Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,67
very last possible second before rolling over and switching off the alarm. He sneaks out of bed without disturbing her.
After he made breakfast for Jimmy, they grabbed their coats just as she came down the stairs in her bathrobe and fluffy slippers. She slept so hard that when she wakes the entire side of her face is imprinted with lines from the sheets. It was hard to get out of bed. The sleeping pills made her feel groggy.
“Hey!” She stopped them at the front door. “How are my men?”
Her smile is radiant. Hank walks over and kisses her on the mouth.
“Okay that’s gross,” Jimmy said, “really, I just ate.”
She smiles with light sarcasm, “Really, darling, he just ate.”
Hank takes her chin in his hand, her hair is clumpy and her eyes are raccoon-like with her smudged mascara, but she has never looked more beautiful to him. It all feels good. She will manhandle her thoughts. She will take back control. She will cut off all malevolent meandering, dig out a specific trail for her imagination and she will not deviate.
“Remember,” Hank tells her lovingly, “today is only about relaxing: take a bath, read a book, nap. All good stuff, yeah?”
“Definitely my plan.”
“Tomorrow back to work.”
“Deal.”
“See you later,”
“Bye Mom.”
She kisses Jimmy on the head. As they close the front door, she feels blissfully normal. Part of it she can attribute to a full night’s sleep and honestly she could go right back to bed and probably sleep for a month but, she is hungry, actually really hungry. She spins around light in her fluffy slippers and goes to the kitchen. I can do this. I can let go and do this.
Alison opens the refrigerator to get the milk for her coffee and sees two leftover casseroles. It gives her a pang the way casseroles always do. Enough, she tells herself, no more of these. She removes them from the refrigerator and puts them in the sink. She opens the cabinet and takes out her favorite cereal bowl. Isn’t it funny, she thinks, that people have favorite bowls and cups. Her dad had a cup she had made for him at a ceramic workshop. She went there for a birthday party when she was eight years old and made this ridiculous coffee cup. He used it every morning, insisted on it. I know I saved that cup, she thinks.… Why is the basement door unlocked? She stops and stares. I saw Hank lock it last night. He never goes into the basement, neither does Jimmy. No. Stop. Do not go there. Think about dinner! She will cook dinner tonight. Yes. She will make Jimmy’s favorite meal of spaghetti with butter and — a noise from the basement — with spaghetti with butter and cheese and a noise from the basement...la la la la la la…cooking really is the perfect synergy of creativity and utilitarianism. I have always liked to… another noise…always cooking liked…footsteps coming up. Damn it! She is not imagining it. Her expression darkens. Her heart pounds. The air in the room turns sour. He is in her house. She slides open the drawer in the butcher’s block and removes the carving knife. She darts to the side of the basement door. He’s so much bigger than I am. She breathes in rapid short gulps. Oh, god, oh, god; can I do this? The basement door opens slowly. This is it. End it. End it now. Her hand closes tightly around the knife in her fist. She raises the thick meat cleaver above her head. Don’t hold back - every ounce. The door gently pushes open. She leaps out! Now! Polly screams in terror! She throws the laundry basket she is holding at Alison. Polly runs out of the room. Disoriented, Alison freezes. She lowers the cleaver. Wait. What? Polly. It was Polly. Alison hears the front door slam as Polly runs for her life. Alison shuffles over to the kitchen chair and sits confused. She reworks what just happened in her mind. “Oh, shit.” But wait. I’m not imagining things. Someone really was down there. What I heard was real. “It was real…it was…Polly, but real.” Alison runs her left hand through her hair. I’m not hearing and seeing things. It is real. It is all real! I knew it was real and it is. She rubs her eyes and rests her elbows on her knees. Laundered underpants and socks are spewed all over the kitchen floor. Her eyes drop