Intended for a mature audience:
***Darkened windows and an empty driveway somehow make my house look cramped and lonely. Kam must be out with dipshit Brock. Just wait till I get my hands on that piece of shit. A variety of news crews are spaced out on the block. I’m guessing that they haven’t all heard the big news of my “gift” yet. Thank God. A lone van is parked right next to the base of my driveway. Fuck, I hope they don’t know anything. A woman in a classy dress suit with perfect blonde hair and a tiny waist steps out. A Barbie doll reporter, how wonderfully cliché.
“Marketta!” She shouts as I step out of the cruiser.
Doing my best to ignore her, I put my head down as instructed and book it toward my front door. All I want to do is shed the soaked rank layer of ruined clothing from my legs. Officer Smith remains seated in his car. He is gazing directly ahead with anger, refusing to look over at me. Normally he, or any other officer, would have jumped out of the car before I did. He should be walking me to the door, and searching through my house to make sure it is safe before I enter. Apparently this man is too set back by the scent of my stalker’s urine to do anything but sit in the smell and pout.
“Marketta, please stop!” Again, reporter Barbie’s voice echoes.
My blood boils. The newfound hatred bubbles and pops inside me. It’s all I can do not to explode into a thousand fuming pieces. And that’s when she says it.
“Please Marketta, Tell me about the photograph! Do you know who he is going to kill next?”
Just like that. A simple sentence that to her means nothing more than part of a narrative — a fictional story to be told through her perfectly painted pink lips and thickly shadowed eyes. A story to share with her audience of ignorant television viewers, most of whom have never experienced a real loss of their own. Who does this princess think she is? She’s using myself, Beth, and Breanna, as some sort of tall tale characters, to get herself a pay raise or promotion. I reach my key toward to door to unlock it. She repeats herself, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time.
“Markie, did you have anything to do with these murders?”
I turn on my heels, and scream. “You stupid bitch!”
The rage explodes out of me. While stomping toward her like an angry bull, I continue to shout and point a shaking finger in her face.
“You stay the fuck away from me and my family.”
Slowly, she backs up. She’s like a kindergarten girl being pushed into the corner by a shouting bully. Only a light squeak escapes her plump shiny lips. I cut her off before any words can slip through her ever widening crack of a mouth.
“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, or who the fuck you think you are, but if you don’t get off my property you’re fucking dead!”
I said it. I said a word that means so much more in my life than just an empty threat. A word that to her, in this very moment, is as real as the salad she ate for lunch. Dead. And I meant it.
My tailing officer snaps out of his pointless hissy fit just in time to witness the event. The overwhelming scent of piss has, I’m sure, set up residence in his cruiser. That is a fact he will have to deal with. He jumps out in panic, and rushes to my side. A hand is held on his hip ready to draw. Blondie is backed up all the way to her van and leaning against the passenger door. ***