Pink Sheets

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

He Was In the Hallway

It was a cold, dark Sunday night. Alright, that’s not entirely true. I don’t remember if it was cold or not, but it could have been. We had just finished dinner. The kids had left for the week leaving just Brian, the baby, and myself. We were watching Dateline on TV, as well as 2 other shows during the commercials. I was doing laundry, putting the clothes away, and trying to get little Jilly ready for bed. A usual Sunday night.

The back of the house is pretty much deserted on the nights we don’t have any kids. The only time we go back there is for me to do laundry and Brian to use the bathroom, which he seems to do quite excessively. It’s dark back there, but never scary. Why should it be? The only access into the house would be through the garage or one of the windows. I’m never worried that someone could sneak in and hide.

I had just changed Jillian’s clothes and her diaper and was walking back to the girls’ room to throw the diaper in the diaper pail. It’s right near the door so I don’t even have to switch on the light to see. I just step my foot on the pedal, hold my breath and throw the diaper in the bucket. I do it several times a day there’s nothing to it.

This time was a little bit different. I stepped on the pedal, held my breath, threw the diaper in the bucket and I was about to whip around and go back to the front of the house when something stopped me. I can’t say why I hesitated, but something didn’t seem right. I heard something. The sound was out of place in the back of the house. Before I turned around to walk down the hall I glanced up and scanned the bedroom. Do I hear breathing? The bedroom was dark but there were no unusual shadows. Nothing seemed out of place, yet something is different.

I shrugged my shoulders and turned into the hallway when I tripped and in the process realized that what ever I just tripped on, which was a pretty big what ever, just took a chunk out of my thumb. I was panicked. There was a person crouched in front of the door and I had just tripped on them. Their fingernail just injured my thumb. Oh my God, someone is in the house!

Of course, it was no one who wasn’t suppose to be there. Just Brian, scaring the crap out of me as usual. “Bastard!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to scare you.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Because I think it’s funny.”

“Well, it’s not. You just injured me. That’s forensic evidence you know. If I died they would have evidence against you.”

“No, that just proves I defended myself against you. The skin under the nails is proof of defense, not of harm.” Since we are both experts on forensics from watching the CSI series and the CSI: New York series, I knew he was right.

“Bastard.”

That’s twice he has made me to believe I might die. The other time was a couple of years ago. He’s mean.

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