I I could write a story about life in general, it would start with darkness. Like, right now, things are very dark. I can’t see a fucking thing actually. It’s so dark in here that most people would either assume they’re alone or start having paranoid delusions about not being alone. If there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that I’m not alone. Somewhere inside this room is Ruby(The person not the object). Also, somewhere inside this room is a phone, and it’s ringing. Also, somewhere inside this room is a rake, a kitchen knife, a travel magazine, a pair of boxers (the garment not the athlete), a wooden baseball bat and a CD containing the greatest hits of Bob Marley.
Here’s a fun fact, if Ruby knew I am here, in the room, with her, she could and would use any of the aforementioned objects to kill me. Maybe she would use all of them; she’s very creative. The phone is still ringing. If i wasn’t hiding right now, I would politely ask if she’s planning to answer that, but I am hiding, so no. On the other side of the line, waiting for Ruby to answer the phone, is Paul. Paul is not currently in the room with us, but he is not the kind of man you would like to keep waiting either. Paul is sitting in his ’09 Ford Mustang, eating gummi bears. This is what he does when he’s nervous. His Mustang is parked about three stories down and a hundred feet from this room.
Here’s some things you should know about Paul. He’s thirty two years old. He’s blonde. He’s black. He dyes his hair. He wears glasses. He graduated from Harvard. He calls his mother once a week. He tried to commit suicide when he was sixteen, then again when he was twenty one, then again when he was thirty, then again last week. He eats gummi bears when he’s nervous. He wears black pants and a purple shirt, every day. He says ‘fuck’ and its various conjugations a lot. He has not had sexual intercourse in a month. He hates Bob Marley. His ringtone is ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’.
The ringing has stopped and I hear a faint *click*. This lets me know two things.
- Ruby has answered the phone.
- Ruby’s cellphone is not touch-operated.
Through the darkness, I can hear Paul’s voice.
“Fuck, Ruby, what’s taking you so fucking long?”
Through the darkness, I can hear Ruby’s voice.
“You fucking moron, you said the place was going to be empty”
“It is fucking empty, bitch”
“It is not fucking empty, shit-for-brains, some guy stayed after hours. I had to put him to sleep”
Wrong place, wrong time, Frederick, I think to myself. At least she hasn’t noticed me.
“Whatever bitch” says the cellphone, which in this case represents Paul “Have you found it yet?”
“No, I have not fucking found it yet. It’s pitch black in here”
“That’s why I gave you a fucking flashlight, you monumental skank”
“Oh yeah, except it FUCKING BROKE when your workaholic friend found me and I knocked him out with it. FUCK YOU, I’ll call you when I find it.”
Another click lets me know the call has ended. From the call, I acquire new knowledge. I know that Ruby is looking for something. That something is inside this room. Inside this room there is a rake, a kitchen knife, a travel magazine, a pair of boxers (as in underwear, not the sport), a wooden baseball bat and a CD containing the greatest hits of Bob Marley. Some time later, i’ll discover that inside that CD, somewhere between “No Woman No Cry” and “Three Little Birds”, where “Could You Be Loved” is supposed to be, are the security codes for the vault of the Third National Bank on Birch Street.
Here’s some things you should know about Ruby. She’s thirty years old. Her hair is blonde. She is white. Her eyes are blue. She wears contact lenses. She likes cats. She doesn’t call her mother anymore, except on her birthday (her mother’s, not Ruby’s) and mother’s day. She likes Jeans and t-shirts. Her favorite color is red. Her favorite weapon is the Magnum .44. Her favorite sharp weapon is the chef’s knife (conveniently). Her ringtone is “Jamming”. She had sexual intercourse yesterday night, and today morning, and today midday, and today afternoon (about six p.m). She also thinks she’s alone.
But she’s not.