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She sat quietly at the foot of the bed, staring at her purple toenails in the darkness of the room. She was used to darkness now, because of him. And while she wasn’t used to the chillness of the room, she’d take it any day over sleeping in the bed with him, with his cottony embrace.
He was asleep in the bed. His breathing was even, calm, relaxed, as if nothing was wrong. But something was eating away at her. Her stomach was upset and she felt cold. But of course he didn’t notice.
Why would he notice, anyway ?, she asked herself. He doesn’t care. Flashes of the parking lot materialized before her eyes in vivid detail. Every streetlight, every empty rundown car, every rock she stubbed her toe on running away from him. She was just leaving the carnival, on her way home, and then he drove up alongside her in his carnation pink sportscar.
She had said no. She said it so many times, she shook her head, she kept checking the time, she flipped him the bird, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t leave her alone.
He was fed up, and he got out of his vehicle. He yelled, he said he wanted her. He said she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Then he said she was disgusting and she’d never find someone else who loved her.
She was confused. She was scared. And all she wanted was for him to go away. But he wouldn’t.
He tried to grab her.
She ran. Faster than she ever had, fear energizing every cell in her body.
It wasn’t enough.
When he grabbed her, she screamed. She kicked. She punched him. She clawed and scratched, but to no avail.
When he got sick of her screaming, he threw her down. Her head collided with the pavement and the pain brought tears to her eyes. But he didn’t care.
There were cuts and bruises on his face and arms, but it didn’t bother him. He wanted her, and he was going to get what he wanted. He lifted his fingers to his bleeding cheek and pulled them away, eyeing the blood on his fingertips.
“Nice try,” he said. He knelt down next to her, a sick smile plastered across his face. “Tag. You’re it.”
***
The next morning she sat at the pale blue and gold table, wearing a light pink, frilly, collared dress. A teeny platter with a single chocolate chip cookie and a tall glass of milk sat before her. On the other end of the circular table, the layout was similar. Except he wasn’t there yet to make it complete. She stared straight ahead, her doll-like face emotionless and stoic.
She didn’t sleep the night before. She wanted to, though. She wanted to sleep without fear, to sleep without being smothered by her captor. And now it was her turn to be fed up.
She had searched through the almost maze like house and stumbled upon a room that seemed to belong to a girl. It's huge closet was filled with dresses, and she took it upon herself to pick the very best one, like he had with her.
When she got into the kitchen, she saw the blue table, and that’s when she got the idea.
She rummaged through his cabinets, finding an abundance of dishes. She set on the table two drinking glasses, two small gold-trimmed platters, and a bigger gold platter, which went in the center.
Then she got to baking. In his pantry, she found every ingredient she needed, except vanilla.
And when her eyes caught the teeny bottle decorated with a skull and crossbones, her previous idea suddenly included murder. And she didn’t need vanilla anymore, or the buttercream icing she planned on making.
She smiled to herself, smugly.
*
She wondered how he didn’t wake up, as the house was filled with the scent of freshly baked cookies. It’s no matter, she thought to herself, pulling the cookies out of the oven.
She filled the center platter with the cookies, and then placed one on each smaller platter for him and her.
Then she found the milk. She checked to make sure the expiration date hadn’t passed, and it hadn’t, which was no good. She poured it in both of the glasses anyway, and then poured a heavy dose of vinegar in his glass to make it spoil. And she spit in it for good measure.
Then she sat down. And she waited. After what seemed like hours of staring into the distance and being alone with her abyss of thoughts, he finally came into the kitchen.
“Sucking up, huh ?” He chuckled, surveying the cookies. “Nothing you do will get me to go away.”
She grinned, knowing that wasn't true.
“But,” he said, pulling out his chair and sitting down, “keep playing nice and maybe I won’t tell anyone.”
She nodded, still smiling. “Okay. Thank you.” Eat the goddamned cookie, she thought.
“Glad you understand,” he said, grabbing his cookie. “Chocolate chip,” he observed. “My favorite. How’d you know?” he asked, a sickening grin spreading across his face.
She shrugged. “Everyone likes chocolate.”
He took a bite. “These are pretty good. Could use more sugar, though.”
“Oh. Thank you,” she said, her anticipation soaring through the roof. Just a few minutes more and the lullaby's over…
He took a gulp of milk, and his face puckered. “This milk is sour. I could’ve sworn I just bought it…”
“You did. I checked the date.”
“Well then--”
“Oh, I made it sour.”
“Huh ?” His eyebrows furrowed.
“And for the cookies, you said they didn’t have enough sugar,” she grinned like a cheshire cat, “I had to substitute. I used a bit of sugar, with a whole lot of poison.”
“What ?” He laughed. “You’re joking, right ?”
“No.” Her expression turned sour. “You treated me like an object, a piece of cake. Well, if I’m a piece of cake, you’re a piece of meat, you cunt!”
“Wait--” he choked out, his eyes going back and forth between the cookies and milk and her. “You don’t have to--” he tried, coughing and clutching his chest.
“I already did!” she screamed, smiling evilly.
And that's when she decided he wasn't dying fast enough, and she was sick of his pitiful coughing. She rose out of her seat and set off for the kitchen counter. She scanned the counter, finding a pleasing assortment of kitchen knives.
Looking back at him, she pulled out a large chef’s knife. “This one good ?”
“Please--” He started coughing.
“So it’s good ? Great.”
“No--please don’t--”
“Listen, I’m letting you pick, but if you don’t want to, then…” She smiled, her teeth glistening.
He got up out of his seat.
“Don’t try running,” she said, remembering when she tried that in the parking lot. Chef’s knife in hand, she lunged for him, her legs kicking her to a full sprint.
He was just as fast as he had been in the parking lot. But this time, somehow, she was faster.
She caught up to him and punched him in the chest.
“I fucking hate you,” she said.
“I’m--”
She shoved him into the ground, and his head hit the tile in a tremendous crack. Then she climbed on top of him, her knees digging into the insides of his elbows.
“Tag,” she said, raising the blade above her head. Looking him in his fearful eyes, she brought it down quickly, stabbing his chest. “You’re it.”
***