Mysterious phone call
Courtney was a girlfriend I had 15 years ago for a few months. She was middle income, working class, and ordinary in every way. Things ended on a bad note with Courtney, and I had not seen or spoken to her for a week. Life was starting to look good again. The fear that the police were going to arrest me on Domestic Violence charges had waned. My extreme acid reflux, which I became afflicted by soon after I started dating Courtney, spontaneously cured itself. I was spending time with my old friends again.
One night, I was working late in the biochemistry lab at the university. It was nearly midnight. The lab phone rang, and I answered it. There was a long silence. I heard somebody breathing on the other end.
“Hello ……. hello?,” I said.
Nobody spoke. There was only breathing. Then they hung up.
I rode home. It was raining but not cold. My house had been left unlocked, but nobody was home. We usually left the door unlocked because somebody was almost always home. I lived with four roommates, and random people often slept on the sofas. Our house was a hangout for students and some townies to smoke hashish and marijuana, eat LSD, do shrooms, and drink beer. Nobody did harder drugs there. We had a table-bong in the living room. It was a massive water pipe built into the coffee table. It had four hoses, each with its own mouthpiece.
I have a sensitive nose. I can often tell who is home and where they have been by the way the air smells. Sometimes, I can sense where women are in their menstruel cycle.
I went upstairs. Halfway down the hall toward my room, I sensed taht something was wrong. It was Courtney’s perfume and sweat, and she was still here. After what she did the last time I saw her, I was going to be careful. I held my bookbag in front of me like a shield. I carefully opened my door and looked in. I hoped she did not hear my footsteps pause slightly when I detected her. She was not in my room. I picked up the heavy blanket on my bed and wrapped it loosely around my left arm. I held the loose end in my right hand. It would make a good shield if she throws something. I could use it to catch her arms if she hits. I took off my boots so i could move quietly.
I crept back down the hall. At the other end of the hall, my roommate’s door was open. He usually closes it when he leaves. The lights were off, but the street light outside his window was bright enough to see. I have good night vision, so I didn’t bother turning on the hallway light when I came home.
I listened outside his door, then rushed into his room, shielding myself with the heavy blanket. Courtney was standing in a pool of light in the corner pointing a butcher’s knife at me. The glare from the streetlight reflected in its blade. She was holding it over handed in a slasher movie grip. The whites of her eyes showed all the way around the iris. She was crying and her black eye makeup was running down her chalk white face.
I switched on the light. She wore a sleeveless black velvet dress and was soaked from the rain. She had long bleeding cuts running down her pale arms.
“Oh Robin …….” she breathed. “ Robin.” She cried silently for a moment. “…. I love you my Chosen One.”
“Get out,” I said.
“Oh boooh hooh it’s me, your Millennium Girl. You are my chosen One. We are meant to be together. Take me back,” she said. She really talks like that and made up those names.
“What happened to your arms?” I said. She had lowered the knife. There was blood on the blade.
“I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m the Faerie Queen,” she said. Her pupils were as big as saucers.
Almost every time we had sex, the condom broke, and last month was another pregnancy scare. I was worried. She talked about it every day but refused to get tested. I finally bought her the test, and she was not pregnant. She had her period a week later.
The first day of her period last month, she went with me to the computer lab at the library. We did class work all afternoon. We got up to leave. Her light grey seat cushion was red. Blood had soaked into the fabric. Her bottom was bloody. She wrapped her jacket around her butt, and we left.
Three weeks later, she was still having her period. This happened every month: the condom broke or she forgot to take birth control pill, her period was late, she said she was pregnant, and I tried to convince her to get tested. She eventually went to student health services. She was not pregnant and had no STD. She was treated and given medication.
I asked her what drugs she was on, and she replied that she had been at PsychoTom’s house (aka Meltdown House) and they gave her “Brain Candy.” Then she went home, got the knife, and ran all the way to my house, about two miles, in the rain. She said she needed the knife because she was afraid somebody was going to rape her.
I told her to leave. She refused. I could not call the police because of the table-sized bong in the living room. I went outside. She followed. I told her it’s over. I went outside and walked toward the bar where I worked. She ran after me. She grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let go. I walked with her clinging to my leg, dragging in the street. She was crying hysterically.
She finally fell off my leg. She curled up in fetal position on the asphalt, still wailing “take me back oh robin take me back waaahhhhhhh.” I didn’t look back. I was about to start an internship 1000 miles away and didn’t expect to see her again.
Courtney was a girlfriend I had 15 years ago for a few months. She was middle income, working class, and ordinary in every way. Things ended on a bad note with Courtney, and I had not seen or spoken to her for a week. Life was starting to look good again. The fear that the police were going to arrest me on Domestic Violence charges had waned. My extreme acid reflux, which I became afflicted by soon after I started dating Courtney, spontaneously cured itself. I was spending time with my old friends again.
One night, I was working late in the biochemistry lab at the university. It was nearly midnight. The lab phone rang, and I answered it. There was a long silence. I heard somebody breathing on the other end.
“Hello ……. hello?,” I said.
Nobody spoke. There was only breathing. Then they hung up.
I rode home. It was raining but not cold. My house had been left unlocked, but nobody was home. We usually left the door unlocked because somebody was almost always home. I lived with four roommates, and random people often slept on the sofas. Our house was a hangout for students and some townies to smoke hashish and marijuana, eat LSD, do shrooms, and drink beer. Nobody did harder drugs there. We had a table-bong in the living room. It was a massive water pipe built into the coffee table. It had four hoses, each with its own mouthpiece.
I have a sensitive nose. I can often tell who is home and where they have been by the way the air smells. Sometimes, I can sense where women are in their menstruel cycle.
I went upstairs. Halfway down the hall toward my room, I sensed taht something was wrong. It was Courtney’s perfume and sweat, and she was still here. After what she did the last time I saw her, I was going to be careful. I held my bookbag in front of me like a shield. I carefully opened my door and looked in. I hoped she did not hear my footsteps pause slightly when I detected her. She was not in my room. I picked up the heavy blanket on my bed and wrapped it loosely around my left arm. I held the loose end in my right hand. It would make a good shield if she throws something. I could use it to catch her arms if she hits. I took off my boots so i could move quietly.
I crept back down the hall. At the other end of the hall, my roommate’s door was open. He usually closes it when he leaves. The lights were off, but the street light outside his window was bright enough to see. I have good night vision, so I didn’t bother turning on the hallway light when I came home.
I listened outside his door, then rushed into his room, shielding myself with the heavy blanket. Courtney was standing in a pool of light in the corner pointing a butcher’s knife at me. The glare from the streetlight reflected in its blade. She was holding it over handed in a slasher movie grip. The whites of her eyes showed all the way around the iris. She was crying and her black eye makeup was running down her chalk white face.
I switched on the light. She wore a sleeveless black velvet dress and was soaked from the rain. She had long bleeding cuts running down her pale arms.
“Oh Robin …….” she breathed. “ Robin.” She cried silently for a moment. “…. I love you my Chosen One.”
“Get out,” I said.
“Oh boooh hooh it’s me, your Millennium Girl. You are my chosen One. We are meant to be together. Take me back,” she said. She really talks like that and made up those names.
“What happened to your arms?” I said. She had lowered the knife. There was blood on the blade.
“I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m the Faerie Queen,” she said. Her pupils were as big as saucers.
Almost every time we had sex, the condom broke, and last month was another pregnancy scare. I was worried. She talked about it every day but refused to get tested. I finally bought her the test, and she was not pregnant. She had her period a week later.
The first day of her period last month, she went with me to the computer lab at the library. We did class work all afternoon. We got up to leave. Her light grey seat cushion was red. Blood had soaked into the fabric. Her bottom was bloody. She wrapped her jacket around her butt, and we left.
Three weeks later, she was still having her period. This happened every month: the condom broke or she forgot to take birth control pill, her period was late, she said she was pregnant, and I tried to convince her to get tested. She eventually went to student health services. She was not pregnant and had no STD. She was treated and given medication.
I asked her what drugs she was on, and she replied that she had been at PsychoTom’s house (aka Meltdown House) and they gave her “Brain Candy.” Then she went home, got the knife, and ran all the way to my house, about two miles, in the rain. She said she needed the knife because she was afraid somebody was going to rape her.
I told her to leave. She refused. I could not call the police because of the table-sized bong in the living room. I went outside. She followed. I told her it’s over. I went outside and walked toward the bar where I worked. She ran after me. She grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let go. I walked with her clinging to my leg, dragging in the street. She was crying hysterically.
She finally fell off my leg. She curled up in fetal position on the asphalt, still wailing “take me back oh robin take me back waaahhhhhhh.” I didn’t look back. I was about to start an internship 1000 miles away and didn’t expect to see her again.
