Amanda - Entry #9

I looked at him for a moment before uttering a very eloquent “Fuck you” and heading back in the opposite direction.

I heard a smug snicker from behind me. “What did I tell ya? Flippant in the face of danger. It would be cute if it wasn’t the worst fucking timing in the world.” I cringed at the word ‘cute.’ That was just a low blow.

Another voice spoke with what I can only describe as a hiss from behind Mr. O. “Does she need to be,” he paused in the most creepy sci-fi novel dramatic effect way, “persuaded?” I shuddered as if the ice in his voice was a tangible object. The guy may have been cliché as hell, but he was scary. I set my chin high and kept up a quick stride in the opposite direction.

“Now, now, Mr. Smith. Don’t you believe it’s a bit early for that? Give the girl a chance.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. O.”

I tried as hard as I could to resist the urge to turn around and failed miserably. I took two steps back in their direction. It was no wonder I hadn’t seen the newcomer, the one Mr. O had called Mr. Smith, originally. He was a rake, towering over Mr. O, but much thinner. He looked as though, if he turned to the side, he would disappear like smoke through the cracks in the sidewalk. For all I knew, that was how he’d arrived at this shindig.

His hair was either brown or dark black, slicked back against his neck. My lip curled a little in disgust in his choice of outfit. A suit. With tails. And a top hat. “You’re missing a pocketwa-” I started before he pulled the aforementioned time piece out of, what else, his breast pocket, flipped it open, and shut it again with hardly a glance. I rolled my eyes. “Where were you two taken from, a comic book convention? I mean, seriously. You’re the most cookie-cutter villains I’ve ever met.”

Mr. Smith let out what sounded like a snarl and looked like he was going to leap for my throat. Mr. O restrained him with one hand and smiled at me serenely. “I would appreciate it if you would not provoke my companion here. You are safe so long as I am here, but, as you have no doubt notice, Mr. Smith here is a rather slippery character. I cannot guarantee anything when my back is turned.” He made as if to turn around, and Mr. Smith smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth.

I sighed. “Who are these people, the ones who are coming?”

Mr. O smiled and clapped his hands together, once again the benevolent gentleman. “So pleased you’ve decided to listen to reason, Miss Eira. These people, the ones who will be seeking you out, are the bottom of the barrel as far as humanity goes. One of them was just in an explosion, the cause of which is…uncertain. The other killed a man not three days ago. Yet he’ll come, traveling as if there is nothing weighing on his conscience.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Why would anyone come looking for me? I’m just a college kid during summer vacation who falls asleep in subway stations. You seem to know what you’re doing. Why don’t you just let them come for you?”

“Because, my dear Eira,” he said with a smile that made me want to take a shower, “I don’t exist.”

With that, he was gone.

I awoke with a start in my own bed. I breathed a sigh of relief, glad that I’d imagined the events of the previous night. The details were already fading in my mind, the whole evening just a blurry, sinister shadow in my memory.

I reached for my phone, planning to call Robert and tell him about what he would call my “overactive imagination.” That was a kindergarten teacher’s term for “not quite right in the head.” Something stopped me. I didn’t feel like being patted on the head and sent of to deal with my day.

I shook myself out of the feeling and hauled myself out of bed. I slipped on one of Roberts’ band’s t-shirts (they were Paycheck Vortex) and padded out into my living room. Zooey, my slightly neurotic hamster was running herself into oblivion on her wheel. She was low on food, and I really needed to make it to the pet store.

I took a deep breath and shuffled my way into the kitchen, flipping on the coffee maker before I reached for the light switch. A girl’s got to have her priorities. The phone stared up at me from the counter, accusingly. The pad of paper next to it kept track of all of the people I had “forgotten” to call back. Bill collectors, doctors offices, my mother. All were relegated to a grocery list pad I had bought for myself at the dollar store.

I steeled myself and sat down at a stool by my counter, pulling the phone into my lap. I picked up the headset, cradled it between my ear and shoulder, and was about to dial the number for my parents’ house before I realized there was no dial tone. Heavy breathing was the only noise that greeted me.

“It wasn’t a dream, Miss Eira. And you’d best get moving. Spring Street station, 2:20. Try not to fall asleep this time.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.