Deep Water

-four-

A man is sitting on the sofa beside me utterly still, eerily quiet. My heart starts beating wildly in my chest. Furious! I'm furious at myself for not noticing the stranger sooner. Furious at the man sitting quietly on my couch, violating my personal space with his unwelcome presence. But I must not think about that now; there will be a time to channel that blinding rage I feel, That time will come shortly, when I kick him into next week, making him wish that he never had the idiotic idea to sneak into my house. I push these hideously dark thoughts away for the moment and get into character. He's not going to know what happened. The thought makes me almost giggle. And... action!

"Aw crap!" playing it off like I forgot something, "Why can't I have the memory of someone of my age and GPA?" I "begrudgingly" walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge door.

"Where the heck is the chocolate syrup!" I feigned my search and slowly withdrew a kitchen knife from its wooden box stand, before turning back to the open fridge to search for the heaviest jar I can find. Yep, 128 ounces of pickles should do the trick. My next few steps were calculated. This son of a biscuit eater isn't going to get the jump on me again.

"There you are!" I exclaim grabbing the "chocolate syrup" (a.k.a. The giant jar of jalapeno pickles). Letting out a squeal of delight, I kick the fridge door shut, gag internally at the forced girliness, and silently step the pickles at the end of the counter, their time will come to shine. Toeing my way to the stranger's back and readying my knife, I can't help but feel a little sorry for the guy. He probably thought this house was some easy target, but boy is he going to be figuring out how very wrong he was! When I get close enough, I quickly curve my arm around his neck, pressing the knife blade into his trachea hard enough that the message is clear: I'm about to mess you up.

"I don't know who you are or why you're here, but your gonna wish you resided on an entirely different planet by the end of this little dance," I whispered into his ear, trying to sound as threatening as possible.

"Well that's sweet and all but, Ms. Paine, I think you will regret not having a civil conversation with me." Am I sensing amusement in his tone? Before I can answer my own question, he is throwing me over his shoulder. I land on the coffee table in front of him... hard. At least I managed to hold onto the knife. God, I'm making a fool of myself. I thought, scrabbling to regain my balance. I launch myself at him, balling my fist, and about four inches from his face, he catches my hand and pushes me away.

"You are seriously still sitting there?" I yell in his face.

"You're not a challenging opponent," he admitted. His voice resembled a purr and sounded so familiar.

Where had I heard that voice before? Wait, no time for that, Maggie! Kinda in a one-ended fight here!

Hurling myself over the couch, I grabbed the jar of pickles.

"I'm done with this fight!"

"Well thank --" he didn't get to finish his thought. He can thank me for that. Channeling all my strength, I smashed the jar across his head, causing him to slump into the plush couch and the pickle jar to shatter, covering his jeans -- and my couch -- in pickle juice.

"Alright. Well, you're unconscious." I groan. What the heck am I supposed to do with an unconscious body?