A sudden sharp stabbing pain in my side.
My eyes snap open. I jolt awake and sit straight up.
Like someone in a movie, waking from a nightmare.
I don't know where I am.
My eyes dart back and worth. Wildly.
I feel exposed. I am exposed.
In my fanciest underwear and sheer black thigh highs.
I place the round room. Fire pit. Candles. Floor cushion.
Right. Peter's apartment. The weird room. I dozed off.
Where is my dress?
I look around. Don't see it.
Peter stands beside the fire pit, his back to me. The flames leap and caper. He has stoked the fire up.
I'm about to speak to him when, suddenly, I don't.
It's hard to explain. My mouth is open. My lips are forming the shape of his name. And then I freeze, mid-syllable.
Pre-syllable really.
I don't speak. Instead, I listen. And look.
I'm, like, hyper-listening and hyper-looking.
Peter has changed clothes. He's wearing what looks like a black silk robe. But not a bathrobe. Not that kind of robe. More like something a judge would wear. Or a priest maybe.
He's talking. To whom, I'm not sure. Not to me. I was out of it until about two seconds ago. Peter is well into whatever he's saying. Very animated. Waving his hands.
I don't understand a word. Sounds like more Chaldean.
He tosses a handful of something into the fire. Salt or sand or I don't know. The flames leap and turn dark purple. Thick smoke boils up and is drawn through some hidden vents in the ceiling.
It's kind of cool. A neat trick.
Even cooler? All the candle flames turn purple too.
The five red candles at the points of the star around the fire pit. All the dozens of candles on the shelves around the walls. The five black candles around Peter.
And the five purple candles around the floor cushion I'm on.
Which are new.
As in, those weren't there when I came in.
I distinctly remember all the candles were red or black.
Were there seriously not enough candles burning in here already? I'm all for romantic mood lighting, but he had to light five more and put them around me while I was passed out in my underwear?
That's when I realize something.
I really have to pee.
Like, really bad.
I know. I went at Barbat.
But I have an abnormally small bladder. It's a thing.
I mean, that's not doctor confirmed. It's not a medical condition exactly. I just have to go a lot.
Especially after three glasses of wine.
Fine. Three and a half.
Plus the sparkling water. With lime.
Point is, I had a sudden urgent need to excuse myself to the little girl's room.
And no idea where it was.
Peter, meanwhile, is getting into his Chaldean. His voice is urgent. Insistent. Like a drill sergeant barking orders. But in a sing-song cadence. It's almost a chant.
He seems a bit preoccupied.
I decide I'll find that bathroom myself.
And then my dress. My shoes. And my purse.
Followed by a cab.
This date has officially turned weird.
Chanting? Oh yeah. Mols is gonna love this one.
Worse than the plate licker.
Seriously. I once went on a first — and only — date with a guy who licked his dinner plate at the end of the meal. In public. In a restaurant. Picked that sucker up and licked it clean.
Yeah, no goodnight kiss for you.
I notice a door behind me. Not the door we came in. Different door. I figure maybe it leads to one of the five powder rooms Peter mentioned this place has. And which I should have availed myself of sooner, no doubt.
I stand up.
Too fast.
Blood rush. Dizzy. Light-headed.
Also, silk stockings and marble floors don't mix.
I slip.
I yelp.
Pratfall. Right on my butt.
Luckily, I hit the floor pillow.
It slides across the floor. Upends two fat purple candles.
Fire meets pillow.
The pillow is on fire. And I'm on the pillow.
I shriek.
This gets Peter's attention. Interrupts his freaky chant.
I panic.
I have an inordinate fear of burning pillows. Long story.
I roll off the pillow onto the cool marble floor and then, without thinking, I kick the pillow to get it away from me.
Like a fluffy freight train, it slides across the floor toward Peter, knocking over more candles as it goes. Red and black.
Peter turns. Our eyes meet.
I gasp.
His face that was so dreamy, gorgeous, kissable, adoring — it isn't anymore.
Same face. But completely different.
Like there is someone behind those dark blue eyes other than the charming, witty, sexy man I had dinner with.
The guy who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world a couple of hours ago? Gone.
Black robe Peter? He looks at me like I'm an insignificant speck of nothing. All intense. Like a crazy person.
Scary.
Even more scary?
The knife in his hand.
Long blade. Sharp point.
Peter says what sounds like a very bad word in Chaldean.
He take a step toward me.
Then the sliding, burning pillow hits his feet.
A sheet of flame races up Peter's robe.
Whatever the fabric is, it's obviously not flame retardant.
In an instant, Peter's whole body is on fire.
I scream. Strangely, he doesn't.
He walks right across the burning remnants of the pillow and keeps coming toward me.
He raises the knife.
That isn't what scares me the most.
Behind Peter the purple flames dance in the pit. The thick black smoke boils and billows. In the depths of that smoke a form emerges. The obscured outlines of ... something.
Something not human. Something I can't see clearly.
Something wrong. Something that shouldn't be.
I can't describe its shape. I don't want to try.
It keeps flowing and shifting.
The smoke, I could say, is an optical illusion.
I could say that.
But that doesn't explain the eyes.
Two luminous purple eyes floating in the smoke. Floating in the middle of that shape. Floating and watching.
My eyes meet those eyes and it freezes me.
But not for long. Because Peter. On fire.
Lunging at me with a knife.
Shouting obscenities and calling me several very nasty names.
And not in Chaldean.
I was so wrong about this guy.
I scream. Grab at the door behind me.
Locked.
I shrink against it as Peter closes in.
I smell him burning.
"No! Get away from me!" I shout. I say some other things.
I'm pretty hysterical. His face is on fire. His hair is gone.
Peter slashes at me with the knife.
I duck. He misses.
He grabs for me. I dodge past him.
Junior high P.E. class saves my life.
True story. In junior high P.E. we played dodgeball. I think they banned this game later. It is damaging to children's self-esteem to get repeatedly smacked in the face with a big red rubber playground ball flying 30 mph. I hated it. But participation was mandatory. Builds character, the coaches said.
I was terrible at throwing. I couldn't hit the side of the gym, much less a moving target. But I got to be very good at dodging. Very good at getting out of the way of something unpleasant coming at me.
Big red ball. Crazy human torch with a knife.
Either way, the trick is anticipate. Be where it isn't.
I duck under Peter's arm.
I do a stocking slide across the room.
This time silk on marble works for me.
I try the other door. The one we came in.
Locked.
Peter, still raging and flaming, chases me.
He really should drop and roll.
I do the only thing I can.
Take a two step running start and slide past the spooky fire pit. I put the fire between Peter and me.
The glowing eyes, thankfully, are gone.
The smoke is still thick. The flames are not purple.
Peter goes left. I go right. He reverses. So do I.
The pit stays between us. I notice Peter stays outside the red circle around the red star. I do the same.
It's a crazy game of keep away.
As in keep away from me.
We round the pit a couple of times.
He says things I can't repeat.
How is he still on his feet? How is he still moving?
Skin is melting right off of him. His blackened flesh sizzles and smokes. He smells like burnt meat.
Honestly, fall down already.
Unfortunately, I fall first.
Stockings on slick stone. Sudden changes of direction.
Bad combination.
I lose my balance. Flail. Go to my knees.
Peter is around the pit and beside me before I can get up.
I scramble backwards to get away from him.
Toward the fire pit. Across the red line.
Peter follows. He leans over me. Grabs for me with one hand, thrusts the knife with the other.
I lose it. I roll, thrash, kick, squirm to get away.
My foot connects with his ankle.
He's off-balance. In an awkward posture. He falls toward me.
I roll. He reaches. Falls face first into the fire pit.
The flames swell. A shower of sparks billows out. Streamers of smoke shoot toward the ceiling.
Peter rolls over. The knife...
He has fallen onto his own knife. It is embedded in his gut. Angled up under his ribs.
He reaches for me. Tries to sit up. Croaks something.
He falls back. Doesn't move.
His upper body is in the pit with only his charred legs sticking out. The stink of burnt skin and hair is horrible.
I scramble backwards across the floor until my back hits the wall. I'm shaking. Crying. Losing it and losing it some more.
I vomit. Half on myself, half on the floor. Look, I'll spare you the details of color and consistency. Let's agree it was a nasty spew. A total give back of dinner. And dessert.
My gut churns a few dry heaves. My throat vibrates. My teeth chatter. I'm shivering. Suddenly very cold. Going into shock.
All at once the candles go out. The only remaining light is from the flames consuming Peter. It's ghastly.
I scream. And no longer need to find the powder room.
A strange, gruff voice — definitely not Peter's — says "Well, well, well. Looks like we have ourselves a situation."
I freeze.
The voice is coming from inside the pit.
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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.
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