7 Catch Me if You Can

Weeks have gone by, and still no sign of Oliver. I haven't eaten in two days; the stress and anticipation of his return is killing me silently, starting by zapping my appetite.

He would normally be here by now. Why isn't he here? I wanted to scream into the open space of our eerily quiet living room. I wanted to rip out my hair by the fistfuls. Tears filled my eyes every few minutes with frustration. At this point, I wanted to let him win. As long as he shows up.

How did we get to this point? Why couldn't we be a normal couple with a cute house and mundane jobs we hated, preparing for a future we couldn't see? My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn't see him, but he was close.

There was a story my mother used to tell me when I was a little girl about soulmates. She said when you find them, your heart will always know when they're near. You can feel it in your chest; as if the room suddenly became warmer and calmer. With Oliver, nothing was warm or calm, but I knew when he was there. I felt him like a gazelle feels the glare of the lion on their tail end. My radar for him was sharp and always alert.

Sometimes I wonder if Oliver is my soulmate. Sometimes I think about running away from him forever and finding someone who wants the same I do; a normal, busy life, vacant of gruesome murder. But then I remember I can never escape Oliver. We were cursed together, and that is what separates us from the rest of the world. That is why we will always be together.

A shaky breath escaped my lungs and I clutched my knife to my chest, closing my eyes. Come and get me already, Olly. The curtains were open, revealing the blackness outside, and putting a feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach. With the lights on, Olly could easily see straight into the house and spy on me.

I stood, rushing to every window and closing the veils. My eyes were heavy from not blinking. I hadn't been sleeping well, knowing he's out there. I made my way to the bedroom, holding the kitchen utensil close, listening for any disturbance. The lights were off in the bedroom, and I flipped the switch with a shaking hand, preparing for anything. All seemed well.

I lied in bed, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes were bloodshot and dry, but I couldn't close them for the life of me. Turning to the nightstand beside the queen sized bed, I opened the drawer for the Benadryl we kept in a small box. I popped a few in my mouth, swallowing them dry, then closed my eyes and waited for sleep to overcome me.

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Oliver's mother walked gracefully through his childhood home, cleaning specks of dirt from shelves and wall paintings.

She peeped out the window occasionally to check on the five-year-old Olly, who seemed to be playing with something in the dirt. She smiled to herself; little boys have a disgusting but oddly adorable way of getting their hands dirty.

In a few moments, she would have to start supper for her family. She has set out chicken breast, which was defrosting in the kitchen sink.

As she fiddled with lots and pans, she heard the sliding sound of the back door opening. "Go ahead and run yourself a bath," she called to her son. "I don't want you to bring that dirt into the house."

Oliver called back, "There is no dirt, mommy." By the sound of his voice, he was making his way to her.

She smiled. "Alright, well wash up anyways. You were outside all day."

Oliver turned the corner to see his mother standing over a chicken breast with a large knife in her hand. "Can I use that, mommy?"

She turned and looked at him, and her face fell in horror. "What is that?" She asked, repulsed. In his hands, Oliver held the limp body of what used to be a kitten. It's abdomen was cut open and dripping blood all over his hands and the floor.

"I wanted to see what was inside," he replied. Oliver's mother gasped, backing away from her young son. The knife in her hand slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. Her hands began trembling as she stared at the curious, sick boy, and when she found her voice, she screamed until her voice gave out.

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When I woke up, I kept my eyes closed. My head felt dizzy and fuzzy from the heavy sleep the Benadryl had given me. My chest was lighter and my stomach clenched in hunger. With a sigh, I stayed on my back before thinking about getting food from the kitchen.

A wet drop fell on my face from the ceiling above me. I wrinkled my eyebrows before opening my eyes. Possibly a leak?

When I opened my eyes, shock and terror filled my body. Directly above my head was the cold, dead eyes of a deer corpse, dripping fresh blood on my face and blankets. I screamed and sat up, stumbling away from the poor creature.

Falling off the bed, I scrambled for the knife I had kept with me. The deer's midsection was sliced open, revealing the insides like a gruesome painting.

My breathing grew rugged in my throat. Oliver was a sick man, but this tops all he had done before. I dry heaved, but nothing came up. I was nauseous and shaking. He had hung a dead deer over my head while I slept. He had been in the house while I was unconscious. Why didn't he kill me?

Deep down I knew the answer; killing me in my sleep was too simple. He wanted the fight, the struggle, the GAME. He wanted to hear me scream.

I stood to my feet, looking around the room for any signs of him. All was silent except for the blood dripping to the comforters the bed.

Above the headboard of the bed I slept on, written in letters of blood, was the words "CATCH ME IF YOU CAN."

That's when I knew he wouldn't come back here. He wants me to find him, and play his game.