The Grip of the Shamrock Eyes

17^th Sep, 2020

I enter my apartment after my night shift. God, it’s exhausting! Working as a part-time secretary by day and a part-time waitress by night is such a bore. Ring, ring… Ring, ring… ‘Oh that bloody phone…’ Ring, ring…

• Hello?
• Well, well… how are you?
• Ummm, who is this?
• Who do you think this is?
• Stop that! Who are you?
• You know very well who I am.

This husky voice… I remember it as if through a dream…or maybe a nightmare.

• You almost managed to get away from me, didn’t you?
• Oh, my God… it can’t be… You can’t be!!!
• Ahahahahahahahaha… Oui, oui, ma chérie. C’est moi.

It’s me. The two words in French punch the air out of my lungs and I lose the grip on the cordless phone. The sound of it hitting the hard floor springs me into action. I run to my bedroom so that I could quickly pack my things and get out of here. I can’t believe it. That monster is back! That sick stalker bastard! The flashbacks of those five years when I was virtually a prisoner in what should have been our home, because of him creeping around me, watching me, desiring to possess me, instantly flash in front of my eyes that have now started filling up with desperate, angry tears. That kind of obsession is eternal.

When I was studying French literature in Paris I met Maxime. Tall, blond hair, green eyes, a towering physique I had then found irresistibly sexy. I was swept off my feet. We dated for just a few weeks before he asked me to move in with him. Foolishly I accepted without a second thought, obviously not knowing him enough. Hell, without knowing him at all. Soon enough the relationship transformed into a completely different arrangement. He watched my every step, listened through my every telephone call, alienated all of my friends… In a blink of an eye I was all alone at his mercy, which he had none. I tried leaving once. I ended up handcuffed to his bedpost stark naked, raped repeatedly without rest, without food, water or bathroom breaks for a week straight. I felt so filthy, used, abused and dehumanized. I managed to flee a year after that, when he trusted me enough, believing he had managed to break my spirit. I thought I had put enough sleeping pills to kill the brutish animal that night, apparently I was wrong.

I’m packed! I run downstairs to the dresser where I’ve dropped my phone. I dial my parents with shaky fingers. They can’t seem to stop doing that. My dad picks up and I squeal-cry my feeble explanation to him, trying and failing to convey what has happened because everything I say seems incoherent due to the haze of the terror which makes my mind run a thousand miles a minute. I’m just about to plead for him to come pick me up when the line goes dead. Sweet baby Jesus, what now? A prickling feeling creeps up my spine and I slump to the floor out of pure animal instinct. I crawl on all fours to the window and peer outside. I see it. A tall dark image in a black long woolen winter coat. I can see it clearly contrasting with the whiteness of the first snow. The creature is stalking calmly, patiently, almost sashaying and undulating. I notice garden shears in its left hand. I shift my gaze to the left of him with a horrific realization dawning on me. The bastard has cut through the telephone cable, it just dangles there impotent and limp, swaying slightly in the wintery wind. Dread immobilizes me, but I still manage to pry my eyes off the useless telephone cable and bring them back to the access road to my house where the monster is. I can all but feel the dilation of my pupils as my brain registers that the shadow is not there anymore. Nausea and headache grip my body, but I fight their dominance. It’s eeriely quiet except for the frantic beating of my heart. That prickling feeling intensifies and I sooner feel than hear that I’m not alone. I slowly turn around and see him. The monster is right there, watching me, tall, lean, in his black winter coat and his black leather boots. I look into his shamrock eyes and whisper:

• Maxime…
• Oui, mon amour, votre Maxime.
• I am not your love, and you have never been my Maxime.

I squeeze through my stiff jaw and clenched teeth while I stand up not taking my eyes off him. He glares maniacally, never blinking. It feels like a thousand years have passed but in reality it has been maybe a minute. Something flashes before his eyes and I know that the status quo has changed. He lunges at me, I step aside twisting away from him. I run. He grabs me from behind and seethes through his teeth.

• Never have I ever wished you dead before you ran away, ma chérie.

I whimper and wiggle myself free of his iron grip and glancing behind I realize that the garden sheers are gone and in their place there’s a hunting knife. The trepidation wins over, my body has a mind of its own, my mouth releases a deafening scream and I lose consciousness.

• Aaaaaaaah!

My screaming wakes me up from the night terror, the same one I’ve had three nights in a row. I’m looking at the ceiling fan rhythmically turning round and round and I will myself to breathe evenly, taking slow deliberate deep breaths, ordering my heart to calm down. I turn on my side and see my fiancé sleeping peacefully in our bed. I gently plant a kiss on his cheek and walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I’m propped on the kitchen counter for support since my legs can’t be trusted to keep me upright due to the tremors running through them in the aftermath of my nightmare. Finishing my glass of water, I put it into the sink and, now being a bit calmer, decide to go back to bed. On my way back to the bedroom the phone rings. I groggily answer it.

• Hello?
• Well, well… how are you?
• Ummm, who is this?
• Who do you think this is?
• Oh, my God… it can’t be… You can’t be!!!
• Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha… Oui, oui, ma chérie. C’est moi.