“Being sorry is the highest act of selfishness, seeing value only after discarding it.”-Doug Horton.
I know she knows. My intuition is pummeling static sensation all throughout my body in the form of wicked anxiety. I can’t breathe sometimes just waiting for her to suddenly be right there.
Right there.
And I know she’s on her way. The air and I share much in common as we wait still and cold for her to break us of our temporary stasis. The hair on my skin bristled at every eager gust of wind, a terrible reverence every time I thought of all the things I deserved from her riled consequence. Because there’s nothing worse—nothing—than the expectancy of the hell you are to pay and being fully aware that you deserve it.
I played my role, I know. Ashley, Aiden, Madison, myself, others…we all played a pivotal role in destroying Spencer Carlin. We all played our part in the subtle destruction of her life. Her entire family our discarded puppets. Her childhood home our ridiculous playground.
God, I can’t believe I played my part.
But there were things I needed. My whole life had been a sad quest for the things she had. A father.
An intimidating dose of confidence.
Money.
Aiden.
When the day came I was standing over my kitchen sink, watching the driveway from the tiny window. Over the contrived row of plants and my new herb garden, she stood through the glass. She was in no apparent hurry as she smoked a long cigarette in the yard, her face calm, her outfit casual. I don’t know what I had expected. A yellow and black jumpsuit? An angry scowl? An axe and a promise?
No.
No, I should’ve known better. She had tracked me down for months, after all. Why waste the opportunity to make me suffer for her immense pain with over-the-top acrobatics and grisly violence?
She simply smoked that cigarette and looked out into the colorful distance. Perhaps she was thinking about the past. Perhaps she saw the shaky outline of The Dennison House in that shifting horizon and used it as her inspiration. Perhaps she saw my face and thought about the last time we met eyes. If that was her last thought before ringing my bell, I was taking my last breaths for sure. I swallowed nervously. The bell jarred my senses again and again, sounding dramatically like a final symphony of historic sound.
I walked slowly to the door, counting each foot step. Feeling each breath as it left my quivering lips. I had never been a religious person, but my brain was rattling with every sent prayer. Never had I felt so helpless. And if I thought of every blow I deserved, every puncture wound, every shot…
“Spencer.”
I waited for the ringing of bells to be replaced by the ringing of gunshots. But there was silence. Just her steely smile and emotionless eyes roaming my shivering body.
“You can come in,” I say quickly, stepping aside to make room for her thin form.
“Thank you,” she replies, softly.
Seeing her in my purposely modest home seemed inevitable.
