My True Love Waits

Number ten is beautiful. When I first saw her running in the park four months ago, I knew it was time for number nine to leave. Getting them to go is never easy, and always messy – although, granted, by that time, there’s not much fight left in them. But I knew immediately; it was time. I had found my new someone, the one who would love me forever. Out with the old, in with the new.

When I first spotted her from where I sat on my park bench, I was no longer much of a runner. Although I ran track in college, my sedentary job had taken its toll. But the very next morning, I was back in the park sporting a new pair of running shoes, doing my best to keep up with her and her flawless form. In the beginning, she easily outpaced and eluded me. As the weeks passed, though, my stride returned and I was able to keep up, maintaining a careful distance.

She is there every morning except Sunday, passing the same park bench at approximately the same time (6:08). She does not circle the park, as most of the joggers do. It is for her merely a convenience, a pass-through. She enters on Fifth Street, exits on Russell Avenue and returns to 618 South Russell, the home she shares with her parents. The names on their electric bill declare them to be George and Karen Osmon. Her name, number ten, is Gabrielle E. Osmon, and she’s been getting one college solicitation after another.

Her friends at school call her Gabby. Her locker combination is 10-23-47 and she likely won’t miss last year’s yearbook that was buried under the debris on the locker’s bottom. She and her best friend Althea (as identified by the scrawled comments in said book) usually sit in the back row for first period history. I can easily see into the windows of the room from the coffee shop across the street. Schools should be more careful about things like that.

She plays varsity basketball, and I’ve suddenly become a home-town fan, watching each game from the bleachers, silently cheering each scored goal, each blocked shot. I find it serendipitous that the jersey she wears sports a large white ‘10’.

I’ve begun to frequent the Come and Go convenience mart where she works as a cashier (Tuesday through Thursday, 7 p.m. to close). I usually go just before closing, even on the nights she isn’t there, and always pay cash for the same two items. My face and car will be familiar to the cameras. On the nights when she is working, I limit my conversation to the minimum needed, being pleasant, cordial. She’ll recognize me when the time comes.

She drives a ratty old Toyota Rav4 that she parks behind the store in what appears to be the employee parking area where there is, oddly, no visible surveillance. Employers should be more careful about things like that for the young ladies in their employ when they’re left to close up shop alone late at night.

By now, number nine is a distant memory. Not one sign of her remains. That ungrateful wench has been tidily disposed of, scrubbed, polished and vacuumed into oblivion. The room is waiting. So, barring unforeseen circumstances, tonight is the night. It’s time to bring my true love home.

As I wait for her to exit the store from across the street, my gloved hands clench and unclench, ten and two on the steering wheel. I sit in shadow, the streetlamp above me previously darkened by a well-aimed shot from a sling-shotted rock. It had been easy to slip behind the store and loosen the positive cable on the old Rav4’s battery. But all it will take for my preparations to have been in vain is one last-minute customer or some random insomniac out for a late-night drive.  

But there she is! As she rounds the corner of the store, I slip quickly from my car and run across the road. I hug the building, making use of the darkness. My pulse pounds as I peer around the final corner, and I struggle to control my breathing. It’s not long before I hear the fruitless click of a starter trying to engage without power.

“Damn it!” she yells as she flings the door open and steps out.

I exit my hiding place and round the corner.

“Hello there!”

She whirls around as one hand flies to her chest. “Oh my god, you scared me.”

“Hey – sorry! It’s me, John. You know… Mountain Dew and a Snickers? I heard you just now. Is something wrong? Do you need some help?”

“Gabby,” she replies, distracted as she struggles with the latch on the underside of the car’s hood. “And thank you - yes, I could use some help. Do you happen to have any jumper cables? I think I just need a jump.”

“Sure thing, let me pull around. I’m just out front.”

I rush across the street to retrieve my car then drive around the building, parking nose to nose with the Rav4. I grab the set of jumper cables from the passenger side footwell then step out. As I do, the fingers of my right hand stray to my pocket to reaffirm the presence of the syringe.

I move to stand beside her between the two vehicles. Her smell is intoxicating. “We’ll get you going in no time, Gabrielle.”  

I see her eyes widen, her nostrils flare at the use of her given name and know instantly that I’ve made a mistake. As she turns to run, I hurriedly reach to crush her into my arms. I press her to me with my left arm, leaving the other free to produce the syringe and plunge it into her neck.

My Gabrielle is a fighter. She is strong. She flails and kicks, she cries out, but there is no one to hear. And I wait, savoring the feel of her. When at last her eyes close and her body goes limp, I lay her gently in the back seat of my car and cover her with a blanket.

That done, I tighten the offending cable of the Rav4, close its hood, retrieve her purse and keys from within and lock the door. Then we pull away, together into the night.

After the garage door has lowered quietly behind us, I lift her and bring her into our home, to her new basement room, placing her on the bed with its down-filled comforter. Reverently, I remove her clothes and dress her in the nightgown I have chosen with such care. I pull the covers over her and stare down at the visage. She is so very beautiful.

I lock the door behind me, then take my seat in the observation room, watching her through the two-way mirror, waiting for the best part, the most delicious part, when the drug wears off and she opens her eyes. They will fly open in terror, and she will scream and cry and even beg. But that will change. In no time at all, she will love me.