Sunday Scribblings #229 - Dangerous

The foghorn’s melancholy wail warned of what was to come. Oblivious to the danger lurking outside, Monique Thibodaux picked up her sweater and prepared to leave J. G. Clancy’s Seafood Grill. The door to Fisherman’s Wharf opened, revealing a world shrouded in mist, street lights hidden within the nebulosity of the city by the bay.

Footsteps echoed over the wharf. Monique paused to listen, yet nothing but eerie silence surrounded her. A sense of foreboding pushed her toward the car parked in the blackness of Pier 47. Even though visibility was severely limited, Monique located the sleek, black Mercedes her father had given her the day she left for San Francisco. She opened her purse and reached inside, relieved to feel the key’s jagged edges. She unlocked the door and was about to sit down when he appeared. His strong hands gripped her upper arms from behind, dragged her back out, before shoving her against the car. She struggled unsuccessfully against the man’s steely grip. His hot breath skimmed her cheek, sending ripples of fear racing down her spine.

A familiar voice whispered, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Monique turned when the assailant loosened his grip, “You scared me! What are you doing here?”

“Watching you,” he spit, tightening his hold on her arms.

“You’re upset. What’s wrong?” His voice was low, accusing, “You know what’s wrong. You’re a slut, that’s what. Why are you sneaking around behind my back with Avery?”

Trying to subdue his barely contained fury, Monique laughed awkwardly, “I wasn’t with Avery. I was having dinner with a few friends from art class. Avery is with Jennifer.” Monique tilted her head, forcing a smile. In what was meant to be a teasing voice, she asked, “Are you jealous?”

The man’s hands inched toward Monique’s delicate neck, “I saw you leaning toward him, laughing, whispering together. How long have you been sleeping with him?”

Monique’s smile faded, recognizing the rage he had promised to control after the last time, and the time before that. Her skin paled under the thick layer of makeup, strategically applied to hide the ugly bruises his temper left on her face. “I’m not sleeping with him. I told you, he’s only a friend who happened to be sitting next to me. I came here to be with my friends, not Avery.”

“Liar,” he said through clenched teeth. Vice-like fingers surrounded her neck, thumbs moved slowly up and down over her throat, emphasizing its vulnerability. Monique grabbed his wrists and pulled, desperate to release the hands constricting the flow of life-giving oxygen, but he was too strong. Darkness compressed her vision, leaving only tiny specks of light, and then nothing.

Monique regained consciousness in the trunk of a car. She tried to move, but couldn't. Her wrists were tied to her ankles, making any movement impossible. The car made a right turn, drove up a rough incline, and came to a stop at the crest of the hill. The driver got out, slamming the door behind him. A dim light came on when the trunk clicked open, allowing a brief glimpse of the demented face above her. He untied her ankles, and then dragged her out of the car by the hair. Her screams were muted by the gray tape covering her mouth. She struggled against the heavy rope still binding her wrists, helpless to save herself.

As he dragged her across the rough terrain, Monique tried to block out the pain with thoughts of Oliver. Monique was in love with Oliver, yet while he was away on an extended trip, she betrayed that love by sleeping with Jerry. She thought Jerry was charming and kind, now she knew the truth. He no longer tried to hide the dangerous monster within his soul.  When Monique told Oliver about Jerry, Oliver left, slamming the door behind him. She had betrayed the only man she would ever love, and now she was faced with the enormity of that mistake.

Jerry lifted her body over a fence, dropping her on rock covered ground. Through a break in the fog, she saw the dark orange towers and flashing red beacons of Golden Gate Bridge. Her tormentor glared down at her. His crazed eyes told her she would soon find refuge from the pain.

Monique didn’t cry out when she saw the knife, the foghorn moaned for her. She lay still, quietly accepting the blade as it pierced her heart.

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