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Alexander Nderitu

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Edge of Composure
By Alexander Nderitu
Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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A successful female Canadian architect discovers that she is being stalked and has to employ all manner of tricks to outwit the stranger...

This is an excerpt from Alexander Nderitu's collection of short stories, 'Kiss, Commander, Promise' (http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/angela-on-my-mind/3494168)

I climb the winding staircase up to my bedroom. 

I remove the clip from my hair and shake my blonde tresses loose before shedding my clothes and heading for the bathroom. I plug the drainage hole of my Jacuzzi, turn on the warm water jets, pour in my favorite bath salts and climb in. 

There is no better way end to a hectic day than to soak in foaming bath salts! But as I begin to luxuriate, a sudden realization makes me snap my eyes open: what if the stalker has followed me home? Not only do I live all by myself in an expansive compound where a cry for help would go unheard but I’m lying in a bathtub buck-naked! I’m about as vulnerable to an attacker I as I could possibly be without throwing myself at him. 

Dripping wet, I climb out of the Jacuzzi (My ex-boyfriend used to call it the “love boat” because he used to join me there), grab a robe, return to the bedroom and listen for any unusual noises. Nothing. I tip-toe to the top of the staircase and look down. Nothing. I’ve never seen the stalker near my house but I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up here. After following me around for so long, he probably knows me down to my blood group. 

I return to the Jacuzzi but its no fun now because I’m distracted, thoughts of being attacked pre-dominate. 

You may think that’s it a little flattering to have your own stalker but it’s not. To have a stranger following you is to live a nightmare. You always wonder what he wants – to rape you, kill you, kidnap you, snatch your handbag or whatever. If you know the guy, if he’s some ex-lover or something, that’s better because you can confront him and tell him to get off your back or threaten him with court action but if it’s a stranger, watch out. He’ll be more aggressive because he knows you can’t threaten him with exposure. It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t gone to the cops yet. 

If I inform the police, they’ll recommend I apply for a restraining order. But stalkers like mine are psychos – they don’t obey orders, they obey their own twisted desires. An obsession is an obsession is an obsession. And since being crazy is not a crime, the uniforms can’t arrest the stranger just because he’s mentally unbalanced. For that, he needs to DO SOMETHING - there must be some damage to me or my property before he can be labeled a criminal, worthy of arrest. But I can’t wait for him to DO SOMETHING. I don’t want to use my bumps and bruises as evidence in a court of law. 

I leave the Jacuzzi and go back to the bedroom where I change into lighter gear and go downstairs to the kitchen. As one who lives alone, I rarely use my living room and the expensive furniture and electronics there are virtually untouched. Apart from the bedroom, the kitchen is the only room I properly utilize and it's where I keep the telephone. I touch a button on the answering machine and then open the fridge as I listen to the messages. 

“Hi, Claudette,” the first message crackles in, “Jane here. We’re going skiing up at Black Creek this weekend, just the girls, and we wanted to know if you can make it to come.” 

Jane is a fun-loving friend of mine and when we’re together with her equally rowdy girlfriends we behave like freewheeling college girls. I make a mental note to call her back as I remove a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. 

The second message kicks in as I head over to the cabinet to get a glass: “Debra here. Call me back ASAP.” Debra is a client of mine, a wealthy blonde heiress who always sounds urgent, even when ordering a doughnut. I’m certainly not going to call her back ASAP. I’m designing a sports center for her, not negotiating Middle East peace – there’s nothing urgent. 

The next message comes in as I seat myself at elliptical wooden table: “Hey, baby…You looked real good today… And your lips … they’re so luscious…so beautiful…and your lipstick is so red…like dark blood…Did you know that you always twiddle your hair with your free hand when you’re on your phone?” 

I’m thunderstruck. My hand is shaking so badly I have to put down my glass of juice or I’ll spill it all over the table. That was the first time ever that the stalker has called me. He must have gotten my number from the telephone directory: I’m listed. 

When I heard “Hey, baby”, I thought some ex was trying to re-establish contact but the voice – a rough, masculine drone – is unfamiliar and his taunting message points him out as the stalker. 

“You looked real good today”, he had droned. 

I spent the whole day today going over a proposed building site and kept in touch with my office using my cell phone. The sleazeball must have been there! 

“Did you know that you always twiddle your hair with your free hand when you’re on your phone?” 

My God! If that psycho could follow me all the way to the other side of town just to stare at me, what’s to prevent him from following me home? I have to be prepared for anything! 

I pull my knife drawer open with such force that it comes clean off the cabinet and crashes on the tiled floor. My heart pounding, I skim through the collection: an eight-inch chef's knife, several ordinary paring knives, a family of utility knives and a serrated bread knife. I settle for the longest weapon in the range - the chef’s knife. I put rest of the knives back in the drawer and return it to its housing. 

Clutching the chef’s knife in both hands like a character in a slasher movie, I look out the kitchen window for any signs of intrusion. I gather no evidence but there’s plenty of vegetation out there, plenty of places to hide. 

“And your lips … they’re so luscious…so beautiful.” 

It’s just like I told you – there are sexual undercurrents. That’s why most stalkers are men following women. It’s a sexual thing. 

“And your lipstick is so red…like dark blood.” 

Well, mister, I have an eight-inch blade and I’m not afraid to use it! If there’s going to be dark blood on the floor tonight, it won’t be mine. 

I take my juice, a pack of potato crisps and the knife upstairs with me...

 

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Reviewed by Donna Chandler 10/2/2012
Excellent excerpt -- leaving the reader wanting more is always a good thing. I wish you much success.

Donna




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