MONSTER

Tessa Morris.

“Men,” I choke on a laugh. “Just some nasty bunch of shitheads. It’s been two fucking years since I...”

The creepy silence makes me pause.

Reality slowly sifts in, and I’m staring at the wide eyes of my book club members. They gasp and squint as if embarrassed, including Miss Rebecca, the host.

What the heck?!

Jerking out of my mind, I look at the blank page of my diary. I was supposed to be writing my thoughts on the question; Is the male lead your ideal man, not ramble shit.

“Tessa,” Miss Rebecca gently approaches me. Her hair is dyed white, and she is finely dressed in an all-white corporate attire even though this meeting is supposedly informal. “Do you want to talk about it?”

My jaw is still on the floor, too ashamed to move on. We’re in the town’s library, which we use once a week for book talks, and even though the members swear only to listen and never judge your choices, they’re whispering while the few audacious ones dare to casually point at me and roll their eyes when ours meet.

Of course.

I guess they have every right to gossip. The oath only binds them to your book choices, and I just described men. Not fictional men.

A sudden, eerie feeling creeps over, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand erect. Tiny bumps crawl in its wake. I felt it before I saw it— the attention. My gaze scans the library and darts to a pair of daring brown— whiskey brown eyes with an emerald hue, watching me, unblinking.

No body.

Just eyes, half-hidden by spines and the towering bookshelves.

It’s mystic, predatory, and... intimate?

“Tessa, dear?” Becca’s voice breaks through my silence.

My eyes peel off the strange sight and settle on Becca’s somewhat stiff frame. “Uh... no.” I fake a smile. Still, I can’t ignore my heart thumping, the tightness in my chest. I look back at the strange eyes and it’s gone.

It’s gone!

Disappeared into the darkness, leaving no trace of itself.

‘How?’ A million questions run through my head on the spur of the moment as if doubting my sanity. ‘It was there and... and...’

My phone beeps, saving me a lifetime of embarrassment.

‘A new gig. The Thompsons need your cleaning services. 6 PM prompt - Manager.’

It’s just 4 and it will only take me twenty minutes by bus to get there.

“I have to go.” I casually say to Miss Rebecca and everyone, then roughly shove my items in my maxi bag, sling it around my shoulder, and endure the walk of shame.

The scorching summer sun bathes me once I step outside. Motorists line up in long lines. Lately, the traffic in San Francisco has been particularly congested. Having a change of mind, I start walking, maybe to save a few bucks and my time.

Fragments of my past embrace me as gently as the effect of the sunset, not giving me an option to reject them. My life is so ducked up. So fucked up. I’ve always had this conventional woman’s dream; get swooned by the love of my life, do a garden wedding, get pregnant with his kids, and live happily ever after in our small farmhouse.

Turns out life is a jerk to kind people.

I met James in high school. He was my first and only true love. After five years of loving his imperfection, I was this close to saying my vows, only to walk in on him banging his best man.

“Watch out!” An angry voice startles me.

I stand on my toes, frozen in shock.

Unexpectedly, a teardrop trickles down my cheek, then another. I thought I’d gotten closure and healed. I walk around in a tough shell with a tiny crack, and in the confinement of my bedroom, when the world is deep sleep, I cry and fuck myself to sleep.

I don’t need any man.

“I’m sorry— so sorry...” I stutter, fixing myself back in my ‘hard girl’ shell and resuming my walk.

The Thompsons’ small black gate opens and the gatekeeper ushers me in.

“Just in time, sweetie.” Mrs Thompson who has been impatiently waiting by the gate, grips my wrist and pulls me along. She’s a much older lady with dozens of grandkids in her care. “I keep hoping you’d never be too busy for me. Gosh! I love your work.” She yaps as she leads me upstairs in her brick-walled duplex.

Oh. My. God.

I stop to examine the mess. Stacks of dirty clothes are scattered about. A mountain of Legos and strange toys litter the place.

“I know,” she sighs and randomly picks up anything. “I will pay double.”

Fair deal.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She grins when my looks don’t protest. “Tell me if you need anything. I’m tryna whip up some pastries and Boba tea. Come right downstairs when you’re done!” Her voice fades down the narrow hallway.

I plug in my earphones and start cleaning. It takes me approximately two hours to reset the house. The walls and tiles are spotless and sparkling, every tiny thing is in place like I’ve got a complex OCD, and for the price, my white shirt is soaked with sweat, muscles are terribly aching.

“You’re a blessing, Tessa.” She hugs me warmly. “I’ll send your tip separately from your company’s fee.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Thompson.”

“For the millionth time, call me Alice.” She frowns. “Well, dinner...”

“Next time,” I fake a smile, so big that my cheekbones snap. “I promise. I have an emergency.” I lie. I desperately need to submerge in an ice bath. Maybe it’s not all a lie.

“Be good.” She blows me kisses and waves me off.

Too exhausted, I walk down to the bus station. I could use the comfort of a cab, but the extra fee would cover groceries and electricity, so I settle in a bus, body pressed to the window as I slowly watch the city go by.

*** ***

8: 50 PM

Turning the doorknob, it gives way to my shockingly tidy apartment. I purse my lips and squint. Everything seems off. The place is well arranged, and every surface is nearly polished; my maple kitchen counter glints, a mid-century ash-colored couch that always bears the brunt of my ‘not so dirty’ clothes, is clear and sleek. Not one wrinkle. Lately, I keep coming home to odd things, but today stands out.

“Did I—How did this—”

I can’t seem to get my words right. I clean people’s houses, while mine is always like a dumpster. In my defense, I get burned out tending to others. Even on days I’m expecting guests, I’m not so particular with my home. Slowly, I turn around, assessing every single detail. The spicy scent of a male’s cologne lingers in the air.

‘Was someone here?’ My heart pounds. I feel a tingling sensation all over.

The windows are closed. I met the door locked too. So how can anyone possibly break in? I puff cool air and shake my head. Maybe hallucinating has been added to the list of my problems. When nothing comes to mind, I strip off my dirty clothes and fight the urge to toss them on the clean couch. I walk into the bathroom, butt-naked for a shower. The downpour of cold water washes down my petite frame. I shut my eyes and replay today’s event. It’s always therapeutic, except that the incident at the book club makes me blush red.

Dripping wet after the long bath, I step out into the cool night breeze. In tradition, I fix a cup of bum coffee, flip through the pages of my calendar, and I tick a column with a red marker. It’s 912 days since I called off my wedding. Our wedding shoot is atop the column. There he is, smiling like a saint.

“Jerk. Filthy piece of shit!” I sniffle and brush tears off my cheeks. Damn! I might have walked away, but a piece of him still lingers in me. James had groomed me. He was a freak, and he handled me so well. “And I hope you get stabbed just as hard.”

In my tradition, I retrieve my vibrator. The lockers also seem off. My perfume oils and personal items are neatly kept in a fine row. My vibrator is placed next to the pad bag. I mean, I always dump it like I did James.

“It’s all in your head, Tes.” I recite to still my anxiety. “It will all fade away.”

My body is still in need. I slip a cassette into the CD player, setting the mood.

I dump my wet ass on the bed and spread my legs apart, exposing my body. My filthy hand rubs the small bushy mound.

“Hmmm,” I moan and rub harder, bruising my pink skin. My free hand grabs my tit, slides smoothly to the other, and pinches my nipple.

Shoving in and out of my body, I finger fuck myself. “Uh...” I managed a soft cry. My body isn’t responding to my command. It feels like a chore. Sighing in frustration, I turn on the vibrator and thrust it in. It hums and rotates deep inside, stimulating my dead nerve endings.

“Fuck.” I hiss, feeling bruised after shoving harder than intended.

My bottle of lubricant is close by. I smear a generous amount of oil all over and go in again. The buzz of the instrument intensifies as I play with the speed.

“Oh... fuck!” I grab the sheets with one hand and continue to tease myself with the other.

The small tongue on the vibrator flicks my clit. My thighs involuntarily clench, spreading the pleasure that gradually awakens. My body jerks to a quick halt even before I get excited. Crying in frustration, I collapse in bed and toss the vibrator aside. I hold back a cry. It hurts badly. Over time, I’ve considered the services of a gigolo, but first, I can’t afford one, and second, never will a man have the pleasure of my body.

Oddly, my room feels small. A shadow passes by my open window, silent. My heart sinks in my stomach. I hastily pull the sheets over my nakedness and turn off the music.

The gentle thud of footsteps on my balcony is steady.

Someone is around and worst still, had watched me fuck myself. The realization that I didn’t lock the door hits hard. I run to the small kitchen space and grab a knife and a fork from the rack. Thick beads of sweat seep out of my pores. My body is literally shaking, and my palms are sweaty. I clutch tighter on the weapon and approach the door.

The footsteps stop.

Waiting for what seems like five minutes without hearing any sound, I open the door.

Emptiness.

No one is on the balcony.

The turf is dark, save for the dull streetlights. I look around, still, no sign of anyone on the lonely street. I’m about to shut the door when I stop. There’s a strange box right by the Eucalyptus vase, and I can swear that it wasn’t there earlier.

‘Call the cops! Run back in!’

Tons of scared command rings in my head. Instead of doing any of those, my curiosity pushes me to grab the box. My heart is throbbing, visibly strained. I heave a soft sigh, noting it isn’t explosives or any lethal weapon. It’s just a big denim jacket, soaked in an intoxicating blend of sandalwood and spice.

Against my will, I drag in the irresistible cologne. A note drops. It’s a small fanciful vintage note. I pick it up and read.

‘I’m here now, Tessa.’