she would help her mother’s lovers turn her over just so that she’d keep breathing. Remembers contemplating what would happen if she hadn’t saved her, how much life would have improved if she’d of just let her die then. A part of her wishes she did.

Years and years it would happen, time and time again, and as Rebecca blossomed into the fair lady she has become her mother’s vanity and envy only grew. As did her pathetic excuse for a life. Until Rebecca herself would become the woman of the house, tied to her father in the same manner her mother was supposed to be.

And then she remembers the day that all just stopped. A day of liberation and tranquility. What’s only two years ago now felt like an eternity of well-being compared to that hell on earth back in Tulsa.

It was hard to pinpoint how the move had affected her. Living in Tulsa had become much too difficult for her father, who struggled with the gossiping townsfolk in that small farming community. The result of a scandal of that nature became a heavy burden to withhold, and when he’d told her they’d be starting anew in Texas she knew exactly the reason behind his brash decision. But there’d always be a piece of her left in Oklahoma that she’d never get back. She didn’t have any friends or relatives to miss, they’d all left the moment her family went to shit. Yet, the thought of abandoning a childhood home to come someplace new was heartbreaking. To leave what was so familiar and comforting, a place that was supposed to be a home. Rebecca always worked hard to make it that way, but it was never really hers. She could never shake her mother’s hold in the place away. It would always be the home Maggie built, never mattered what Rebecca did.

Starting anew meant she had been given the opportunity to make her own home. In a place that was truly a blank slate. No influence from her mother, she could begin from the ground up. It would be a place where her talent and passion would truly shine, and she’d flourish in it. She always knew she was meant for homemaking.

That’s precisely what she had set out to do, too. Over the next couple weeks, Becca worked at making that big piece of farmland a beautiful little home. With the inside furnished and made to look neat and pristine, much like you’d see on advertisements or the newspaper. It was some sort of rustic chic, warm toned tans and browns combined with the clean-cut look of pure white linens. She’d adorned the place with flowers and photos, even went as far as to cut Maggie out of them all. Her favorite was kept over the fireplace in the den, a photograph of herself at six years old. Her hair done up in curls as she poses in a frilly white gown. She loved it. She’d always wanted to be a bride.

The exterior was where the real work had been needed, though. As Raymond prepped to take in herds of cattle in the coming weeks. Rebecca often found herself out there chopping wood or fixing up fences or troughs. She was always good with an axe, ever since she was a child and she’d sneak out to help her daddy. The wooden handles always felt so natural in her grasp, and she knew if push came to shove it would become a deadly weapon in her hands. She’d taken it upon herself to explore the land, too. Those adventures had led to some intriguing encounters. There had been dead animals, lots of them. Mangled and bloody with their innards torn out from their torsos, as if something had ripped them out with a knife. Miscellaneous scraps and bones, she’d even find some of them arranged in odd sorts of contraptions. Something used to catch the wildlife in the area, she was sure. For a few of them had even had dead bunnies or foxes in them. Half rotted and decaying with maggots crawling from their flesh. She’d clean them up and dispose of them properly, tossing the carcasses and bone scraps in the garbage for pickup on Tuesdays.

On several occasions she had run into the Sawyers. She’d catch Nancy working out in the fields or gardening in a luscious sunflower field. She never said hello. Similarly, Drayton could be seen snooping about the place and stealing glimpses of the work she and her father were doing. He’d watch, and usually when he realized he’d been caught looking he’d offer her a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. Only to scurry off back to his own property, presumably. They never really said much. Only came and went as soon as they’d been seen. As if they purposefully avoided others. She’d chalked it up to them being recluses, homebodies unaccustomed to others in their neck of the woods.

Sometimes, she’d exchange looks with a younger looking lady. Drayton did mention there were others. The woman’s blonde hair tied neatly in a bun, she wore some sort of black dress, much too short to frolic around in like she did. She’d prance about the yard giggling, and Rebecca did find her laugh annoying. In order to save face she would always smile and wave when the woman would look towards her. That woman never wove back. Only ceased her incessant laughter and fled like she was afraid. She supposed that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though.

She’d often catch glimpses of shadows in the windows walking through the Sawyer residence too. There always seemed to be movement in there, like they were always up to something.

Then there was that Johnny.

He never stopped staring. Watching her like a cat would a mouse. He was persistent and tenacious, eerily concerned with her every move. Like he was waiting for her to slip up. Oftentimes he’d stare for a time, and just when she’d had enough, she would turn to yell something from across the field and he’d be gone. Then there had been the time at that swimming hole, too.

Someplace back behind the farmhouse and past the grasslands, a hillside dipped into a pool of warm spring water from the melted snow in winter. When she’d found it, she had been out looking for dead trees to cut down for wood by her lonesome. She set the axe down against an old stump before taking the initiative to undress herself down to her ivory undergarments and dip into the water. It was pleasantly chilling, a refreshment from the intensity of the blazing sun. She’d float there for some time, unbeknownst to his lingering gaze.

Her womanly figure captivates his audience. Caught in some eery trance by her half-naked body. Gentle curves glimmer in the blazing sun above, glowing like a true deity. Her midsection toned and tight, it contorts with her every movement. Teasing him with each careful gesture she makes, flaunting herself as though she’d known she was under his watchful eye.

It was only when she stepped out to redress that she caught glimpse of his familiar figure a short distance from the place. Her head snaps back round, this time sure she’s caught him red handed.

“The fuck you think you doin’, get lost, hood!”

“My my, don’t we act different when the old man ain’t around.”

Her anger seethes out of her, radiating in fiery hot waves from her tanned skin. Her stare is grisly, sliding into her bell bottoms as she buttons up the top.

“I’ll have you against this here blade if you don’t watch it boy, what’s your quarrel with me?”

“Ain’t know we couldn’t share the swimmin’ hole-”

“I ain’t dense shit face, now what the fuck you want, eh?”

“Ain’t you a pleasant one, tch.” He moves closer, approaching the water’s edge on the opposing side, and spits into the hole. “I ain’t know what you bitchin’ ‘bout, best calm yourself, wouldn’t want to burst that temper of yours.”

Rebecca grits her teeth, grinding them like gears. She loathes him, would love to blow his brains out right there — no — that’s too quick. She wants to split him in two with an axe.

“Alls I wanna know is why you think I ain’t notice that ugly outburst of yours.” He laughs, “you know, I’d hardly call it a temper tantrum.”

“Would’ya shut your trap? Fuck off and leave me alone, how ‘bout that?”

“Now it ain’t very gracious of you to not answer my question, after I so kindly obliged your own. S’not very ladylike.”

“Nah. I wanna know why the hell you starin’ at me all the damn time. Ain’t that momma of yours ever teach ya’ not to stare. Tsk.” She slips her blouse back on, “I’ll saw that pea brain of yours right out that head Johnny boy, you best watch it.”

“You dumb bitch.” Johnny only shakes his head, he doesn’t laugh or smile. He’s angry, more aggravated that she’s so attuned to his routine. “You’s a thorn in my side you know that? Can’t ya’ be like all the other girl’s and keep your mouth shut. Ya’ know most would love to have a man like me look at ‘em the way I do you. But you’s just won’t budge. Like to play hard to get.”

She didn’t like that, not one bit. Her hands ball into fists and she all most wants to do it, picking up that axe from the ground and gripping it in her hand. She can feel the uncanny urge to fillet that man in two. To do away with him, teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget. That habitual feeling resurfaces and she can feel herself about to snap. Just like she had at supper weeks before. She imagines what it would be like to have her way with him, slitting that thick neck of his and cutting up those veiny arms. She has to draw herself from her cognitions before she’s too far gone, the thought of it makes her all too giddy. “You wanna meet the devil boy? I’ll go tell that family of yours what type of man you’s really is.”

He only laughs, ugly, it’s an angry laugh. The tone of his demeanor becoming darker, deeper. “Ah, you pretty handy with that there wood splitter ain’t ya’? I seent it myself. Go ‘head, try it. I know you ain’t right in that there head of yours girl. You wanna chop me up? I don’t think that fits in your lil’ life of make believe. But go ‘head, come over here and swing at me, see how far that gets ya’.”

“Just what you think you sayin’ huh? You’s as stupid as you are oblivious. Boys like you ain’t no how to take a damn hint. I catch you starin’ one more time I swear I’ll be on your doorstep with a loaded shotgun.”

“Oh, so you’s that type?”

She doesn’t know what he’s insinuating but it sure ticks her off. She has to stop herself from loosing her composure, her deep breaths hitching in her throat as she begins to shake. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny, whose pleased to see his tactics getting to her. Though still, she’s affronted his typical suave self and brought out his aggravation.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a spoiled man child used to gettin’ whatever he wants. Go back to momma and cry ‘bout how I made you upset, go on, get!”

“There it is, come on baby, come hit me!”

“I ain’t into greasy boys with momma issues, hood, tough shit. Get ya’ act together, ya’ look desperate.”

Rebecca turns to walk away, a scowl etched into those pretty features as she hikes up the hill. She may have been enraged, but she knows better to keep her head. Especially after the lecture her father had given her following her last blown fuse.

Her footsteps are an indication of that intense feeling of hatred and disgust, heavy and furious. She walks off in a heap of rage, only to leave behind an indignant and frenzied Johnny, who turns to stab his foot in the dirt with an irked yell.

She didn’t see him again after that, at least not what she could tell. But Johnny was always there with her in one way or another. She was certain he had continued to watch her, she’d known what his crepuscular gaze felt like, how it made her feel. Like she was completely and utterly vulnerable. That’s what she’d hated about it.

He reminded her of the men her mother often brought home, only more clean and cutthroat. But he was only the devil using the guise of an angel. He was the type of man that used his pretty face to prey on innocent women and break their hearts, the type to destroy a girl’s life or ruin marriages. She execrated him for it. Detested him with every fiber of her being. For his actions and egotistical behavior only proved that.

Rebecca would press on as normal after that encounter, working in the hard sun and traversing the land. She often found herself loosing track of time, Raymond calling her in for the night when he felt she’d taken work too far.

One night she had strolled down to where their edge of land bordered the Sawyer’s, nearly stepping on some metal footing that buzzed with an electric charge. It surprised her surely, but she’d found the concept to be an oddity. Electric exits and an antisocial family, they were a peculiar type of people. Though she’d chalked up there unusual means of defense as a way to keep their livestock in and the wildlife out. It made sense in a way, despite how eccentric it might have been.

She found that entire family to be anomalous, riding the line of what is socially standard and what was entirely bizarre. From their unconventional practices to their perplexing behaviors, it was something that hadn’t made a whole deal of logic. Nothing like what normal southerners would do or behave. The cause for concern was minimal, yet enough for Becca to keep a close eye on her surroundings and arise suspicions of those backasswards neighbors of theirs. Especially Johnny, who’d been the driving factor behind her cautious approach.

For about two weeks her routine remained the same, with little to no deviation in their crude ways and no sign of Johnny aside from the persistent feeling of leaden eyes watching her from afar. That she had been thankful for, but it would seem just as she’d let her guts down there that feeling was again. The eeriness of being stalked. It only strengthened that ugliness she felt for him. In that time the radiator on the pickup had blown too, leaving both she and her father without any proper means of transportation. Something she was looking at fixing in the coming days. But it was yet another thing to add to the aggravating headache that was this fixer-upper.

She had found herself out in the front of the house, splitting wood to fix the damned fences once again. Sweat beading on the flat of her forehead and dripping down the length of her face. She’d wipe her brow with slender fingers, the action pointless as the salt continued to fall into her eyes. Burning and stinging, but she’d keep at her labor despite the inconvenience. Muscles flexing and pumping full of warmth each time she’d swing the axe over her head. It would hit the log below with a crack and clunk. The sound of wood splitting in two and falling the ground, or the blade of that weapon smacking into the stump beneath it. It was a simple but tedious task, spanning into the long hours of the afternoon. After doing so for days though, time passed quickly and the labor barred no difficulty to that of cleaning a house or cooking supper.

She supposed she’d been too absorbed in the work, so much so she hasn’t noticed the sound of quick and heavy footsteps coming up the drive. Dirt kicking and rocks scratching against the boots of a man she’d yet to meet. He stood there from a fair distance, watching her work.

It was a spur of the moment thing, a momentary epiphany of enlightenment. She’d only stopped to wipe that damn sweat from her forehead, and happened to catch the image of a tall, wide figure standing up the road that led to the house. All most as soon as she’d seen it once, she’d snapped her head back to catch it again, and there it was. The man wore a mask of some sort that veiled his true features, a mask that looked much like flesh. Ugly and sinful, stitched together by the careless hand of a terrible seamstress. He donned a yellow apron, pink and red splatters fading on it's front. But perhaps the most striking thing of the image had been what he was wielding, a chainsaw.

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