Story #8: THE STRANGER
The Stranger
A woman's kindness backfires.
I
stood at the door, cash in hand, disappointed that it wasn’t the pizza I’d
ordered fifty minutes ago. No, instead, it was a sniveling little brat on my
doorstep, uttering three dreaded words: “I need help.”
She
couldn’t have been more than ten, with her dark hair framing her face in loose
ringlets and big, soulful brown eyes blinking up at me. Her dress must have
been white once upon a time, but it was stained with some dark brown substance.
Her feet were bare.
I
looked in the hallway beyond her, hoping to see an adult rushing to claim her,
apologising for their filthy child knocking on the wrong apartment door.
The hallway was empty.
“What
happened?” I asked, looking her up and down once more. I didn’t recognise her.
Despite my concern for this strange little girl, self-preservation had kicked
in. Who knew what I’d be inviting into my home if I let her in?
“Please
help,” she repeated, her voice tiny.
“Where
are your parents?” I wanted to know.
“Help.”
Just
that one, little word.
I
grudgingly stepped aside and she walked in, allowing me to close the door
behind her. She seemed to survey my living room with sad eyes. My apartment was
a modest two-bedroom, nothing fancy, but always clean and usually filled with
the sweet scent of a Domino’s double pepperoni pizza. With the crazy hours I
worked at the local radio station, I rarely had time to cook. Pizza was easier.
The
little girl’s eyes finally settled on me, and I felt a shiver slither up my
spine. So much sadness directed at me.
“I’m
going to call the police,” I said out loud. I should’ve done that the moment
she asked for my help. As it stood, what would they think once they found out I
hadn’t called them, to begin with?
Probably
that I’m some weird pedo, I thought, berating
myself for being so silly.
My
phone was on the charger in my bedroom, but for some reason, I didn’t feel
comfortable leaving the girl alone, even for a second. Not to mention the fact
that her bare feet were leaving actual marks on the fluffy cream carpet I had
in the living room.
“Um…stay
right here, okay?”
What
could happen in the five seconds it took me to dash to my room and back?
She
was standing right where I’d left her, except…except for the fact that she was
bleeding now…a thick rivulet of bright red blood starting from a wound at her
temple. I yelped, springing into action and rushing to the kitchen for paper
towels.
“What
the hell?” I hissed on my way back to her. “What happened?”
She
barely whimpered as I pressed the towels to her face. I was breathing heavily—so
much blood—and when I stopped to check, I saw that she was smiling. Her
first smile of the evening.
“What’s
so funny?” I sputtered, staring down at her.
She
shook her head, the smile never faltering.
I
yanked my phone out of the back pocket of my sweats, ready to dial the police,
but then I surveyed the scene. My building had cameras in them – they would’ve
picked up a little girl traipsing in here. And now, that little girl had a gash
on her head and I was the only person in the room with her.
“Crap,”
I muttered, imagining myself being carted away by police while my neighbours
looked on in unmasked disgust.
“She
hit a scared little girl asking for help,” they’d
say, shaking their heads, spitting at me. “What a monster. No wonder Jack
left her.”
I
had to get rid of this strange child.
“What
do you want me to help me with?” I asked frantically, finally breaking down. “What
is it?”
I
was pretty sure that it was money she wanted, judging from her sorry condition. Whatever
it was, I’d give it to her.
The
little girl stretched her hand out, waiting for me to take it. It was a filthy
hand, blackened fingertips and nails dark with dirt, but I took it anyway and
allowed her to lead me out of my own home and into the cool December night.
END
https://twitter.com/tamuclaire/status/1262929178137178112?s=21
NEXT WEEK: Short story inspired by the tweet: 'Was it even a soapie if somebody didn't get amnesia?'.
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