I am an adult. That is strange to say. I’m 32 (well, practically), and I have memories of a past me, also an adult. It is odd to think this. People say things like, “If I could tell my teenage self to do …insert RESPONSIBLE ACT HERE…, I would!” But what of my adult self? She bristles at the thought of revisionist history, and I bristle on her behalf. Still, 32. Changed.

Thinking aloud. Read through my writing posted here. I haven’t written for pleasure in such awhile, and I remember it being fun. So, I shall resume, in whatever small way I can, under the radar, so that Future Giang does not see fit to interfere with me and tell me there are more productive ways I can spend my time.

I sat as still as possible while she paced, wringing her hands, a doppleganger of Lady MacBeth contemplating her damned soul roiling in The Pit.

The phone sat on the desk, ponderous with its lack of motion. It was red, the same color as her fingernails as they flashed in and out of sight, buried, then exhumed from her fists.

“Why hasn’t he called?” she demanded suddenly. Her hands flew up to frame her face, a sudden rictus of gruesome frenzy. “WHY?!”

She receded swiftly back to her side of the room, and began her pacing anew. Loudly, now, her heels scraped along the wooden floor, keeping a broken time with her irregular, jerky steps. Without seeing, without understanding, they trampled into the pool collecting by the door, and as she walked, she left large, dark streaks in her wake, and the streaks were red also, but darker than her fingernails, darker than the phone.

Mary began to tremble violently on the couch. I wanted to turn to her, to tell her not to move, not to dare move, but too late. Her nerve buckled, and she began sobbing wildly. “Please, please…”

The jerky steps stopped. Then, heavy and monstrous, they pounded against the shrieking floorboards towards the couch where Mary sat.

“PLEASE!?” she rasped mockingly in Mary’s face, “PLEASE!?”

The red phone, silent until now, belted out a wild trill as it was yanked from the wall and into those red, red hands. Mary recoiled, raising her arms to protect herself, a gesture of dread and hopeless supplication. Then she screamed.

And screamed and screamed until she didn’t scream any longer. The phone receiver dangled in the air madly, then crashed to the floor as she slipped away from Mary’s body and returned to where she had stood before, breathing hard, tears streaking down her cheeks, mottled in red. She sucked breath through her teeth, her eyes rolling backwards in her head as she clutched the hair at her temples and yanked, tearing one way and the other.

“Why…hasn’t…he…CALLED!?”

Stumbling slightly, she turned, shambled towards the door and flung it open.

She began to giggle. It welled up in her slowly at first, then consumed her body until she was doubled over with it, bright eyes flashing with uncontrollable laughter.

“See?” she gasped finally, eyes grown dark again. Grotesquely, she slid aside with a flourish. “See what I did! See what I did BECAUSE HE DIDN’T CALL!?”

The body hung outside, rope wound tightly around the head, a white, purplish rotted stump barely still connected at the severed neck. Experimentally, coyly, she reached out to touch it, and giggled delightedly as it swung at her touch, rocking back and forward by the rope.

Then, she turned, eyes half-lidded, a smile teasing at her lips as her eyes locked with mine.

“You’ve been so good,” she cooed. “So good. So much better than he was. I know you’ll call. Won’t you?

Eh…oops. That wrote itself. Too much Cthulhu Mythos lately? ;)