The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📗

never fully closed, of course, that I can say with full confidence now, and at that moment, I felt the skin tear and part as it opened wider than ever, even more so than on the day I cut it.

“My god.”  He said this again, and I saw in the reflection of his glasses an eye of marvelous blue.  The same blue as the eye he gave me that day, kept safe under a fold of skin.  A blue not at all like the terrible brown eyes I saw on his face as he removed his mirrored sunglasses.

The Intruder

Lamont A. Turner

“It is just too weird.  I keep finding things out of place,” said Mr. March. It had been awhile since Una had seen him, but she didn’t remember him being so high strung. It was exhausting listening to him. “Every night when I return home from work,” he continued breathlessly, “some little thing is not right, but it is never anything drastic, never anything that would conclusively prove someone had been in my house.  Are you listening?”

I’m sorry,” said Una.  “I was just thinking of that pig, Zimmerman.  He’s been threatening to pull the account because I won’t let him screw me. Go on, I’m listening.”

“I was saying I’ve been noticing that things seem out of place when I come home from work.”

“What sort of things do you notice,” asked Una, picking at her salad.

“The radio, for one thing. I keep it set on one of those awful hip-hop stations so when my radio alarm goes off I’m sure to get up to shut it off.  If I set it on the classical station, I sleep right through it.”

“Makes sense,” said Una, piling the tomatoes she had picked out of her salad on the napkin by her plate.

“But every other night the channel has been changed.  Instead of Grandmaster T-Dawg I am awakened by Mozart, and invariably I roll over and go back to sleep.  I’ve been late to work seven times this month. It’s a damn good thing my boss likes me.”

“What else have you noticed?”

“Hair in my bathtub drain, cigarette butts in the garden by my front porch, and, worst of all, someone keeps moving my toothbrush.  Of course, I always throw them away when I find them out of place. I spend a fortune on toothbrushes.

“Now that’s just screwy,” said Una, who, having reduced her salad to a few leaves of lettuce, was busy crushing crackers over it.  “Why would anyone break into your house to use your toothbrush?  I’d say you’re just imagining things. The radio knob might be defective, or, perhaps you hit it without being aware of it. The cigarette butts were probably left by the mailman or some salesman, maybe even a Girl Scout selling cookies. Who knows with kids these days?”

“I’ve smelled cigarette smoke in my house,” said March defensively.

“Okay, what about Argus? I’ve been to your house a dozen times and that dog still won’t let me in the door.”

“That’s something else. The other day I fed him before I went to work, but when I came home eight hours later, his bowl was still full.”

“Maybe he wasn’t hungry,” said Una, before being reminded of the time Argus had eaten the legs off of March’s kitchen table once when he had forgotten to leave food for the dog.  “Okay,” she relented. “There shouldn’t have been food in the bowl, but what you’re suggesting is just plain nuts. I can’t see someone breaking into your house just to smoke, shower, brush his teeth, and feed your vicious dog.  There must be an explanation that makes better sense.”

Una didn’t give her conversation with March much thought until she stood outside her apartment door. The little man from the accounting department was the only employee at the firm who had been there as long as she had, and, though they had little else in common and seldom saw each other, she was comforted by the knowledge he would always be there for her if she needed him.  They were soldiers who had somehow outlived their comrades, and only the two of them knew what life in the trenches was really about.

They had once been close. He had been there when clients walked out on her, and he had held her hand while she cried over her ruined marriage, not minding a bit that she could never call him by his first name, which was Eddie, because it was also her husband’s name. Years later, she still could not say that name.  Eddie was a monster; March was an angel. Yet, despite her affection for him, she had to admit he was odd. High-strung and insecure, he was prone to mood swings and paranoia, but he was a fellow soldier, and he cared about her without expecting anything in return. Even when her loneliness had made her vulnerable, he had not taken advantage of her. Ignoring his eccentricities was the least she could do. Besides, she had more than her share of mental quirks. After her divorce, she had suffered a breakdown and had spent two weeks in the hospital. Two years, and a lot of prescriptions later, her own paranoia and insecurities still lurked in the shadows of her consciousness, vanquished but not forgotten. Angry and ravenous, the specter of her illness sometimes glared at her through the bars of the cage she had erected, always ready to break through and devour her.

Reaching for the door knob, she hesitated, and then laughing to herself, opened the door.  “Anybody in the shower,” she shouted, chuckling. Then she noticed the beer can on the coffee table. For a moment, she stared at it as though it were a bomb about to explode. Had she left it there? She was usually so tidy. It wasn’t like her to leave trash strewn about. She picked up the can. It was half full. She certainly would never leave a half full can sitting out where her cat