First Impressions

Chapter IV: Stalkers Don't Go Unpunished

"Ashton!" I screamed at the top of my lungs very early Sunday morning.

I was currently standing in the guest bedroom, looking out the back window in horror. What had led me to this? Quite literally, I had followed a trail of green beans up the staircase, into the bedroom, and the rest of the way to the window.

Why was I screaming? Well, it had a little something to do with the disastrous array of floating objects covering the Savvonskis' swimming pool. Though it was a bit of a jaunt from the second floor to the pool, I thought I could make out paper forks, spoons, wood chips, and some other shiny silver things. And there were hundreds of them.

"Ashton!" I yelled again, this time turning to slam my palm against the wall between us.

At first there was nothing, but then I heard a muffled laugh coming from the adjacent room. Unable to contain myself, I screamed in fury and stomped one foot hard against the wooden floor. I wanted to barge into his room and shake him, but I instead raced out of the room and down the stairs, taking them three or four at a time.

Then, doubling my pace, I charged out of the house and around it to the back where the dreaded swimming pool lay in wait. It didn't even register that Ashton had followed me. No, I was too preoccupied with heatedly storming across the deck toward the pool and debating how to scoop out all the objects without completely drenching myself in the process.

I briefly considered trying to find some kind of net to do the job, but thought against it, mostly because my anger didn't have the patience for any of that meticulous thinking. I yanked off my glasses and left them on a deck chair. I guess I'll just have to get wet.

That thought, however, didn't stop me from pausing at the edge of the pool, stooping down, and leaning over to snatch some of the paperclips—the shiny objects I'd noted earlier. I had probably picked up about eight of them, when his voice interrupted me.

"Don't you think a net would work better?"

Jolting in surprise—and hating myself more for it—I, still clutching the paperclips in my hands, rose to my feet abruptly and spun around to confront the butthead. He was leaning against the back wall of the house, but he pushed himself away from it the second I turned.

I was surprised and somewhat alarmed to see the dangerous smirk on his face as his lips opened to form three dreadful words, "Good morning, stalker."

I felt my heart stop for two full seconds, and I ceased breathing. Any plans I'd had for confrontation had suddenly been flipped in my face.

Does he know? How could he know? Is it just an assumption?

I opened my mouth to reply with what I hoped would be the redeeming words I needed, but all I got out was a pathetic, "I'm not a stalker."

Smiling sadistically, Ashton returned with, "Yes, you are. And in my house, stalkers don't go unpunished."

My eyes widened as he took three threatening steps toward me and I retreated two steps back. Meanwhile, my brain was trying desperately to form a coherent thought that would sum up what was happening and why, but it unsurprisingly came up blank.

And then it didn't matter anymore, because my left foot hit the rim of the pool. It all seemed to happen instantaneously—before I could blink, Ashton's hands shot out and collided with my shoulders. Then I was flying backwards, filling a moment of a rigid and sinking stillness before the ultimate crash.

Suddenly my back was harshly hitting the cool water, and then I was sinking, with two walls of water climbing above me on both sides. My arms were wrenched upward by the resisting water, and my nose and mouth were filled.