The Predator

A short fictional sketch.

In my mind, I hear his voice. I don’t even remember exactly what he said but there was a knock on the trailer door and immediately the door opened outward as he spoke. I was lying on the bed with my sister, Kate, and my niece, watching a TV show for some much needed humor.

I remember thinking it rude of him to open the door without waiting for an answer when three women were inside. Kate rolled off and went to the door and stepped out of the trailer instantly. I was flooded with relief because I didn’t want to see him and pretend to have friendly feelings toward him and yet I didn’t want to see him and cause friction by not being polite. Not seeing him at all was best and exactly as I would have picked at the time.

But now, when I replay it in my mind, I think maybe it should have gone differently. Maybe as she stepped back into the trailer, I should have been on my way out to end his life. To stop his breath before he stopped hers. To blow a hole in his chest as wide as the one that I felt in my chest when I knew he had taken Kate’s life.

Of course, I didn’t have a gun. But sometimes I imagine I did. I imagine being able to stop him and save her. Yes, I know it is ridiculous. I know I have never even held a gun in my hand and wouldn’t know how to use it. I know that if I had used it there would have been no way to explain what I did and why- other than the sick feeling he gave me in the pit of my stomach. It would have been the only way to end the helpless feeling I had.

Hindsight is 20/20. At the time I told myself, it wasn’t any of my business. It was her life to lead. That I couldn’t make a difference. That Kate already knew what I thought of him. And most importantly, that maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I thought he was.

If only I had known that my gut was right. You can’t explain it really. It seems to not be logically supported and yet you feel the mistrust inside yourself.

The first and only time I met him, he seemed fairly normal. Sure he looked a little seedy but I don’t generally judge. He was polite enough and very quiet. What was unusual was the way he watched me. I couldn’t put words to it at first except to say it was unusual. As women, we have all been watched. It wasn’t in a way that was familiar. He wasn’t being polite or indifferent or judgmental. He wasn’t undressing me with his eyes. He was taking notes on me in his head- like I was animal in a science experiment. When I look back now, I know that it was the way a predator watches his prey while hiding in the shadows. A wolf pretending to be a lamb but salivating at all the fat meals to come.

Now, I enjoy meals in my head. They are less filling and my stomach still feels empty. My heart still hurts but my hatred is a little satiated when I picture his brains in pieces all around him. So sad really, that the cops had no one to call to inform of his death. He had already killed the only person on this earth that loved him.