Short Story: Fragility Part 3

This is part of a serial, find the previous parts here.

Chris woke up, his head throbbing. He was staring at the ceiling in the hallway of his apartment, right outside of Pat’s room. He sat up, wishing he’d taken it slower as his vision clouded over and his stomach lurched. He put his hand to the back of his head and drew it back in front of him. No bleeding, just a lump. The sound of a chair sliding on the floor in the kitchen drew his attention. Jumping up from the floor, he nearly passed out again as the room began to spin. He leaned against the wall for a moment regaining his bearings and as soon as he could make out shapes he surged forward toward the kitchen. Half stumbling in, he nearly fell over when he caught sight of Pat sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast and reading the paper.

“What the–Where have you been?”

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Pat said.

Chris shook his head to shake off the lingering fog in his mind. “Where the hell have you been?” he said more sternly.

Pat lowered her newspaper and gave him a hesitant smile, raising her right eyebrow. “Are you making some sort of joke at my expense? Because I’m not getting it.”

“You, with the–and you never–4:27 in the morning–and I was up waiting for you–just voicemail–and I was clocked in the back of the head.” Chris’s hands moved wildly, first pointing at his watch, then the front door, and finally toward her room to stress his point.

She raised her eyebrow further and the smile began to fade. “Are you okay?” She examined him with her eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

Chris felt the lump on the back of his head trying to reassure himself that he hadn’t just woken from a nightmare. The lump was definitely still there.

“I just–I need to sit down for a minute,” he said, collapsing into a chair. He placed his elbow on the table and rested his head on his fingertips. Something wasn’t right.

“Where were you?” he grumbled.

“I’ve been sitting here eating breakfast.” Pat frowned slightly.

“Before that.”

“I took a shower and then got dressed.”

“Before that,” Chris said flatly.

“What? Do you want me to walk through my entire morning routine?”

“Last night. Where were you last night?” Chris asked emphasizing each word.

“I don’t understand the question.” She noticed Chris’s frown deepen as he took in a slow breath. She pushed the paper aside. “I was sleeping in my room. I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“I checked your room at nearly 4:30 this morning and you weren’t there.”

“Where else would I have been?” she asked.

“I checked your room. I called your phone. You didn’t answer.” Chris tapped the table with his finger for each point. “You never came home from work.”

“Chris, I don’t know what you are talking about. If this is a joke, please let me in on it.” She looked pleadingly at him and he just stared back at her. “Okay. Let’s see. I came home at 3 p.m.–like I always do. We watched some TV. You made a casserole. We talked and then I went to bed.”

He slammed both hands down on the table. “No! Why are you doing this to me? I was worried sick. I deserve an explanation of where you were last night!”

Pat seemed to have a genuine look of concern on her face. “The dishes are still in the sink, Chris.”

Tired of this game, Chris sprang up from the table almost toppling over his chair and walked to the sink. As if mocking him, a casserole dish, two plates, silverware, and two glasses sat in the sink. Turning around to face Pat, Chris rubbed his forehead and leaned back against the counter.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Pat stood up and took a step toward him.

Chris covered his face with his hands, resting his fingertips across his eyelids, and inhaled deeply letting it back out slowly. “I’m not sure,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I just thought–” he lowered his hands and looked at Pat, or more accurately, where she had just been standing. He looked around trying to find where she’d gone. The room was empty. Then he noticed the kitchen table was clear. No newspaper. No dishes. The chairs were neatly pushed up against the table. He turned around and looked into the sink. Casserole dish, one plate, one fork, and one glass.

Chris slowly backed away from the sink. He froze when he backed into a solid form. Please let it be Pat. Please say it’s Pat, he thought. Ever so slowly, he began turning around, not sure he could handle it, even if it turned out to be Pat.

The man standing behind him was a good foot and a half taller than he was and outweighed him by at least 100 lbs. By the looks of it, all that extra weight was pure muscle. The man had an arm raised, holding something that reflected the light. The arm came down hard and fast.