S-s-scaredy cat

Leaning over the knife block pondering which one to choose, I might have thought I was being ridiculous.
I might have considered the task I had set out for myself was a stupid one.
But that didn’t stop me from pawing at the handles, lifting one up, then another before carefully replacing them all and hefting out the sharpener. Good for impaling eyes, I thought, but iffy. Better off going with the butcher knife—wider handle and less persnickety when it comes to inflicting damage. I’ve seen what it can do to a turkey breast.
The butcher knife went back into the slotted block too, though, when I realized with a sigh that indeed, I could not gut a man. Not even if he was big, hairy and smelled bad.
Like the whimpering woman in the horror flick I would stand before him in my transparent cotton nightie chilled by his hulking shadow, and as I struck out with the knife my hand would tremor, belying my fear, my weakness. And he’d snatch the knife from my slick grip and laugh his awful, sand and gravel filled evil laugh.
And I would die there, humiliated, cold and predictable.
So the knife block remained well stocked as I hunted up another, less obvious weapon in the armory that is my parent’s kitchen.
Second drawer from the top I found it. I’ve used it to form the base for gingerbread men, I’ve used it to hammer bread into crumbs, I’ve used it as a makeshift microphone.
Alas, as I brought it to my nose and inhaled deeply, smelling the beginnings of a pie, I knew I might not be able to stab a man, but I could certainly rolling pin him to death. Back off, bastard, or I’ll flatten you.
And so, as I hefted that splinter-filled braining tool from its comfortable drawer, felt its familiar weight in my hands, I shrugged off the thought that, indeed, I was being ridiculous, that a girl is better off being safe and predictable than armed with only baking tools and an imagination, but that rolling pin found its way down the hall toward the bedroom in my white-knuckled grip.
But what led to this foray into the kitchen armory, you ask?
It was an unremarkable Wednesday, hump day for some, just a Wednesday for this married gal living single while house sitting her vacationing parent’s abode.
A long day at work complete she arrived in the family driveway tired and not a little sick at heart, knowing her beloved hubby was far from this place.
But she has belonged to this home since birth. Like a well-loved blankie, the sight of it is comfort; it is the mushroom soup and grilled cheese sandwich of real estate. Sweat pants, a tattered t-shirt and an hour with Oprah were in store for this working gal. Sounds sad and pathetic to some, idyllic to this plain Jane.
The cat rushed out to greet her as she strode, thoughtless up the walk. Her key went in the lock as usual; zombie like, she strode to the alarm panel to enter her code.
But wait. What’s that noise? The panel is beep, beep, beeping a strange tune. Something is wrong.
She enters her code and the beeping stops, but not before she glances at the panel and it reads: “Alarm triggered. Zone 4.”
Glancing around, the now alert plain Jane sucks in a breath, not knowing where the hell Zone 4 is, but knowing deep, deep, deep in her heart that it should not have been triggered.
She grabs for the phone, dials the alarm guy, is put on hold. All operators are busy. Wait your damn turn potential robbery victim.
Eventually the operator comes on and echoes that indeed Zone 4 has been breached. It happened about an hour ago, and no, she too is clueless about the mysterious location of this violated zone.
So, armed with nothing but a psychotic real life kitty, the fraidy cat winds through the house, checking windows, doors, glancing left, right, left, right again. Under beds she peaks, then behind shower curtains. Everything is locked, safe. Nothing touched, save the back garage door which is unlocked and partially ajar.
A scary place in the broad daylight without the fear of attackers lurking in the shadow of a dusty drill press, fraidy cat quickly slams the door, locks it, runs into the house, locks that door behind her, too.
Cat and phone in trembling hands she stops. She keeps hearing the same refrain: “The call’s coming from inside the house…”
She makes dinner undisturbed, watches a muted television, always listening for the creak of the steps, the heavy breathing, and her nose is tuned in to smell the evil before it bears down on her.
Then bedtime, and here I am, feet cold on the linoleum, eyes fixed on the knife block.
Rolling pin as my bedmate, I lay, carefully scrawl a journal entry — perhaps the last. Date it. Close the book.
And as I turn off the bedside lamp, I grip the alarm panic button to my chest and steady myself for a long, long night ahead.