Sweet Mystery Of Life
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The first time I ever saw that man, I was fifteen. He’d been in my bedroom when no one else had ever entered it before; I knew he’d be back as soon as he could find the right moment to come and say hello.
My mother was always there for me whenever she could be found, but she was often busy with work and other things, so a lot of people never got an opportunity to meet her. They all assumed she lived on our farm full-time, because they were always asking if she would consider moving into town permanently, or even out to live with us on the property in some capacity.
She wasn’t against the idea at all — I’ve seen her laugh about it with my sister’s boyfriend and his father before now — but she loved being independent and having her own space. She couldn’t stand the thought of someone telling her what to do, especially not someone who might try to take advantage of her kindness. It didn’t help that she felt like such an outsider living here.
That first day, I remember feeling excited and nervous at once. We hadn’t known each other very long by then — two months since we’d moved into the house. I can recall sitting up in bed and seeing him standing over me, holding a single rose.
He smiled down at me when he noticed me staring at his gift, and he reached down to place a hand on the mattress next to my shoulder. His eyes seemed to shine through mine and fill me with a sense of warmth and comfort as he said, “This is beautiful.”
Then he pulled the blanket aside and sat down on the edge of the bed beside me while I stared at the rose. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and looked from its vibrant pink petals to my wide-eyed smile and asked, “Do you think I should leave?”
“Yes,” I laughed.
He shrugged and smiled back at me, saying, “Okay.” The door closed behind him, leaving only a few strands of his hair hanging in front of his face, like a dark curtain. After he left, I took the rose to my lips and breathed in its sweet scent.
It felt good to have someone looking after me for a change, even if I didn’t know who he really was. A part of me hoped that maybe someday I would figure it out, though I knew better than to hope too hard. But I still wanted to look forward to whatever he came up with; it gave me something to focus on besides myself and how much I hated where we were forced to live.
Weeks passed without anything happening; I spent most of my days doing nothing more exciting than helping my mother around the house or playing games online with the rest of my family. Once in a while, I’d catch myself staring through the windows of the barn hoping to see the man again, but I never did.
I tried asking my parents who this man was, but neither of them had any idea who he might be. When we finally decided to go outside and cut back on the grass one sunny afternoon, I heard a sound coming from the field across the road that made me turn toward the woods.
There, near the fence, stood a woman and a small boy staring back at us. As they stepped onto the road towards us, I realized that the woman was wearing old jeans and a flannel shirt; she even had a pair of thick boots on. Her hair was long and blond, and when I saw her blue eyes peeking out of her hooded sweatshirt, I recognized her as my neighbor’s wife.
Their son was just a year older than me, but he looked younger than he actually was. He was probably around ten years old, which meant he’d been born after I arrived in their neighborhood. We’d met several times before, but we’d never really spoken beyond polite greetings. Now, however, we started exchanging hellos and friendly waves right away.
She greeted us with a warm smile and told us both how nice it was to meet us. She was the kind of person who seemed completely genuine, but I still couldn’t help but wonder if her husband’s appearance was going to cause problems for us. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he was glaring at my mother for a second, and then I wondered if he would start harassing her now that he knew where she lived. My mind raced with possibilities as the three of us headed off to mow the lawn for the day.
A week later, I found myself running into the woman on her way into town. She was smiling brightly at me while my mom waited behind us to pay for our groceries. I waved back at her and called out, “Hello!”
My heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt my hands tremble when she turned to wave back at me. She smiled wider and nodded to show she understood my response, then walked away. I watched her until she got out of sight, and I wondered why she’d done that.
For a moment, I thought about trying to follow her home to see where she lived, but a part of me felt uncomfortable being so close to her.
The following night, I dreamt of the woman. In the middle of my sleep, she appeared beside me on the bed, and we were both naked under the sheets. We stared into each other’s eyes, and she touched my cheek with her fingertips.
Our faces moved closer to one another, and our lips almost touched. Just when our lips were inches apart, there was a loud knock at the door. When we broke apart, I saw that someone was watching through the peephole on the outside of the door.
The woman disappeared in the blink of an eye, and I woke up suddenly, startled by what I’d just seen. Even after I managed to fall back asleep, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
That Saturday morning, a man wearing the same clothes as last time drove past in his car while we were working in the yard. I noticed him because he was driving too slowly down the road instead of keeping up with the traffic. My mother stopped and leaned over my shoulder, and I pointed the car out to her. She frowned and said, “I’ll talk to him when he comes around again.”
After that, we barely spoke to anyone for weeks. We didn’t have much choice; we had no one else to interact with except for each other. Sometimes, my mother would get upset with me when she caught me staring at strangers on the street.
But she never let it show. One evening, we were all sitting together at the dinner table, and I asked my dad if he would ever tell me something about this woman he knew. I wanted to know why she was here, and where she came from.
He took a sip of coffee, then said that he wasn’t sure if it was safe to say anything because she could turn dangerous at any moment. He added that people like that are rarely friendly, so we should stay far away from them.
I asked how many years this woman had been living nearby, but he only shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. It was obvious that he wanted to protect us as much as possible, but I was starting to feel frustrated by the silence. If we weren’t going to find out more about the mystery woman, I hoped that someone would eventually leave.
One hot summer afternoon, the mystery woman came strolling through the woods near our house. She was dressed in faded jeans and a flannel shirt once more, but her hair was longer and hung straight down to her hips.
My eyes widened when I spotted her standing on the edge of the driveway, and my mom shouted at me to go inside before we were spotted. I hurried toward the door, but my mother grabbed me by the arm to stop me.
She whispered to me not to be afraid and that everything would probably be fine. Then she stepped closer to the front door. I saw that she was clutching a pair of binoculars tightly. Her eyes were locked on the figure ahead of us, and I wondered why she was looking at him when he wasn’t even moving.
When the man finally made it close enough to step onto the lawn, my mother jumped forward and called out, “Hello! Hello!”
He stopped walking right where he was, and he glanced back at us with a frown. His face was covered with stubble, and his dark eyes glared at my mom without blinking once.
“Are you alone?” my mother asked, still holding on to the binoculars tightly. She looked like she was about to burst into tears, but there was a fierce look in her eyes. I noticed the veins on her forehead, and her skin seemed stretched thin across her face.
“Why is this woman following me every day? What does she want?” the man demanded. He turned to glare at the woods beyond us. “She’s always here waiting when I come back home, and when I turn around to make sure I’m alone, she’s nowhere to be found. Why can’t she just go away?”
“We’re not the ones who keep showing up,” my mother answered. “Do you know who is?”
The man frowned. He was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Who the hell are you two supposed to be? I don’t care about your games. You’ll disappear sooner or later anyway.”
My mother’s hand trembled with rage when she tossed aside the binoculars and lunged toward him with the long kitchen knife she used to slice apples with. The stranger raised his hands up to stop her, and he pulled her back against his chest to restrain her.
He was much stronger than she was, and he quickly pinned her to the ground until she released her grip and fell back in defeat. When I ran outside to help her, I noticed that he was wearing a silver crucifix around his neck. And he carried a handgun in his left boot. He pointed the weapon directly between us while my mother screamed from the ground.
Then he told us to get out of sight while he checked things out.
We watched him through the front window as he walked through the yard. He paused several times to peer through the woods behind us. When he finally returned to stand over my mother, I noticed that his left boot was gone, and there was a hole in the bottom of his pants leg where his gun went missing.
I saw blood on his fingertips, which I also assumed had been caused by my mom when she was wrestling him to the ground. He wiped them off on his shirt, then reached into his pocket to pull out a handful of cash. He placed it on the floor beside my mom, saying that he hoped it would buy her silence and not end up in some police report.
“No,” my mom cried. “You won’t win, you son of a bitch.”
Her voice broke, and she started bawling. We both knelt down next to her to comfort her. But I didn’t understand what was going on. I couldn’t imagine why she was crying. The man hadn’t even touched her, except for pinning her down to the grass when he was fighting back.
After a couple of minutes, Dad came running out of the house and shouted at me to run inside while he helped my mother up. I hesitated for only a second before doing as ordered. Dad grabbed my shoulder and pulled me along after him as if I were a dog being trained by its master.
As soon as we got inside and locked the door, I could hear my mother weeping in the kitchen. I ran upstairs to my bedroom instead and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how many more nightmares I would have to endure now that the killer was back.
The End