(Present Time)

“Ughhhh… Sorry I’m just… I’m just hungry, that’s all,” I lie as little Timothy peers at me through his glasses, but really I’m just tired of waiting. I thought by now I would be at home curled up in bed starting the Underground series by Misha Green and Joe Pokaski, instead I’m here, waiting.  Six whole hours pass and little Timothy’s Dad is nowhere in sight. I start to jab at my phone, angrily pressing buttons, remembering little Timmy I stop and look up at the five-year-old. His light blue eyes are wide and attentive fixed on my actions. I smile at him trying not to spook him or worse get him upset, any little thing could set these five-year-olds off.

“Let me just check in with your dad again, okay.” I say, trying to sound unbothered for his sake, but really I’m at the end of my nerves.

“Okay,” he says, slouching in a pink bean bag that he had dragged next to me, leaving the toy trains sprawled by the area he was playing at.

First week as a childcare intern and I suck, to be fair children aren’t easy. They whine, they cry, they make a mess and fuss over the tinniest thing they can find. Suzy the childcare worker, however, seems to enjoy it here. She’s really good with the children. She’s been a childcare worker for over ten years; it’s like she magically calms them down and controls them when they turn into living nightmares from hell. Me? Well let’s just say, whenever things go south I run. I’ve only been at Nunavut Day Care for a week leaving, me with fourteen agonising more weeks before I go back to school to finish my degree in childcare. Why I chose this stupid degree in the first place is beyond me. At first I thought kids – easy job right, until I got hurled into the field.

“Hello, yes Nashiey?” Mr. Winston incorrectly says my name again as he answers his phone.

“It’s Nyashay” I correct him for the umpteenth time “and we’ve been waiting for hours, where are you?” I respond my eyes wild with anger.

“I’m on my way,” he replies and immediately cuts the call.

“Ugh,” I roll my eyes and slam my face into my hand. Remembering little Timmy, I pick my head up and giggle “his on his way. He’ll be here any minute now,” I try to sound convincing but even I don’t believe it any more than Timmy did.

“Me too,” Timothy whispers.

 I frown, confused “you too what?” I snap just a little and paste the best smile I could draw up, to soften my response.

“I’m hungry,” he whispers almost sorry to have said it.

I continue to smile and assure him that his daddy was on his way with a box of pepperoni pizza - like Mr Winston always did when he was six hours late in collecting his son. Other than that Timothy had gorged all the leftover snacks that Suzy had left for him and there was really nothing I could do. I’ve never been left with a child before – Suzy usually does the waiting but today was actually a favour. Suzy’s one-year-old daughter Suri had the flu and so Suzy needed to rush back home to take care of her.

Mr Winston’s car engine roars as he finally pulls up by the Day Care’s driveway.

“It’s a Day Care for a reason you know,” I say with a grin as he walks in the class picking up his little boy from the bean bag.

“So sorry,” he chuckles tickling Timmy, trying to get him to laugh. Timothy instead looks crossly at his father and demands to be put down. “I brought pizza, it’s in the …” Timothy races out before he could finish. “Look Nashieez, I’m truly sorry but it was a really big meeting and there isn’t anyone at home to take care of Timothy so …” I raise my hand to stop him.

“Look… I got to go, it’s a Friday and I just really want to be in bed this weekend. You don’t need to give me a reason, but I do think it’s unfair to not only the staff here at Nunavut Day Care but most importantly to your son Timothy. He gets bored out of his mind just waiting for you. Get him a nanny, or something!” I snap at him as I draw the blinds down, flick off the lights, close the doors and lock them behind me.

“Let me at least give you a ride to your house,” Mr Winston says looking sincerely apologetic, his blue eyes hiding behind his glasses have a striking likeness to his son’s.

Mr Winston recently became a widower, and I do sympathise with him. Juggling with work and Timmy must be difficult. I had no right to go off on him like that, it was inconsiderate of me but I am tired not to mention cold and yes famished – merely being around the man peeved me. I didn’t want to seem rude but I was fine with catching a bus. Not sure how to say it without sounding impolite I simply blurt out “no, I’ll take the bus, but thanks.”

 I put my jacket on and walk past him, waving at little Timmy seated in the back seat of the car. He stuffs his tiny face with a slice of pizza and waves back with a pizza sauce covered smile.

 

Getting off the bus, I walk across the frosty road to my house, which is at the end of a trail of sparsely spread out houses. I pull out my cell phone from the back of my jean pocket and check for the time. Eight forty-five beams on my cell phone and a missed call from Nancy, my neighbour, glares back at me. I let out a sigh which forms a cloudy smoke of air to hover in front of my mouth. My nose is runny and I unwarily use the back of my glove to wipe it – a disgusting habit I have failed terribly to stop. I dial in her number, already knowing what it’s about.

“Nyashay,” Nancy’s squeaky voice screeches over the phone, the howling wind almost making it impossible for me to hear her.

“Let me guess, you’ve gone off to Vancouver with your boyfriend for the weekend again,” I say the last part a little amused remembering how she always insisted she never really liked him.

“Not funny, it’s just the second time and his not my boyfriend . . . yet.” We both giggle, I tell her to enjoy and then I end the call.

Nancy is my only neighbour since my house is at the very end of the street and if it were not for her persistence in being friends, most of my weekends would probably be quite lonely – which I’d rather prefer.

Finally, at my front door I reach into my jacket for the keys. I pull them out and take off my left glove to make unlocking the door easier. I turn the key, and then the knob of the door and step into my warm house, “ugh,” I forgot the lights on again “that’s double the expense to next week’s electrical bill” I say to myself. I place my phone by the front door counter, remove my wet boots and dump them by the door. I close the door and lock it making sure it's locked I turn the knob again attempting to open it.

Melon my yellow pet parrot greats me with her croaky little voice. I chuck the keys onto the coffee table and reply with a “why hello to you too Melon” which she repeats. Still staring at the coffee table I notice an empty wine glass. Did I leave that there last night? Did I have wine last night or maybe this morning? … But … I don’t remember having any or maybe I did have some wine working with kids all day could make you do that. I pick the glass up, dump my handbag onto the floor and peel off my jacket.

Placing my jacket onto the couch I notice that the small decorated cushions are missing. I look over to the other two couches, and their cushions are missing too. Puzzled but tired, I ignore it and continue to focus on the newly arrived weekend, lavishing in thoughts of spoiling myself with junk food and series. Friday’s a perfect day to get back from work, just knowing that tomorrow you can sleep-in, watch Netflix and eat cookie dough all day melts all the hustles of the past week away. Excited I head for the kitchen to pour a cup of hot chocolate for myself. My face beams with anticipation; a weekend alone without Nancy dragging me out to clubs is exactly what I need.

A wave of shock hits me as I enter the kitchen, I lose my grip on the wine glass and it slips out of my hand smashing onto a wet kitchen floor. The kitchen sink is overflowing and the tap’s dripping. The floor is veiled in water and shattered glass from dishes that have been violently thrown around the room, broken glass floating in the water glitters like diamonds. Lids are missing from the cupboards, kitchen knives and forks are daggered into the cupboard shelves like darts. My refrigerator is tossed to its side with all the food thrown out onto the wet floor. Tiles are missing from the walls and writings are carved into parts of the walls. I look closely at the writings they spell out name N Y A S H A Y.  My name’s written over and over, on all the four kitchen walls and then crossed out, as if it were a mistake.

Who the hell did this, how the hell did they manage to get into my house and why of all places would they trash the kitchen? In my Scooby-Doo socks I carefully walk over to the sink stepping on parts of cupboard lids that were ripped off from their hinges and thrown carelessly onto the kitchen floor. I turn the tap off and removing the stopper I watch the water drain out.

A padding of footsteps begins to sound in the living room. My heart starts to race “Hello?” I call out, but no one replies and then the footsteps stop. “Hello, is anyone there?” I say, slowly stepping on the cupboard lids, heading back to the living room. I try to peep into the next room, to see if anybody is there.

“Aggghhhhh,” a high pitched croaky sound crackles in the air.

I lose my balance and splash into the pool of glass. I hear glass breaking under me, cutting my left thigh.

“Aggghhhhhh, hello, hello, is anyone there?” Melon’s sharp high pitched croaky voice repeats.

“Melon, you scared me,” I pick myself up and notice a piece of glass sticking out my thigh. I draw it out expecting it to have not gone too far in but my eyes extend in shock as the whole two inches comes out. Blood starts to gush out and spread through, my now wet, blue jean and a sharp pain follows almost immediately. I’ve got to take a look at that. I gently press the wound with my hand to try and stop the bleeding. Now looking at my hand I notice tiny pieces of glass gloving my hand. Freaked out my mouth gaps open as I gawk at my hand raising it to my face. Wincing in pain I use my other hand to pluck the splinters of glass off and stagger for the living room.

In the living room I see a shiny piece of paper placed on the coffee table. That’s strange it wasn’t there before. I walk over to the table and look down at the paper. My eyes bulge wide open, I start to breathe fast, and tears begin to well up, this isn’t happening. A whimper escapes my mouth. It’s a picture of him, a picture of us, but my face is missing it has been completely scratched out.

I slowly walk backwards and head for the front door. I look around the room for him is he still inside? Is he gone? Is it even him? But if it’s not him then who is it? With my back to the door, I reach for the doorknob and turn it – it’s locked, of course. My eyes wonder around the room searching for the keys but I can’t find them. Remembering that I chucked them on the coffee table I slowly stagger back - they aren’t there anymore. I crouch down as best as I can with my sore thigh, my right hand  padding the carpet underneath the coffee table for the keys – nothing.  I turn round and look at the counter for my cell phone – it’s gone, and so is my handbag. I get up and stagger over to the counter by the door for the landline phone but the cord has been cut – it is him.

I draw open the counter’s drawer and dig through the messy drawer, searching for the spare key. Instead I find another picture of the two of us. In this picture he has his arms wrapped round me and we’re kissing at a coffee shop flash backs of that day painfully flood my mind.  Part of the picture with my face has been scratched out just like the first picture. I take the picture out and turn it round. At the back it’s written in red “it’s all your fault, you did this and you’re going to pay for it, you’re going to die for it,” the red looks like blood but whose blood could it be? It didn’t matter I needed to leave. “I have to get out of here,” I gasp looking at the windows in the living room. They all have security grilles – put up as a measure to keep him out, but now, now they only served as my undoing, shutting me in with the monster.

“Hello? Is anyone there Qa . . .” I cover my mouth to stop myself from saying his name. I can’t say it, I won’t. Flashbacks of the day we took the picture at the park spring to memory. I haven’t thought about him for three whole years, I had successfully forgotten about that time in my life. An absurd amount of time and money spent on psychologists, medications and hypnosis managed to temporally put to rest the horrors that came with him and now a single picture drove back all the horrors of Qays. Qays, his name alone petrified me, what did he mean by ‘it was my fault?’ Composing myself I fight back the tears. If he was still inside then he could see me and there was nowhere to run and nowhere hide.

“Qays? Hello,” I finally call out.

“Aggghhh Qays …” Melon’s parroting follows, I shush her up and she obediently listens.

“Qays it’s not funny anymore where are you?” I say with a bit more buoyancy, trying not to sound scared, which was pointless as the trembling of my body gave it away. I start for the steps slowly and listen for a response, for his response.

If he wasn’t in the living room or kitchen then he must be upstairs, but that’s if he’s still in the house. Climbing the steps with my sore thigh I grip at the rails for support and call out for him again. Continuing up the steps I look down and find pieces of stuffing and material scattered on each step, the material’s pattern was from the missing cushions. I wobble up the next step and the walls catch my attention. The stairway walls are covered in scribbles, the scribbles are just like the scribbles in the kitchen, my cancelled name patterns over the two walls as I continue up the stairs. Finally at the top of the stairs I poke my head into the first room - the bathroom.

“Qays are you in here?” My shaky voice says as my eyes gawk into the room. The bathroom floor is wet and the tap’s dripping into a flooded sink. I wobble to the sink and tighten the loose tap. Moving on into the next room my heart thuds fast, its beating almost deafens my ears. I push the door open to my office – no one’s there. The room however, has been trashed, just like the kitchen and the bathroom. My laptop, desktop and glass table have been smashed to pieces and the walls are covered in scribbling’s of my name. The wooden floor is carpeted in my name; the marks look like a knife could have been used, and there placed on the floor was the instrument. A double ended knife covered in blood and saw dust.

Now at the last door my body shakes with anxiety of what or rather who I would find behind the door.

“Qays, Qays …” I push the door open and there standing right before the open door is Qays his hands covered in blood and scars. In one hand he has an open bottle of wine and in the other a silver gun, his eyes stare back, dead into mine.