So here it is: Part 2 of "A Happy Birthday." If you haven't checked out Part 1 yet (posted below this one), please do so before you dive into this one, otherwise you might feel a little lost. I hope you enjoy it. And make sure to check back in a week for the conclusion.
The stars sprinkle the black canvas of night like luminescent sugar crystals dusting the dark rim of some tropical drink. It’s cool out—the first legitimate autumn night of the season. It feels great. Jake, Alley and Chris are all gone, but I like to have this time to myself, just to lay out on the sand with a joint and ease my mind. Another week or so and I won’t have this time to myself. Jake and I will be fucking on a regular basis—maybe even in a legit relationship—and conventions (along with Alley and Chris) will have us hanging out constantly. Alley just can’t understand how I enjoy my alone time. It seems like a lot of girls can’t. Alley’s been on my ass to fuck Jake and have a normal relationship, and I guess that’s where we’re heading, but for the time being I’m going to enjoy this beautiful night. I’m going to milk this nice buzz, smoke this joint and let myself drift through the sky. It’ll give me a little time to exorcise the alcohol before the drive home anyway—a drive that will take about four minutes—which was my excuse for sticking around when everyone decided to call it a night
Jake’s a nice guy, so of course he offered to drive me home. But never underestimate the power of a girl during the courting process. He wants me. It’s fucking obvious. And yes, I want him too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look over-anxious. And I know he feels the same way. So, when I told him I’d be fine and gave him a sweet little peck on the cheek, he departed with Chris and Alley. Alley gave me that ‘what the fuck are you doing’ look, but I’m not feeling the company tonight. I’ve got plenty of time to develop something with Jake, so tonight is all about me and the stars.
And wow, those stars are stupendous! I exhale a cloud of smoke that floats across my field of vision, giving the stars a slightly dulled appearance. This is one of the few advantages of the Long Island suburbs on the North Shore: private beaches. During high school and upon returning from college, the beaches are clutch for some low-key partying. Going to bars for every social gathering becomes expensive and boring. And we’re just too far east to head into the city every weekend. So a little fresh air and gorgeous scenery can be a nice change of pace now and then.
There’s crackling behind me. Are you serious? Tell me these fucking kids did not come back to check on me. I’m really not in the mood. I’m too stoned to play with Jake and I really don’t want a scolding from Alley for not going home with him. Seriously, why can’t people just let me do what I want to do? I’m twenty-two years old. I shouldn’t feel this sort of pressure from my friends.
There’s definitely someone there. It could just be some kids from the neighborhood looking to blaze one or drink a few beers. Ugh… they’re all so much younger than me. I have zero desire to deal with that right now. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to tell all they’re friends how they smoked a joint with some hot 22-year-old, but interacting with high schoolers is really not high on my list of priorities for the evening.
Silence now. No more leaves crackling. No footsteps on the sand. Maybe it was a raccoon or a cat or something. I’m probably just paranoid from the weed.
Wait… seriously, I really think there’s someone there. Probably the high school kids. Maybe they’ll see someone down here and just move along. Sorry, no room at the inn kids, find a different spot.
The path down to the beach is long and dark. I can hear movement, but no voices and it’s not lit well enough to see. To be safe, I extinguish the joint on the bottom of my sneaker and put the roach in my pocket.
You know what, fuck this. Whoever it is has already ruined the atmosphere so I might as well get going. I start heading for the path.
“The beach is all yours,” I call out surprisingly amicably. “No worries, I’m getting out of here.”
No response.
Well, whatever. I begin to head up the path. It seems darker than when we came down here, so I take out my cell phone and open it to provide a little illumination. The path looks like a long, dark serpent, the fauna slithering on all sides of me thanks to the cool autumn breeze. Wait… is that someone at the head of the path? Maybe I’m just stoned. It looks too big to be a person. Definitely too big to be some high school kid. Maybe I’m bugging, but that really looks like a person.
“Hello?” I call out. No response.
Shit… okay this is kind of creepy. What the fuck do I do? Head back down to the beach and swim for it? Fuck that. I’m being ridiculous. Hey paranoia, take a fucking chill pill. If that’s some dude, he’s probably heading down here to do the same thing I was just doing. Hell, maybe he’s even cute.
Well I’m sure I look pretty ridiculous just standing here. Let’s work up the courage and get out of here. C’mon babe, time to move.
I continue to walk and it only takes about another five steps to realize that is definitely one big dude standing at the top of the path. Shit, that guy is huge. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Um… hey,” I offer timidly. “What’s up? I was just on my way out so if you were looking for some alone time down here… well… it’s all yours.”
He’s just standing there. He’s not saying a word. Fuck me, this is getting weird. I stop walking. Shit, he’s moving towards me, and pretty quickly too. Fuck, he’s really moving.
“Hey man, I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way or anything. I’m leaving…”
Oh shit, he’s almost running now. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck do I do? I can’t make it past him, no chance in hell. I turn around and run back towards the beach. I’m sure the water is pretty fucking cold by now, but I’ll be damned if I’m ending up as a head on some psycho’s wall.
I’m back on the sand now, sprinting for the water. Shit, he really is chasing me. Oh God, please don’t let this guy catch me. Please don’t let this guy catch me.
I hit the cold water and lurch forward, ready to swim. That’s when I feel his big hand on my shoulder. Christ, it feels like a fucking Christmas ham. He’s got a tight grip on my shoulder, but the water makes me slippery and I manage to squirm loose. I’m trying to swim now, but he grabs my shirt. I turn around and kick him in the balls… hard. He doubles over with a short caveman-like grunt. I manage to get loose again, but he regains his composure unbelievably quickly and swings something at me.
He misses and I see the sharp edge glisten in the moonlight. It’s too small to be knife. Oh my God, it’s a fucking needle. This guy’s got a fucking needle!
I’m peddling backwards at this point, but my leg catches on a rock and I fall back right as he takes another swing with the needle. It catches a clump of skin on the top of my shoulder, cuts through the flesh and then plunges into my neck. It’s still stuck in there as I continue to swim away, but I become exhausted almost immediately. I start to sink…
sink…
sink…
sink…
I wake up. Shit, how long was I out for? Did he drug the Powerbar?
Oh that dream… THAT FUCKING DREAM! Every time I fall asleep or he drugs me I have that same fucking dream. Every time I make the same fucking decision: to stay on the beach and hang out by myself. By the sixth or seventh time you’d think I’d wise up.
As if it’s not bad enough being locked in this freak’s basement, I have to be haunted by my own bad decisions every time I lose consciousness. There’s no peace. Awake or asleep, I’m miserable.
I barely have time to shake the dream from my mind before I hear his heavy steps heading for the basement door again. Great. Just what I’ve been waiting for: quality time with Freakshow.
The door opens and he’s on the stairs, but I don’t hear him close the door behind him. Is psycho getting sloppy? Shit, no… I totally forgot. It’s birthday dinner date night. Fuck, I need to get it together. If I’m ever going to have any kind of opening to make a run for it, this will undoubtedly be the night. I can’t be too anxious—Lord knows the last thing I want is Big Birthday Boy skull-fucking my lifeless body—but I need to stay alert. I need to keep my eyes open for some chance to escape.
He’s already down the stairs and making his way over to me. Ohhh, he’s excited tonight. I can see it in his movements. Wait… are you fucking kidding me? He doesn’t really have one of those pointy party hats in his hand, does he? Is he really going to make me wear that thing?
“Happy b-b-b-birthday to me.” He’s fucking singing to himself. This big fucking retard is actually singing to himself. Unreal. “C-C’mon now. You have to s-ssssing for me.”
He’s already standing over me, looking down with child-like anticipation in his eyes. What can I do? If I want any chance of getting out of here I need to keep him appeased. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear… I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
His smile is practically ear-to-ear. I can see the corner of his lips peaking out behind the surgical mask. “Eric,” he says with all the shy yet jovial reservation of a 5-year-old. “My name is Eric.”
I continue, sounding sweet, almost flirtatious. “Happy birthday dear Eric. Happy birthday to you.”
He lets out this gleeful little screech, then laughs and shuffles. “See, we’re gonna have so much f-f-fun tonight!”
He leans down and puts the ridiculous little hat on my head, making sure the elastic is secured below my chin. The smell of his hairspray is almost suffocating. Yeah, the moron obviously went the extra mile to look good on his birthday. He leans over and looks me in the eyes, but the businessman is not here right now. It’s all jubilant man-boy, making no attempt to conceal his excitement. “N-Now just you remember: You need to b-behave. I d-d-don’t want to hurt you.”
I smile as sweetly as I can. “I’ll behave,” I tell him. “I promise.”
He nods. Then in one amazingly smooth movement he reaches into the pocket of his jumpsuit, pulls out a needle and sticks it in my neck.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, any trace of sweetness gone from my voice. “What are you doing? I thought you trusted me.”
“D-Don’t worry,” he’s still grinning that terrible grin. “It won’t m-make you sleep. It’ll just make you a little more c-c-calm.”
Well he’s right about that. I can feel it almost immediately. I feel relaxed—good even—but this is going to make me slow. I won’t be alert. This fuck isn’t as dumb as I thought. It’s going to take a huge break for me to forge any kind of escape attempt. I don’t even know if I can run.
I can feel him behind me. He’s unlocking the chains. He puts his big arms under mine and yanks me up to my feet.
I haven’t stood up in God knows how long. My legs are atrophied. Combined with whatever drug he’s given me I almost fall right over onto my face, but he supports me. Then, all of a sudden I’m in his arms. He scoops me up, undoubtedly aware of my inability to carry my own weight. We’re heading for the basement stairs, and for a fleeting moment I become worried that the stairs will be unable to support us. But this anxiety falls from my body. Who cares? It just doesn’t matter.
Before I know it we’re at the top of the stairs, emerging into what appears to be a very old and poorly kept kitchen. The room is dim and there are candles everywhere. Even in the muted light I can see the filth plastered to the old white linoleum floor. The countertops are stained with mildew and grime. The sink looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. The room smells of rot and decay. The smell is so strong it actually makes it a little tough to breathe. It smells worse than the basement.
In the center of the kitchen is a small wooden table with settings for two. There are two small candles in the middle of the table burning laboriously. He carries me over and places me delicately in one of the chairs. He takes a set of handcuffs from the counter and places one cuff on my wrist and the other around the wooden arm of the old chair. None of this bodes well for any kind of escape attempt. I have to give the psycho some credit, he sure is careful.
Eric sits down across from me. “Most of my b-b-birthdays aren’t very nice,” he says. “I d-don’t have a lot of luck with that. But this one is gonna be p-perfect. You know I was watching you for m-m-months before I took you. You always looked so p-p-pretty.” He eyes me with adoration. It’s almost tough to remember the killer businessman I met yesterday. This Eric seems crazy, but not murderous.
He stands up suddenly. “Let me get dinner.”
He moves over to the counter. I use this time to scan the room for a weapon. The utensils he’s provided on the table are plastic… no luck there. I try to look at the filthy countertop, but my eyes are having a tough time focusing. There appear to be piles, but I can’t make out any single object. Fuck. Even the dinner plates are paper—no way to knock him out with one of those.
He returns with two steaming microwave dinners. He places one on the paper plate in front of me. “And I’ve got cake for d-d-dessert.”
He returns to his seat across from me and digs right into his steaming pile of microwave dinner. Amazingly he keeps the surgical mask on. He manages to stuff the forkfuls under the bottom of it. Of course much of the food finds itself stuck to the mask, but he seems undeterred. He looks up from food and stares at me. “You sh-sh-should really eat something. You’ll n-need your energy for later.”
For later? Oh dear God, he is going to fuck me. Eric is looking for a little b-b-birthday loving and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. Christ, he’s almost finished with his dinner! I need to slow things down here. C’mon, focus. Take control. This retard is wrapped around your finger and he doesn’t even know it. Use that.
I pick up the plastic fork and start to dig into the pile of food in front of me. I shovel some in my mouth. I can’t even tell what I’m eating. My hunger isn’t nearly as pervasive as it has been; probably dulled by whatever drug he pumped into my neck. Despite my slow movements, my mind is racing frantically, trying to find a foothold on something to stall him with. I need to get him talking. I need to control the pace here.
“So Eric,” my voice comes out distant and tenuous. “Why haven’t you had many good birthdays?”
He stops chewing. A clump of food actually falls from beneath the surgical mask back onto the plate. He stares down, refusing to meet my gaze. Shit. This has slowed him down, but I may have hit a nerve with this one. Stupid! So fucking stupid!
He seems to regain himself though. He looks up but doesn’t look me in the eyes. “B-B-Birthdays have been bad for me.”
I want him to elaborate, just to control the pace, but I don’t want to push him. This may have been the wrong move. Fuck! Of all the bullshit background questions I could have asked, this is what I come up with. These fucking drugs! I can’t even think straight.
To my surprise, he continues. “When I was young, my m-m-mommy was mean to me. Sh-she never remembered my b-b-birthday. One time she tried to hit me on my b-b-birthday, but I made her stop.” His voice drops after a brief pause. The businessman returns with that same disturbing confidence. “I made mommy sing me happy birthday over and over and over again for all the years she missed. I had to make sure she’d never forget again. Every time she sung it she got a candle in her mouth. A candle for every year she missed. But she missed a lot of years. After a while mommy couldn’t’ sing anymore. After a while mommy couldn’t breathe anymore.” He looked back down at his food and put another forkful in his mouth beneath the mask. The timid idiot returned with hope in his voice. “But you won’t forget my b-b-birthday, right? You’ll always remember my b-b-birthday won’t you?”
I’m trying not to look overly disturbed. I’m trying to look calm despite the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. “Yes Eric,” I say shakily. “Yes, I’ll always remember your birthday.”
The fat slob smiles and goes back to his dinner. That was a little too close. I want to keep that businessman buried. But I still need to slow him down. I need to think. Shit, he’s already done with his dinner. Next comes cake, then comes the real dessert. I’m running out of time.
He stands up with his plate and brings it over to the counter. I start to think frantically. The chair is old and weak. If I can catch this guy off guard, if I can knock him out with something, I could probably break the arm of the chair. But my legs are fucked. I have no idea if they’ll even be able to carry me. I also don’t have a lot of time and I may never get another chance upstairs, away from the thick chains and locked door. I need to think fast or Eric’s going to have me laid out on his filthy mattress in no time.
He’s still hovering over the counter. What’s he doing? Holy shit, he’s cutting the cake. He’s cutting the cake with a big fucking butcher’s knife. If I can catch him by surprise and get that knife, I’ll jam it right in his fucking throat; right in the same place he’s stuck me with that goddam needle so many times. But I need something to hit him with.
I look at the table in front of me. The candles are held in little glass cups and they look like they could be reasonably heavy. If I can smash this over his head maybe it will stun him enough for me to grab the knife. Oh please God, let this work. But I need him to put the knife down first. I can’t attack him while he’s still got it in his hands.
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