Chapter fourteen:
I reach up to the windowsill, thankful that there’s a light on inside the house because it’s black as hell down here, the darkness only punctuated by the crack of lightning every once in a while.
I can hear music—a low steady beat, something soothing with bass, coming from inside. I don’t know what it is, but what I can hear makes me smile. I think on all the new things that she’ll show me and teach me.
She was always my teacher and I was the learner.
She was daring where I wasn’t, but she never minded; she always encouraged me to tag along with her and never made me feel like a baby. I was always a man in her eyes. Older and wiser, yet inexperienced when it came to everything Carrie.
I watch through the window for several minutes, hoping that she’s going to go past any minute now so I can be certain that this is her house. But she doesn’t go past the window, and I’m getting colder and wetter standing outside here. And I don’t like to be cold and wet. That’s all I seem to be this week. Cold and wet.
I hear water flowing down the pipe next to me and I look up, the rain splashing in my eyes, and I see a light on in a top window.
It must be the bathroom. She’s having a shower, or a bath. She wants to wash Mr. Fancy Asshole off her body.
I smile.Good girl.
I push on the window and it begins to slide up, so I start to climb inside and shake my head as I do this and think,You should lock that, Carrie. You need to be more careful because you never know who will try to come in through your windows.’
I notice this window is dirty as I slide through it on my hands and knees, not clean like the ones at the front of the house, which I think is strange. And then I fall onto the floor.Damn, I would make a terrible thief.
I stand up and knock into the side table next to me. A small vase of flowers topples over and rolls toward the edge. I catch it before it falls and smashes. I stand the vase back up, feeling the petals of the small peonies and realizing that they are fake.
Oh, Carrie.Fake flowers? Really? This isn’t like you at all.
I shake my head.
I do not smile.
I don’t like sneaking around in her house, even if it does give me a glimpse into her more private life. But it needs to be done and I’m certain that there will be a photo or something of her somewhere, and I’ll be out of here before she even knows I’ve been in.
I can hear the music better now, and it’s not as nice as I first thought, actually. I frown as I let the music wash over me. It’s too fast, the beat too hard; the singer is singing about how love will break you down and crush you. I shake my head again because this is all wrong.
I realize that I must have tainted her view on men. Broken her trust somehow and now she doesn’t know how to love.
She doesn’t understand it.
Probably thinks she doesn’t deserve it.
You do,I want to scream.
I’m in a strange room. It’s not a dining room, or a front room. It’s neither one or the other. There are books and a desk and shelving, and an old rusted bike leaning against the wall. There is mess and clutter, and dust as I run my finger along the top of the shelves. I tut; this is no good, no good at all.
Carrie,I want to say,you’re turning into your mother. You’ll end up with lice like you had as a little kid if you keep on like this.I turn around and walk to the door, knowing that I can still save her because at least most of her damned windows were clean.
It’s not all hopeless yet.
I open the door and go into the hall.
The flooring is dark wood—mahogany, I think. It’s polished but dirty. The walls are painted a burgundy, with mahogany wall panels on the lower half. It makes the space seem too small and too cramped. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. It makes me feel closed in and breathless. I thought she would have better taste. I thought she would have had more style. I thought the walls would be light and cream colored, with small floral prints to show off her delicate feminine side.
There’s a large mirror on the wall, but no photos anywhere.
Who are you hiding from?I think.
Yourself?I wonder.
I catch sight of myself as I pass the mirror and I shake my head. Small droplets of rainwater fall from my hair and sprinkle onto the floor. I tut and try to rearrange my hair. I run my hands down my face to get rid of the excess moisture. I look a mess, and I’m still cold. My sneakers are muddy, my clothes are soaked through. I shiver at the coldness pressing against my skin.
