The Killing Kindness

The small, two bedroom cabin sat nestled between two mountain formations, one light blazing in a window. Crickets chirped and an owl hooted to the waxing moon in the stillness of the night. A rushing river flowed downstream, the water heedless of its course.

Marcus Underlee sat at his laptop in his study, long fingers interlaced underneath his nose, grey eyes bleary, and beleaguered. Various books on numerous subjects laid opened and abandoned. Half formed ideas or ideas too unfit for viewing were wadded on ink stained papers that littered the carpeted floor. Empty soda cans and potato chip bags occupied most of his desk and crumbs rested on his soiled shirt and disheveled pants. His red hair was grimy and felt glued to his scalp. 

The cursor on the blank, white screen mocked him. A tick tock from the ancient grandfather clock in the corner was a monotonous, endless sound. The only sound besides his breathing. Words had failed to come yet again. 

The accursed deadline hung around his neck like a tight noose. A little more than a month, but it may as well have been a few days away for all of the writing he'd gotten done. He had to produce something for his publisher, or his contact would take a significant pay cut. That’s part of what he’d signed up for. Being a best-selling horror author with six successful titles to his name as well as being the only writer in his family settled like an almost debilitating weight on his shoulders. 

After the publication of his most recent novel, the words had stopped coming. His worst nightmare come true. He had all but turned into a ghost as the months turned into years and words seemed lost to him. It was a miracle that he had found a publisher who would deal with him despite his lack of material in recent years. 

Not only did this book need to be good, but it had to top all of its predecessors. The expectations, his reputation, hell, his sanity hinged on it. 

Another hour and the clock struck eleven. And still nothing. Disgusted, he pushed back from his desk to stand and stretch, his muscles cramped and protesting after a grueling four hours in the same spot. Throwing a last furious glare at the uncooperative machine, he shut it off. 

He took time enough to snatch his cell phone from the slot beside his laptop and shut the door on the uninspiring mess. He'd clean it later. Whenever later came. He switched his phone on while he padded to the kitchen for a quick bite, his stomach growling out its displeasure at not being filled. Funny how doing nothing for so long made a person hungry. 

His large but sparsely furnished kitchen demanded the same cleaning attention his study did: dishes cluttered the small, round table next to the window, which hosted a couple of dead plants; the sink overflowed with even more neglected dishes and cookware; garbage was scattered over the unclean blue tiles where it had fallen from the full trash can, rotten fruit peelings and takeout boxes dancing with flies and heaven knew what else; and the coffee pot looked as though it was caked with muddy slime, a thick layer of brownish ooze barely visible through the filthy transparent pot. He could only imagine how the laundry room and bathroom looked. He really should consider hiring a housekeeper. 

Later, he promised himself again. 

Marcus rummaged through his sad excuse of a refrigerator as the various beeps and dings from his phone alerted him of missed calls, unread text messages, and waiting voicemails. He let the most recent voicemails play through- his mother checking in about his health and eating; Madeline Sutherland, his fiancée, asking if he needed more “inspiration” for his book under the pretense of a date night; and his publisher demanding to know how close he was to finishing the expected chapters. 

He took a deep breath in preparation for the call with Donald Michaels as that call was best handled first. The man was stoic and could make a nun cry. He dialed the number. 

Shoving a moldy pizza box aside, Marcus waited for the line to connect. He half hoped Donald was asleep or working with another client or—

“Finally! I've been trying to get ahold of you for weeks! At least let me know before you turn off your phone and fall off the earth like that! You got my chapters?” came the rapid, gruff greeting. He sounded as though he put cigarettes away two packs at a time. 

“Hey, Donnie! Long time no hear from.” Marcus plastered on a practiced smile despite the distance, hopeful that the amicable tone would soften the other man’s temper. 

“Well?! Am I going to have to come up there and wring your neck to get something outta you?!” 

At least he was asking and not outright threatening him this time. Or cursing. Yet. 

“I'm working on it, Don.” He rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he hoped the quaver in his voice wouldn’t be noticeable. 

“You spouted that same pile when I asked last time! This is your second extension, and I need something solid. You’re a good writer, and I like you. But if you haven’t come up with something in time, then I'm gonna have to let you outta your contact.” Donald's voice gentled on the last, as though it actually pained him. “Ya understand, Mark?” 

Marcus nodded lamely, then answered past the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” 

“Good. Get me what I'm owed!” The line disconnected.

The phone slipped from his trembling hand and clattered to the floor. No longer hungry, Marcus slammed the fridge door, a churning unrelated to hunger gnawing at his gut.  Writing was his livelihood. He had no contingency plan, and he didn’t think he'd be much good as a freelancer, though he knew it wouldn’t hurt to try. Still. Scrubbing his hand over his days' old beard, he picked up the phone and left the kitchen. Maybe a shower would help dissolve his writer’s block. 

The shower hadn’t loosened any writing cogs, and the bathroom still needed cleaning, but at least he smelled better. In the following days, he did everything he could think of to get his creative juices flowing. Yoga. Meditation. Standing on his head. Indoor hockey using a crowbar, the crumpled wads of paper and his wastebasket. Air guitar. Retrieving the mail. Visiting town for fresh groceries. He even cleaned a small corner of his kitchen. Nothing helped.

It was while he was sitting at his laptop shooting pen caps and paperclips at the ceiling with a large rubber band that his mother called, the shrill ringtone startling him nearly out of his chair. He had failed to return her call and switch his phone off? He was slipping. He was tempted to let it ring, and then turn it off, but she'd continue to call. A genuine smile in his voice, he answered. 

“Hey, Mom. How are you?”

“Hello, sweetie. I'm well, but shouldn’t I be asking how you’re fairing?” He stifled a low chuckle as he pictured one quirked eyebrow accompanying her question. 

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Marcus Anthony Underlee! I don’t like you spending so much time alone; it isn’t healthy. I know, I know. It’s your job, but I still worry.  And I bet you aren’t eating like you’re supposed to.” Marcus gaped. How did she always know these things? 

“Solitude keeps out distraction, Mom. I'm eating all right.” He was sure he had eaten a bag of mini pretzels yesterday. “I'm fine. Just really busy.” 

She sighed, sounding as though she carried the world on her shoulders. Guilt ate at him. 

“If you say so, but I expect to see you soon. Taylor is getting married in a few months and wants you as best man. He’s your only brother, and he'd be over the moon if you were there.” Great. More guilt. He did love his older brother, though. Even if he could be a weirdo. Personal trainers. 

“I promise I’ll try, Ma.”  If I can get something done. 

“It'll come, dear. Give it time.” Though the words were meant as encouragement, Marcus still felt forlorn.  

Talk soon turned to happier subjects. His baby sisters Susannah and Hailie were well, with Susannah doing her charity drives and Hailie designing new security systems for large businesses. Overall, his mother’s bakery was booming and everything was fine. For that, he was grateful. 

“Darlene!” Marcus' stepmother Jodi screamed over the line. Though her children had different opinions on that, they were all delighted their mother had found happiness. Besides, Jodi was sweet and truly seemed to love Darlene. 

“I have to go. Crises abound here,” Darlene said with an affectionate laugh. Her laughter warmed Marcus from head to toe. 

“Send Jodi my love.”

“Of course, dear. Send Madeline mine. And you don’t be a stranger. Make sure to call Taylor when you can, and please be nice.” 

“I will if he does, but I make no promises.” 

Another motherly sigh, an exchange of I love yous, and they ended the call. 

***

Classical music filled the quiet cabin for the better part of an hour before Marcus remembered he hadn’t called Madeline back. He hit the call button at the same time as a pounding at the front door sent his heart into a free fall. Taking calming breaths, he went to the door and greeted his visitor with a jovial smile. 

“Madeline! I was just calling you!” he exclaimed, holding up the ringing phone. He quickly disconnected with a small smile. “Not that I'm not happy to see you, but what are doing here?” 

“Hi, hi,” she replied with excitement, stepping through the doorway and into a fierce hug. Her arms were laden with goodies and movies. “Well, I figured since I couldn’t get you on the phone, I decided to come visit. My cousin Dusty and her husband Luther agreed to watch the shop and manage the cars while I came to see you.” Madeline co-owed a mechanic shop, of which she was quite proud. 

Marcus gave her cheek a quick peck then hurried to shut off the muffled music, nearly tripping over mountains of clothes strewn about the living room. Madeline’s buoyant laugher followed him. 

He returned to find the curtains open, a shaft of sunlight brightening the room. His chest grew warm and his heart thudded at the thought that this woman could love him as much as she did. The sunlight entering the room couldn’t be a more perfect metaphor for what she meant to him. 

She had deposited the things on the couch and her sparkling Cerulean eyes danced as she surveyed his appearance. She fisted her hands on her curvy hips, the blue crop top and black jeans hugging her bountiful figure. Suddenly, all worry over the deadline evaporated, and his thoughts turned to more pleasant activities. 

Recognizing the look, Madeline shook her head, her brown ponytail swishing from side to side. “While you don’t look terrible, this cabin does.” She spread her arms wide to indicate its entirety. Pointing to the items on the couch then at him, she suppressed her giggle and continued, “None of this or that until it’s tidy in here.” 

Marcus groaned good naturedly. “What about the “inspiration” you promised?” 

“That was before I saw the state of this place.” 

Marcus glared with more humor than bristle, and laughter diffused the standoff. He grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles, guiding her through the amassed debris to his personal utility closet. Opening it, he said, “O.K., but it’s going to take a while.” 

“I relish the challenge.”

Madeline had bought several bags of clothing and personal items.

The next few days saw the couple scrubbing, sweeping, washing clothes, hauling out trash, and all other manner of cleaning. A small colony of ants made a home in his study, and maggots infested his trashcan. Some of his clothes had been lost to mildew, but not many. Madeline even thought to bring in some new plants. She and Marcus had agreed to sleep on the couch until the work was finished. Even with them both working practically around the clock, it still took them the better part of a week to fully clean it. 

During this time, Marcus took no phone calls, but he did shoot Darlene and his siblings quick messages to update them. Darlene was happy that he seemed in a better mood. Taylor ribbed him about his actual motivations for cleaning but looked forward to seeing him and Madeline on his big day, if not sooner. Susannah and Hailie were overjoyed to hear from their big brother, each sending him long messages with updates of their own. All of this made him feel much lighter despite it not getting him any closer to a workable idea. As sitting in front of his laptop had proven fruitless, there wasn’t much he could do about the lack of inspiration for now. 

Heading for the couch after the final exhausting day of cleaning, Madeline set snacks and treats on the coffee table while Marcus put in a cheesy 1980s horror movie about space slugs invading a small college town and a veteran detective determined to stop them. Marcus was munching some popcorn as Madeline set the drinks on coasters. Without warning, she tripped over a table leg and fell into Marcus' waiting arms. 

“Whoops! Watch it, clumsy. Are you trying to kill me?” 

Madeline righted herself and snuggled closely to him. In between kisses against his neck, she whispered, “At least it'll be with kindness.” 

He stared blankly at the screen for a several seconds as the cogs blessedly began to turn. If he had been animated, he was sure a lit lightbulb would have appeared above his head. “That’s it!” he shouted and let loose a whoop. 

“What’s it?” Madeline asked his retreating figure after he'd jumped up and raced toward his study. 

He returned to frame her face with his hands and plant a hard kiss against her lips before stating, “’The Killing Kindness', Maddie! A race of terrestrials who disguise themselves as humans and drain our life force through seemingly genuine acts of kindness! Sure, there are a lot of sci-fi elements I have to research, but it’s an actual, working idea!” He rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you.”  Those two little words carried so much gratitude and love. She was glad, squeezing him with all of her strength. 

Snatching his phone from the table, he raced into his study amid Madeleine's supportive cheering. He booted up his laptop, texting Donald that he'd  finally have something for him before the end of next week, maybe sooner.

The click clack of the keyboard filled the space-what a joyous sound!-as Marcus worked out his main leads, their personalities, and a bit of the terrestrials' world and motives. 

A quick reply from Donald read About damn time!

Marcus threw back his head and loosed a hearty, freeing laugh. He couldn’t agree more.