Short Story
Oversight
Nonsensical screams echo in the small space where it hides. The screaming figure is twisted and deformed. In other words, it is a beast. It rears its ugly head and screams, over and over again in the dark.
The monster is feared. It adheres to a strict and obscure lifestyle. This lifestyle, austere as it is, allows the creature to live waste-free, each minute spent intentionally. It is constantly on the move and lives among us with few possessions. It hates clutter and is always looking to minimize. Each time it ventures elsewhere, it transforms and alters its preferences to suit its new disguise.
The lady arrives in New York City. Her remarkable loveliness and refined comportment attract the attention of surrounding passersby. She appears so very harmless and soft. Outside the airport, a snowstorm wreaks havoc on the city. The lady layered a fitted turtleneck sweater with a fluffy coat the color of warm mocha. She pulls her thick coat tighter around her dainty figure. Her heeled boots click on the floor and the gold on her handbag glistens. She has a single suitcase made out of the finest white leather.
She looks expensive, a man thinks. He takes in her dark red mouth drawn tight on her thin, pale face. Her black eyes, framed with voluminous lashes, are too large for her face. No wedding ring on her thin fingers. She isn’t married and no one is with her. He has the urge to make conversation. “Aren’t you cold?”, he asks tentatively.
The lady smooths her perfect curls away from her face. She glances over at him, her beautiful face devoid of expression. Turning away without saying a word, she briskly glides to the exit, baggage in tow.
He persists. Tagging along, he says, “A dame like you shouldn’t be alone in the cold, in a big city like this. Let me take you where you’re going.”
Its last victim had been a man, surname Gotlieb. Despite being in his mid-twenties, he was oddly mature for his age, wise beyond his years. He often talked about deep, unapologetic love and what this bizarre concept entailed. He said it’s about not giving up. Not judging. Acknowledging an individual’s flaws and moving past them, particularly if the other person is willing to and can change for the better. Wholesome love takes time. It involves continuous growth and evolution. One needs to have the capacity to accept someone for everything he or she is, not scared away or horrified if some standard isn’t met. Not forced. Both parties need to be ready to love and commit. True love is exhausting yet never tiring of one another. Unconditional. Supportive. Mature. Undying. No empty, unfulfilled promises. There should be levity but that’s not all a relationship is.
All this talk about love was dizzying. Gotlieb drained Its patience all too soon. It contemplates the last day It spent with Gotlieb. They were at his house in Los Angeles, lounging outside by the pool. The scorching August sun, high in the sky, shone down on them. A little bird, seemingly without an ounce of fear, chirped in front of them, gazing at them. The small bird flew off soon enough, only to return and dance along the water of the pool. The bird, mid-flight, dipped its little feet and wings in the water to cool off.
It observed the bird as Gotlieb obliviously went on with one of his philosophical tangents. During times like that, It pondered whether pursuing Gotlieb was worth the trouble. It chose its victims carefully.
Gotlieb had assets, brains, youthful good looks, and no one to miss him should he mysteriously disappear. Nuisance as he was, It is only managing with his money. This mustachioed, older man pestering It presumably has little, if anything, to offer It. It appraises him with disgust.
“Have you come here before?” Seeing her reluctance to engage and assuming she is reserved, and rightfully so as a proper lady should be, he plows on, “If not, it isn’t safe for a lady like you. Honestly, I don’t mean any harm. I just arrived here myself but I’ve been here before for my work. I know the place well.”
She, It, stares at this man, and figures hitching a ride with him would be fine. It, as coolly as possible, finally replies, “Alright then.” He smiles kindly and flags a taxi down. He loads his bulky backpack into the car and helps her with her suitcase. She gets in and tells the driver where she is going. The old man, climbing in next to her, exclaims, “What a coincidence! I always stay at that hotel when I come to the City!”
Their hotel is in Manhattan. On the way there, It learns the man is a retired History professor from Ohio who is presently honing his photography skills. He is a widower with a grown daughter. It, she, reminds him of her. His name is Edgar.
It quietly listens and detects an opportunity, after all. His photography work requires him to stay in New York for four days. That’s enough time for me to get something out of him, It thinks. It hadn’t planned to stay in New York for too long anyway.
Edgar wants to show her, It, around the City as soon as possible. It makes the excuse of needing to rest and unpack a few things but tells him they can meet up early the next day. They’ll have breakfast together in the hotel’s dining room.
The next day is Friday. It wears dark red lipstick and tiny gold hoop earrings. It knots its hair into a neat bun and puts on a flattering cream pantsuit, wraps a black and white cashmere houndstooth scarf around the swanlike neck, and slips into a heavy olive coat. It steps into sleek, buckled black booties with flat, comfortable soles. It shoulders a simple black leather tote. Ready for breakfast with Edgar.
Downstairs, Edgar is already seated at a table. He warmly greets her. He pours himself a coffee and adds three creams and two sugars. It drinks a black coffee with one eye on a book and the other furtively watching Edgar read the day’s newspaper.
The two chat over their eggs and toast. Edgar shows her a bullet-point list of the places they should visit and in what order. MOMA will be their first destination.
Throughout the day, Edgar takes a few photos. When night falls, they go back to the hotel and have dinner together. Edgar seems to see himself as a fatherly tour guide. She, It, doesn’t mind because It has formulated a devious plan.
After dinner, Edgar is beat and ready to hit the sack early. But Isa, who reminds him of his only daughter he rarely talks to anymore, requests to review the photos he took and wonders if he has more work or a portfolio to show her. He is tired but finds he can’t turn her down. He invites her to his suite, coincidentally a floor beneath hers.
It saw his worn face and decided to carry out the plan tonight. Plus, It can’t bear another day of sight-seeing and Edgar’s incessant ramblings. Plates cleared, Edgar leads the way to his suite. He unlocks his door and holds it open for It to walk in.
They sit down together for a smoke in the sitting room. Edgar fires up the electric fireplace. When It insists to see his past work, he stubs out his cigarette, retreating into his study and returning with a large black binder half-full of photographs.
Edgar watches Isa poring over his photos, page by page, with one hand, her cigarette in the other. She questions him every so often about a photo that catches her eye. She seems taken by a sepia beach. She looks up at him and beams. She proposes they drink to the continuation and completion of Edgar’s beautiful portfolio.
“Splendid idea! Let me have them bring up wine.” He makes a phone call and twenty minutes later, someone knocks and gives Edgar two bottles of Chardonnay in ice. They drink. Isa takes tiny sips and keeps her eyes on the photo portfolio. Edgar is yakking about favorite History lessons he enjoyed teaching back in the day and gulping down glass after glass of wine. He taught European History.
An hour later, Edgar isn’t plastered but he is obviously drunk and sleepy. It checks inside Its tote and subtly moves the two knives buried at the bottom to the top so that It can reach them quickly at the right moment.
Its moment comes in a matter of minutes. Suddenly, Edgar sees red and doesn’t know what hit him. It moves so rapidly that Edgar doesn’t even have the chance to cry out before he crumples and life leaves him.
After It’s certain Edgar is dead, It carries his body to the roomy bathroom. It drops the corpse into the bathtub where It begins cutting away at what’s left of Edgar. All It wants to do is consume Edgar’s brain and heart to nourish itself. It is after every man’s brain and heart. Any financial assets he leaves behind come in handy too.
