"Three blind mice! Three blind mice! See how they run, see how they run!"
They had been telling stories and singing nursery rhymes for the last few minutes, and the sick feeling in his stomach was only getting worse with each new song.
"They all ran after the farmer's wife! She cut off their tails with a carving knife!"
He groaned under his breath. The kids. He had watched her for many weeks now, and she usually dropped them off at their grandparents' house on the outskirts of town every other weekend. When they were gone, she usually spent that time at the apartment alone. They were supposed to be at their grandparents' now, according to his schedule. But evidently something that he wasn't privy to, and rightly so, had changed things.
He had no claim to her, and shouldn't be anywhere near her at all. Yet, he was wedged under her bed in the master bedroom, sweating profusely under his ski mask. The apartment air conditioner was working, but nervousness was getting the best of him. He shook his head, frowning; the ski mask and him being "under the bed" was so cliché, he thought. He hated himself for being like a second-rate actor in a cheesy B movie. But it was too late for him to turn it all back now. His plan would have to be a go, even though the situation was far less than ideal.
He readied himself for what he was going to make happen. Could he be the person he was about to become? The pity that swelled in his gut for what he was going to put her through almost overcame him. He had to steel himself against those feelings. Think of her husband, he thought, grinding his teeth. This would end up hurting her husband far worse than it would hurt her, he reasoned. She would be an unintended casualty of the situation, almost like collateral damage.
That was the way it often was in war. Destroying the enemy wasn't all that difficult sometimes, he had found. He had seen small bits of action up close, but some elements of modern warfare had become so automatic that sometimes pushing a button and watching an explosion on a computer screen was all that a soldier witnessed. Though it looked like a computer game, it certainly was not.
It was the ground soldiers like him who stood in a long line, sweeping through and securing the recently bombed-out neighborhood buildings, which saw the direct after-effects of war. And it was the innocents, the ones who got caught standing too close when it all went down, who were the ones who paid the true price.
He had found that the enemy was vastly different, now that he was home. He sure as hell felt like he was still fighting a war, though. But this war was different; it was more personal, one that was hidden to outsiders. It raged only inside him. It was something he bore alone.
"Did you ever see such a sight in your life, than three blind mice? Three blind mice!"
In the nearby bedroom, the mother and her kids dissolved into fits of giggles.
"Ok, you two, that's all for tonight." Her voice was happy, joyful. It touched him in a way, but to make this evening successful, he had to hate it. He had to hate her just like he hated
him
.
So he took hold of the pity he felt for her and squashed it down deep into a dark corner of his heart. He focused on changing it, transforming it. He hardened it, polished it, and brought it back up to the surface. It no longer was pity anymore: it was hatred.
He narrowed his eyes until they were horizontal slits. Could he really be this person he was about to become? He pondered the question a little longer this time. Yes, he thought. He could be that person now, because at some point he
had
become that person. He
was
that person.
He was here, and his head was in the game. Pity would no longer be a problem tonight.
He heard elaborate goodnight kisses being exchanged, a little girl and a little boy saying their prayers for their mother, and then she closed their bedroom door tight.
His heart rate spiked as he heard her footfalls nearing the master bedroom. It was not unlike the anticipation on the battlefield when the enemy advances, hoping your hiding place is undetected. But the bedroom was dark and he was hidden well under the bed, concealed by the long dust ruffle.
There was a tiny gap, however, between the dust ruffle and the hardwood floor. As he pressed his cheek to the cool wood, he saw her enter the bedroom. She flicked on the bedroom lights as she came in. She was wearing loose-legged brown slacks, and he immediately noticed her naked feet and red painted toenails. She passed dangerously close to the bed and then quickly turned and entered the bathroom. The shower started, and her clothes came flying off in all directions. Through the tiny slit he was peeping through he could only see her from the knees down, and he caught sight of her smooth, bare calves before she closed the bathroom door.
He exhaled then, and it dawned on him then that he had been unconsciously holding his breath. He still felt nervous, but emotions were surfacing that he didn't think he possessed anymore. Her legs. He was astounded that he was still thinking about her legs. They were pretty, looked strong, and he had a vague sense that they would be soft and smooth under his fingers.
He snorted and shook those thoughts from his head. "Frigid" and "Bitch" had been her husband's pet names for her. He worked his mouth into a sneer, remembering. But that was all about to change. Whatever of herself she had kept from her husband in the past, he was going to take for himself tonight. And what a rush it would be to use and savor her body, something her husband hadn't been allowed to do then, and probably still couldn't do.
He
may need your permission, he thought. But I sure do not.
He let a few more minutes slip by, hoping she hadn't forgotten something that would necessitate an immediate return to the bedroom. That would surprise him and give her the advantage; something to be avoided. He had nothing to worry about, however. He heard the distinct sound of her stepping under the shower spray, so he deftly slithered out from under the bed. He quickly crossed the room, turning the lights off as he went.
He glanced into the hallway; the apartment was quiet. There were no sounds coming from the kids' bedroom. He doubted they were asleep yet, but they weren't creating any havoc, either.
He shut and locked the bedroom door and he hid himself close by the bathroom door in shadow. As he waited for her, his nerves betrayed him again. He cursed himself softly. What the hell was he doing? He didn't do things like this. And it didn't help that his whole plan could now be so easily shot to hell because the kids weren't supposed to be here. He'd have to think on his feet, something he certainly had been trained to do, but it wouldn't make things any easier for him, and it left no second chance for a fuck-up.
A few minutes later he heard her turn off the shower. She started knocking around in the bathroom, probably brushing her teeth, combing her hair, getting ready for bed. He frowned, every cell in his body now on alert. His body tensed, ready.
Finally, it was show time.
He was lurking just outside the bathroom door, and when it opened, he could feel the blast of hot, moist, shower air come over him. He was assaulted by the smell of her coconut shampoo and it made his brain fog just for a second. He suddenly remembered he had smelled that same scent on her almost two years ago and, bizarre as it seemed, realized that he had for some reason remembered it.
