Sabrine

Yesterday, I noticed my new college-age neighbor shoveling her front walkway, and laying out salt on her porch. It was difficult to miss the patient expression on her face, despite her struggle to make her sidewalk manageable. I had broken up with my last girlfriend, Naomi, a few weeks ago, so I figured it was a good time to make a move on someone new and interesting. She made flirting easy, and was evidently proud of her glowing smile, because she flashed it to me every chance she could. She had also ended her relationship with some guy who couldn’t handle long distance. Since her parents are always out of the house, we hooked up a couple times, but we never get too personal. It's just that there’s that ever-present smile.

It’s a few months later now, and I’m getting stressed over midterms, so I needed a fix. It’s been a few weeks since I was last over, but I know her parents are supposed to be away right now. I call her up and make my way over around 7, as the sun begins to set.

I walk in after hearing her unlock the door, and watch a thin, but toned body prance up the stairs in a red set of lingerie. I follow her to her parents’ room, curious at why she’s trying a different routine this time, but also noticing that something else feels… different.

I still don’t even know this girl, Sabrine, or what she was about. I don’t know what school she goes to, her favorite color, where she likes to eat, or even what her last name might be. At this moment I begin to feel sick, even disturbed at the ideas that run through my mind. I need to know. Right now while she’s in her parents’ bathroom, probably getting ready for me, is the perfect moment to do some sort of digging. I quickly pry through drawers and photo albums, finding nothing strange, but I still can’t scratch this itch that’s starting to pour out as sweat. My frantic search for answers leads me to a closet door, which I reach for with shaking hands.

As I wrap my damp palm around the knob, I take a moment to consider that I’m being moronic and paranoid. I’ve done this a dozen times by now; what am I going to find? More baby pictures, another dated set of clothes, a collection of music? As my fears subside, I open the door to find two large plastic bags, holding the separated limbs of a rotting middle-aged man and woman.

Before I can vomit in terror and disgust, I turn to face the open bathroom door, with Sabrine facing me, nude, looking surprised to see me, then shifting her face to form that perky smile of hers. I don’t know whether her or her dead parents is the more sickening sight. My thoughts are interrupted by a blunt strike to the back of my head, followed by Sabrine’s piercing shriek.

As I recover, I hear violent screams coming from the bathroom, followed by a dense thump and a crack. I feel myself becoming more distant from consciousness and find incredible difficulty in looking up at the doorway, but manage to make out a pair of legs roaming toward me from a small pool of blood.

Her hips sway calmly, gently, despicably, and her groin is skimpily covered by red lace. My vision fails entirely, and the world becomes unnaturally black and silent for only a moment before I hear Naomi’s unmistakable voice:

“You and your little whore have been very, very bad.”