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The alarm clock glowed red in the darkness. 3:18 a.m.
Some stuttering sound had interrupted Jenny’s sleep. It wasn’t the mumble of Elliot’s television; after eight years, she hardly heard it, but there had been something. Jenny lolled at the edge of slumber. The sound of coughing jerked her awake. That was the noise!
Easy-to-Read B&W Format
Fiction
Horror
The alarm clock glowed red in the darkness. 3:18 a.m.
Some stuttering sound had interrupted Jenny’s sleep. It wasn’t the mumble of Elliot’s television; after eight years, she hardly heard it, but there had been something. Jenny lolled at the edge of slumber. The sound of coughing jerked her awake. That was the noise!
Was it next door? Did the fellow who lived there leave for work this early? She wasn’t certain. Elliot would know, he was good at remembering such things, but he wasn’t talking to her just now.
She slid to the edge of the bed, listening. The last time she saw the fellow next door was last Tuesday. She had been shopping and, when she returned, it was raining. She parked behind the fellow’s car, just to unload, but he stormed out, shouting.
“Move that piece of junk now!”
She remembered that, too well, and she remembered arguing with him, there in the rain, nose to nose, until Elliot dragged her inside.
Jenny levered herself from bed, no longer sleepy. In the bathroom, she turned the tap and sat on the tub edge, letting the water cool. Downstairs, the television droned. Elliot couldn’t sleep without it; with it, he would sleep through nuclear holocaust. Their bedroom set was his usual pacifier, but for the past week, he had slept downstairs and the kitchen set provided his lullaby.
Jenny’s thoughts returned to last week. The real fight began after Elliot pulled her inside.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “You’ll catch your death.”
She hip-shot a retort, still agitated, and Elliot’s mouth puckered in that way it did when he became upset. During dinner their disagreement escalated and he grew angry, too. At its height, he touched her, something he never had done before, and she pushed back. Heat-of-the-moment, but Elliot refused to speak to her now.
The cough sounded again, as if beside her. Startled, Jenny lost her balance and fell backwards; as she fell, her elbow hit the soap dish, tearing it from the wall. The coughing grew louder.
“Shut up!” she said. Shouting. “Shut up!” The spasm ended.
She could hear her heart thudding, her elbow ached, she was surprised it wasn’t broken, and the water was still running. She crawled from the tub and grabbed at the tap; the handle came away in her hand. She pitched it through the open door and listened to it rattle down the wooden hallway floor. As if it had never stopped, the coughing returned, harsh and persistent.
Jenny had no memory of descending the stairs, no recollection of seeing Elliot asleep or of unlocking the door. In an instant, she was standing at the neighbor’s door; fist pulled back to hammer, but before she drove it home, she saw, through naked glass, that the other duplex was vacant.
She stumbled home; the kitchen television still droned and Elliot still slept. When she reached the top of the stairs, the coughing resumed, a mocking noise.
Jenny hurried to the bedroom and scooped up the cordless telephone. If there was an intruder, the police would handle it. She tapped 911 and brought the handset to her ear; the line was dead. Had Elliot forgotten to pay the bill?
If left to her, checks would go undeposited and bills would not be paid, so Elliot handled finances. Most of the housework, too. It left her free to sculpt, and the dry, high-ceilinged basement, with its exterior lift, was a perfect studio.
Elliot, a free-lance writer, worked at home, too, but he was organized. Orderly. And he understood her eccentricities. He said he found the tak-tak-tak of her mallet and chisel soothing, a counterpoint to the click of his keyboard, and Jenny agreed. She missed their duets; it was time to stop this foolishness.
It would be light soon. Jenny drew breath and resolved to humble herself; she would convince her husband the feud must end. Together, they would move past this mess and restore their home and lives. She smiled. And found herself transported into the hallway, ear pressed to the wall, as the coughing intensified.
Jenny tumbled down the stairs. In the basement, she grabbed what she needed. Upstairs, she raised her mallet and battered the wall between the two dwellings. Plasterboard shattered. Dust billowed. At the underlying brick wall, Jenny took up the chisel. Bricks gave way and the mallet pulverized the plasterboard and wood beyond.
She was through!
She peered into the hole. All she could see was darkness, not the dusty twilight of an empty townhouse. Within those depths, the coughing echoed. Hollow and distant. Jenny nodded; enough of this business.
In the bedroom, she slid into rumpled jeans and a cotton tank top; tugged on sandals. She retrieved the 9mm pistol that Elliot kept in the nightstand and glanced at the clock. 5:59 a.m. Time for one last chore.
Downstairs, she knelt beside Elliot. He sprawled on the kitchen floor; the flickering television cast blue shadows across his face. His matted hair no longer hid the indentation at his left temple and the past six days had not been kind to him. Jenny stroked his bloated hand.
“Elliot?” He would not respond.
“I am so sorry.”
She rocked on her heels. Waiting. Hoping. Tears wet her face. He remained unmoved and unmoving. Finally, she kissed his chill and swollen cheek.
“Goodbye, Elliot.”
Jenny climbed the stairs and crouched, alone in the mess she had made. She peered into beckoning darkness and coughed, harsh and loud, to clear plaster dust from her throat.
Then she raised the pistol before her and entered the void.
Copyright 2009, K.C. Ball. All rights reserved.
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