She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXIV.2)

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog.  While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience.  Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections.  Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.  

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.  Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

It took her several minutes before she realized what had startled her from her slumber. In its cradle on the nightstand, her phone continued to drone on without any regard to her comfort.  She rolled onto her side and blinked her eyes several times until she was able to read the display on her digital clock.

“Uhg…  One twenty-six,” she groaned miserably.  She had lost track of how many times the phone had rang since waking her up; was it ten?  Twenty?  She wasn’t entirely sure, but what she was sure of was that whoever was on the other end of the line had better have a damn good reason for waking her up!

She reached out with her right hand and snatched the handset from the receiver, but when she saw the name on the Caller ID, she paused before pressing the TALK button.

“Misty?”

“Megan!  Turn on your TV.”

“What,” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice.  “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

“Just turn it on you skeeve,” the voice pleaded from deep with-in the speaker.  As she reached for the remote, she wondered what could have shaken her friend so badly as to wake her with such a strange request.  She pointed the remote toward her small twenty-seven inch screen and pressed power.

It was an older model television.  While she did have a part-time job, she preferred to increase the size of her wardrobe rather than spend her money on anything other than her cellphone and gas for her car.

“Okay, it’s on,” she dead-panned into the microphone.  “Now what.”

“Turn it to the News,” Misty begged.  Her voice was thick with emotion and she sounded as if she had been crying.

“Dammit.  Can’t you just tell me what’s going on?!”

“It’s Lucy,” she sobbed.

“Scott’s Lucy,” she asked in confusion.  Even as she spoke, she was flipping the channel over the All Saints Action News on Channel 6.  The screen depicted a reporter standing sideways, looking towards the front of Lucy Winters’ house, where EMT’s could be seen wheeling a gurney out the front door.  Several police cars could be seen parked in the street and A.S.P.D.’s finest were combing the scene for evidence.

“Oh my god,” she said breathlessly.  The reporter was positioned at least thirty feet away, behind the yellow tape, but she could see that they had pulled the sheet over the face of the victim.  It wasn’t hard to discern that the form beneath the sheet was Lucy.  She could see a strange shape jutting upwards, beneath the sheet and from the body’s midsection, which was also the source of a growing red stain.

“Oh my god,” she repeated, also in tears at this time.

“I know, right?”

The reporter didn’t have very much in the way of useful information to offer, other than at this time it looked as if she was the victim of a home invasion.  Details were being kept tight under wraps while they sought out possible suspects for questioning.

They cried into each other’s ears for several minutes, and it was after several more minutes of silence before either was able to speak.

“She looked HUGE on that stretcher, didn’t she,” Misty finally asked.

“Shut UP,” Megan drawled, followed by a light chuckle.

“Oh, too soon, huh.”

“You’re such a bitch Misty.  Seriously.”

It suddenly dawned on her that her brother had gone out earlier that evening.

“Oh shit, Misty.  Did they say anything about anyone else being in the house?!”

“No.  Why?”

“I think Scott might be over there!  Hold on, let me call you back.”

“Uh, okay?”

She had only heard the first half of her friend’s response before tossing the phone onto the other side of her bed.  She was up in a flash, flying down the hall to the other side of the house where her brother’s room was.  She was conscious of her feet slapping against the wooden floor.  She could hear her breath as it whistled in through her nose and blasted out through her mouth.  Her heart drummed in her ears, playing a beat of terror more primal than anything she listened to on the radio.

She could see his door, still an impossible twenty feet away, with its ‘Stay Out’ and ‘No Entry’ signs warning her against entry.  The hallway stretched about before her as if in a dream, growing longer with every stride.  From somewhere in the distance, it may have been downstairs or from a hundred miles away, she heard the sound of a door slamming.

“Scott,” a female voice called from downstairs.  It sounded like her mom, but it couldn’t have been her.  She was pulling a double shift tonight.

“Scott?!”

“Mom,” she called out in return.

“Megan!  Have you seen Scott?”  Her voice was getting closer.  She was running up the stairs, even as Megan was running down the hall and as she passed by them, she turned and saw her on the landing below.  She was out of breath, doubled over with her hands on her knees and gasping for some much needed oxygen.

“Mom,” she said thickly.

“I know honey,” she answered weakly.  “He’s not answering his phone.”

Megan turned and closed the distance between the stairs and her brother’s room, sliding to a stop before his door.  Her hands were pounding on the wood frame even before she had finished moving, alternating between knocking and trying to turn the knob.  The latter effort was useless, however, for he never left the door unlocked.

“Scott, open the fucking door,” she screeched in panic.

Her mother was right behind her and soon joined in her efforts.  Both women were in tears.  It wasn’t long before each sought out the comfort of the other and they were in each other’s arms, faces buried in the other’s shoulder and crying uncontrollably.

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